I’ve always wanted to get married and live a gay American dream; a queer version of my parents marriage which is still going on strong. I’m not in a relationship right now, but someday I will find him.
In honor of the increasing number of states accepting gay marriage, I decided to wear a traditional white wedding dress to the gay pride festival. I’m not a drag queen: no wig or make-up. I’m not going to wax anything. I just want to have fun with my friends and make a political fashion statement.
Finding a wedding dress to fit a man that’s also practical enough to party in is a challenge. I still want something that’s pretty. It takes all afternoon, but I find a gorgeous wedding dress at a consignment shop; a white satin number with huge skirt and lots of lace and glitz. I decide to pass on the veil. It won’t stay on my shaved head. The dress alone is still a bit pricey for something to wear to a dirty gay bar and a parade, but I fall in love with the dress when I try it on.
Shouldn’t you feel love when you’re wearing a wedding dress?
Once home, the dress is sacrificed for ease and the hem is raised to my ankles. I butch the ensemble up a bit by spray-painting my boots and leather cuffs white. The ensemble is complete and I’m a vision.
It’s dusk. I get a few funny looks on the #21 bus, then everyone goes back to glaring at their devices. The gayborhood is a zoo and my friends are scattered all over the place. I get a beer and prop myself in the corner of my favorite bar.
Only five minutes into my evening, three young guys walk up to me: out-of-towners, I can tell.
“Take off that dress and go suck some cock!” one of them says to me.
Frankly, I’m not surprised to hear this.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. I can suck cock in my wedding dress, thank you very much.”
The leader of the pack makes a squinty face.
“Why are you ruining it for us? Stop trying to force your oppressive- frilly-boring-traditional-monogamous institution on our hot-promiscuous-anonymous gay sex!”
Oh, the gays; I’ve been hearing this rehearsed argument for months. Can’t we all just get along? They don’t know me, and I’m not interested in debating them in a bar.
I’m quite shocked when all three guys dump their drinks on the skirt of my dress. I don’t know what they’re drinking, but it’s bright red and splatters my left thigh. The three little pigs laugh and run out of the bar.
I’m must confess I’m having a Sissy Spacek-Stephen King moment. There’s a part of me that want to flee the bar in humiliation and burn the town down. If I could, I would telepathically hurl mirrorball at them and kill them.
But I just got here.
And I’m thirsty.
I look down at my dress. If I were really getting married this evening, I would call it ruined. But goddammit, I have been bullied, beaten, and spat on my whole life. This stings a bit more, because I was just bashed by my own people. Yet are they really my people? Nonetheless, I can’t let those three asshole-pigs get me down.
Everyone clears a path as I make my way to the rest room to survey the damage. Looking in the mirror, the placement and color of the stain is reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy pink Chanel suit on the day of her husband’s assassination. I decide to wear my stained wedding dress as a badge of honor just like she did as LBJ was sworn into office.
To quote Mrs. Kennedy, “Oh, no no. I want them to see what they have done to Jack.”
Naturally, my friends rally around me, but I’ve already let the incident go. A cute guy comes up asks what happened and I tell my story. Then another hottie asks me. Then another. I’m getting lots of hugs and sympathy. And free drinks.
Free drinks are fabulous, but I don’t really need sympathy. What those three little pigs failed to realize is that I’m not against men having hot-promiscuous-anonymous gay sex. I feel other people’s sex life is none of my business. My wedding dress and my desire for a monogamous relationship shouldn’t threaten anyone’s need to be adventurous.
This is a teaching moment.
I ask the bartender for a Sharpie and spread the skirt of my dress out on a table. My friend, Todd, takes dictation and prints around the hem “My Wedding Is None of Your Fucking Business!” Each of my friends autograph my dress in permanent marker. Then a cute guy comes up and asks me if he can sign my dress, too. Then another. Then another.
“None of Your Fucking Business” becomes the slogan of the night. By last call for alcohol, my wedding dress must have close to a thousand signatures. I’ve run out of room on the dress and start having people sign my arms and legs.
Take that, three little pigs.
I’m exhausted, but life is good.
It’s probably best that my dress lives on its padded hanger inside-out to protect the signatures. It’s a work of art. I Febreeze the Hell out of the inside of the bodice and go to bed. I’ve got a parade to catch tomorrow at noon.
