would better put me in
the sex-mode mood if I felt my hooey freely dribble moistness down
my thigh. I had briefly considered shaving my mon-mons for the
occasion, thinking it worked the lez-lez theme, but that would have
looked weird on me. I certainly don’t want to look like a child on
my wedding night. I’ll save that look for when I go gray in thirty
or forty years.
I looked at myself, all nudie-toons and
stilettoed, and I thought I looked very sexy, I must say. I wore my
hair in bed-head fashion, long and messy-like. I kept my make-up to
a fresh faced minimum so all that competed with those fabulous
shoes was my Asscher cut diamond engagement ring, which sparkled
like Glinda’s wand.
“ Maybe too skinny, you
are,” Margot said.
“ I’ve been working out.”
Had she found me unattractive? I was kind of thinking I was about
to give her a gift, you know, and I guess I almost felt insulted.
She is a very slender woman herself, so I was very surprised by the
comment at first. But then I saw her blushing and I took it as a
sign. It was simply small talk to avoid a jumping bones escapade,
no more. It was probably fair to assume that even lesbians like a
bit of foreplay before the big hurrah.
“ Do I look thinner than
last time?” I asked.
“ Done worry bout it,”
Margot said as she helped me into the gown. “We can fix dress.
Always fix.”
She zipped it up and
affixed the pearl buttons into their respective loops. I stared at
myself in the mirror while Margot fastened me in. She was very
adept at pulling tightly the strings of the corset part. I know it
sounds stupid to say that the dress fit like a glove but really – I
mean, I took deep breaths and it moved with me like swimwear. The
refitted Alexandre gown looked incredible on me, if I do say so
myself. Despite my preference for something sexier, it is a
suitable and appropriate garment for the Orthodox Church and for
the reception at Eli’s, the restaurant and banquet hall Dad owns.
The train is long, but not so much that I couldn’t maneuver it. I
decided to walk around the store. I met Margot at the register. She
held my veil in her hands. Together we strolled back to the mirror
and she placed it on my head. My hair wasn’t styled the way I plan
to wear it on August 30 th , but the effect was still
transformative. I started to cry. Margot kneeled down to adjust the
train the way it would look for the photographs.
“ I feel so bridey,” I
said. “I can’t believe I’m actually a bride. Why am I crying?” My
guess was that everything seemed way more real, now that the dress
fit. Mom had cried when we’d selected it, even though I had these
creepy giant hair clip thingys pulling it against my back. The
original sample had been at least three sizes too big.
I tried to think funny thoughts. I didn’t
want the costume to have so much power in case I spilled Diet Coke,
wine or cum down the front of it. Then I would really cry.
“ Bu-ti-ful,” Margot
announced as she clapped her hands with glee. “Sexy, but without so
much toot-toot.”
I said, “Do you really think it looks sexy?
I don’t know.”
Margot rose from hands and knees formation.
She put her fingers together and kissed them then placed the wet
digits on my cheeks. “I dunno prettier bride. Sweet girl.”
It was as if we had shared a moment or
something. Margot became like a surrogate mother in a way. A
profundity overtook me and I wondered if this seemed in any way
similar to a lesbian connection. Not about hoo-has and prickers,
but emotional stuff, like compassion and love. I still feel a
little confused by the sensation, truth be told, because it had
something to do with Madonna. I looked into Margot’s blue eyes and
I saw her. I saw my pop-idol as though her spirit had performed a
hop in into my seamstress, and I’d somehow fallen into my dream. I
tried to shake it off because it kind of scared me.
“ Okay then,” I said as I
tried to get at the buttons to unburden
the sex-mode mood if I felt my hooey freely dribble moistness down
my thigh. I had briefly considered shaving my mon-mons for the
occasion, thinking it worked the lez-lez theme, but that would have
looked weird on me. I certainly don’t want to look like a child on
my wedding night. I’ll save that look for when I go gray in thirty
or forty years.
I looked at myself, all nudie-toons and
stilettoed, and I thought I looked very sexy, I must say. I wore my
hair in bed-head fashion, long and messy-like. I kept my make-up to
a fresh faced minimum so all that competed with those fabulous
shoes was my Asscher cut diamond engagement ring, which sparkled
like Glinda’s wand.
“ Maybe too skinny, you
are,” Margot said.
“ I’ve been working out.”
Had she found me unattractive? I was kind of thinking I was about
to give her a gift, you know, and I guess I almost felt insulted.
She is a very slender woman herself, so I was very surprised by the
comment at first. But then I saw her blushing and I took it as a
sign. It was simply small talk to avoid a jumping bones escapade,
no more. It was probably fair to assume that even lesbians like a
bit of foreplay before the big hurrah.
“ Do I look thinner than
last time?” I asked.
“ Done worry bout it,”
Margot said as she helped me into the gown. “We can fix dress.
Always fix.”
She zipped it up and
affixed the pearl buttons into their respective loops. I stared at
myself in the mirror while Margot fastened me in. She was very
adept at pulling tightly the strings of the corset part. I know it
sounds stupid to say that the dress fit like a glove but really – I
mean, I took deep breaths and it moved with me like swimwear. The
refitted Alexandre gown looked incredible on me, if I do say so
myself. Despite my preference for something sexier, it is a
suitable and appropriate garment for the Orthodox Church and for
the reception at Eli’s, the restaurant and banquet hall Dad owns.
The train is long, but not so much that I couldn’t maneuver it. I
decided to walk around the store. I met Margot at the register. She
held my veil in her hands. Together we strolled back to the mirror
and she placed it on my head. My hair wasn’t styled the way I plan
to wear it on August 30 th , but the effect was still
transformative. I started to cry. Margot kneeled down to adjust the
train the way it would look for the photographs.
“ I feel so bridey,” I
said. “I can’t believe I’m actually a bride. Why am I crying?” My
guess was that everything seemed way more real, now that the dress
fit. Mom had cried when we’d selected it, even though I had these
creepy giant hair clip thingys pulling it against my back. The
original sample had been at least three sizes too big.
I tried to think funny thoughts. I didn’t
want the costume to have so much power in case I spilled Diet Coke,
wine or cum down the front of it. Then I would really cry.
“ Bu-ti-ful,” Margot
announced as she clapped her hands with glee. “Sexy, but without so
much toot-toot.”
I said, “Do you really think it looks sexy?
I don’t know.”
Margot rose from hands and knees formation.
She put her fingers together and kissed them then placed the wet
digits on my cheeks. “I dunno prettier bride. Sweet girl.”
It was as if we had shared a moment or
something. Margot became like a surrogate mother in a way. A
profundity overtook me and I wondered if this seemed in any way
similar to a lesbian connection. Not about hoo-has and prickers,
but emotional stuff, like compassion and love. I still feel a
little confused by the sensation, truth be told, because it had
something to do with Madonna. I looked into Margot’s blue eyes and
I saw her. I saw my pop-idol as though her spirit had performed a
hop in into my seamstress, and I’d somehow fallen into my dream. I
tried to shake it off because it kind of scared me.
“ Okay then,” I said as I
tried to get at the buttons to unburden
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