Part Six of Your Story

It was a black day, the kind of day that starts most tragic stories, but this isn’t a sob story. This is a love story.

Mike was dead set on making sure I was key in the process of planning our wedding. I tried to tell him, you know, I’m not good with colors or making things look good. But he made sure I was with him for every color, every flower, every utensil. Every fucking little thing, I was there.

When he convinced me to go pick out cake with him, he presented it as an opportunity to eat as much cake as I wanted. This was false. They gave us a forkful of each cake, and after one bite Mike and Rob talked about it and how it would fit in with everything else–for about an hour. Honestly, it’s a cake. It takes a lot to fuck a cake up.

We finally left the cakery (or whatever it’s called) some four hours later; for all my troubles, Mike blew me and fingered me that night, after I rimmed him. It was completely worth it after that.

Next to the cake, apparently, the colors are the most important factor in a wedding–at least according to Mike, who is an avid color freak (being the artist that he is). We discussed many different color combinations: the blue he used with Glorious Excess and maybe an army green; an off white and an off-er navy blue; the red from the Hybrid Theory disc and the orange from the Reanimation disc. Finally, after an hour of sitting at our table with about ten thousand different color books and paint swatches, I just told him we should keep it simple.

“Brad a wedding isn’t just simple. It’s beautiful, and elegant,” he replied, and I thought about my answer.

I picked up one of the deep violets and grabbed a random ivory, or antique white, or whatever the fuck it is. “Purple for passion and this white color whatever for elegance,” I said, watching his reaction to see how much I insulted him.

He sat there for about a minute, staring at the colors in my hand, before pushing all the other shit off the table. “That’s actually really pretty,” he said finally.

“Thank you.”

“You of all people picked that. I mean, I’m the painter–”

“Me of all people?”

“–And you wear orange pants, I mean…wow.” He smiled at me and I smiled back, not sure if I was insulted or flattered.

He took the swatches out of my hand and held each up to my face, seemingly judging the color with my face. I blushed at his stare and he grinned. “Beautiful,” he said simply, and kissed me.

The ceremony wasn’t going to be all that special. We’d never been to a gay wedding before, and I guess we could’ve researched it more but Mike wanted to do what felt right. So I let him.

The wedding itself only cost about twenty grand. I don’t know if that’s normal or not but I do know it hurt my bank account a bit, especially buying his ring and our tuxes. Mike knew how cheap I was (possibly a result of being Jewish, he told me) and reassured me many times–as well as made it worth my while–that this was a once in a lifetime event and it was worth it. I trusted him.

One thing we both agreed on was remaining celibate once we got engaged. That lasted about a week. By the tenth day of just action from our hands, I locked him in our bedroom and for that whole Saturday we just fucked, probably twenty times. We couldn’t go anywhere Sunday because both of us were dehydrated and Mike was limping.

A few nights before the date, Mike decided to have a bachelor party for the two of us–we invited all the guys but they backed out, not surprisingly. So again we spent the night fucking; I even let him fuck me a few times, and I fucked him in the shower when he was convinced he had to because he stunk (in fact he smells–and tastes–delicious when he’s sweaty), against the counter when he was trying to get some food, on the living room floor after we tried to watch tv, on our back porch when I was trying to get some air, against the bedroom wall when he thought he could get dressed, and so on and so forth.

So the day before, we had to rest up and drink lots of fluids if we wanted to be prepared for the honeymoon. That day he went to Rob’s to stay and I went to Joe’s. I don’t know what he did that night, but I played ping pong with Joe and passed out on the couch at about nine o’clock. The alarm on my phone woke me up at nine, and then I was getting ready to marry the love of my life.


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