Gay union for all

A friend of mine went to a  wedding last week. Nothing unusual about that.

Except for this particular wedding, the lovebirds getting married were women.

Once again, nothing too unusual about that these days. But I have to say, the union triggered questions from the minute their plans were announced.

The hens’ nights, for example: Would both women go to the same party? Would they have a stripper? Would the stripper be female? Would they both wear tiaras and veils, or would one be shackled with a ball and chain?

Both women did attend the same party; there was no stripper and both wore horns. Confusion only arose when people came up to them and congratulated them on their pending nuptials, and expressed surprise that two friends would get married on the same day.

Surprise turned to uncomfortable embarrassment when the women announced they were getting married, on the same day… to each other.

There was, however, no confusion on the big day over who wore the pants. One bride was decked out to the max in tulle, lace and beading – meringue at its best – while her partner wore a pinstripe suit. It was very clear there was a bride and a groombride.

Keeping it in the sisterhood, the guest list was naturally heavily dominated by lesbians.

There were a few male relatives, with the father of the groombride confiding to his sister only a fortnight before that this was a phase his daughter would grow out of.

But back to the questions: The best, as they usually do, came from the mouths of babes, in particular an eight-year-old girl.

In a voice eight-year-olds reserve purely for public occasions where discretion is called for, the questions were fired out like ear-splitting bullets during the ceremony.

“Who takes whose surname? Which one’s the daddy? Are they going to kiss each other once they’re married? Can they both have babies now that they’re married.”

As her mother tried desperately to explain the situation, the guests strained their ears to hear the responses. After all, everyone wanted to know the answers to the questions they were too polite to ask.

The women kept their own names; it was obvious who was the more masculine role model; and, yes, they did kiss.

“No one knew where to look,” my friend said. “But your eyes were drawn to it, you had to see it.”

Meanwhile, after mum tried to explain to the eight-year-old the fact that the wedding was really a commitment ceremony and that it wasn’t a legally binding union, there was a thoughtful silence.

“But if it’s not allowed, mummy, what if the police turn up? Will they get arrested for getting married?”

Images of a SWAT team storming the ceremony and cuffing the pair for declaring their love were obviously running rampant around this child’s head.

But the patient mother persevered and finally managed to satisfy her curious daughter, who will remember the day more for the delicious chocolate wedding cake than the complexities of human relationships.

It was a regular wedding after all.

“All perfectly normal,” my friend said.

The only question remaining is …

Well, there are no questions. They’ve all been answered.

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