Wedding Season or A Small Pony

It's almost Memorial Day. Summer is upon us. And you know what that means? Wedding season. And I love a good wedding. The dressing up, the drinking, the dancing, the groping randoms on the gold course... love is in the air. I can only hope that this wedding season is as fun as last year's.

I was in a good friend from childhood's wedding last year and found myself the only single girl in the wedding party. Actually, that's not true. There was another single girl, a cousin of the bride, and when I tried to do a little female bonding and jokingly commiserate about our relationship statuses, she told me her boyfriend had recently died of cancer. She wins. I'm an asshole.

Regardless, single is not a good place to be at a wedding, especially when the male half of the wedding party are in relationships/unfuckable. First, I tried hitting on the photographers. I spotted a wedding ring on one. He was out. So I asked the other one what he was into. He said, "Jesus." I said, haha, no, really. He said, "Jesus." Ok, strike two.

So imagine how fortunate I felt when I saw one of our mutual friends, a super cute and sweet guy I knew that I used to work with, E. I hadn't known he was coming to the wedding. The last I knew he had a girlfriend, but I quietly asked around and they apparently broke up. He was flying solo that night and in need of a rebound. That was all I needed to hear.

Several drinks and some dancing later, we are making out behind a tree on the golf course adjacent to the pavilion where the reception was. At the time, I thought we were being really stealthy, but he told me later that there were hoots and applause from some of the guests as we ran out.

After making out against a tree for somewhere between five minutes and an hour, (vodka tends to make you lose all sense of time) I became paranoid that our absence would be noted. I insist we go back inside and act nonchalant.

So I'm busy acting nonchalant when the groom comes over to me (our absence was most definitely noted) and says something to the effect of "You should tap that. E is hung like a small pony." Now I'm just confused. Is that good or bad? Because I thought the expression was "hung like a horse." Can you elaborate? I ask. "E has a really big dick," the groom tells me, winking and nudging like we are in cahoots. The seed has been planted. I HAVE to see for myself.

So I find E, suggest another make-out session and creep not-so-stealthily away again. (It's hard to be sneaky when you're wearing heels and stumbling.) So we are making out and I move my hand a little further south... Wow. Holy crap. The groom wasn't kidding. This thing is huge. This guy won the anatomical lottery. He belongs in Ripley's Believe It or Not. Or at least pornos. Feeling isn't enough, especially through the clothes. This, I have got to SEE with my own EYES.

So I start unzipping his pants. I'm so focused on getting the confounding layers of clothing, zippers, buttons and belts to cooperate with my super dexterous drunk hands so I can get a glimpse of this thing, just to see if it's real, that I don't realize what HIS hands have been up to. The top half of my strapless dress is now down around my waist, yet the bottom is also hiked up to my waist, so the dress effectively covers NOTHING but my waist. It's basically a cummerbund at this point.

It's at this exact, very opportune moment that a fellow guest decides now would be an appropriate time to pull a golf cart around to pick up grandma from the reception and drive her to the parking lot. For a brief second we were illuminated, squinting and frozen in the headlights. Guess we should have picked a bigger (or further) tree. Almost busted. That was a close call. We convince ourselves that they probably didn't see anything, but I'm still freaked out. I decide these antics have gone a bit too far. (I like to keep it classy at weddings.) So we pull ourselves together and go back inside.

Unfortunately, I never did get to find out if that thing was the real deal. You see, there were no hotels to stay at, as the wedding was in the middle of nowhere. He couldn't come to my house because I was staying with my parents and I had a painfully early flight out the next morning. He lived 30 minutes away so I couldn't go to his house. My parents are old. I was being considerate. The embarrassment of me stumbling in at 6 a.m. still in my bridesmaid dress could very well have done us all in. So we parted ways. Sigh.

A few weeks later, my friend the bride asked if E and I had had sex on the golf course the night of the wedding because a cousin or friend or aunt or grandma or someone, I don't remember who, had told her they had seen two naked people. I said, no of course not. We just made out. Which was (mostly) the truth.

So, no, cousin/aunt/friend/grandma/whoever sabotaged the imminent verification that I had indeed just discovered God's gift to women with those perfectly ill-timed golf cart headlights, I WISH we had been having sex. The fact that we DIDN'T have sex may turn out to be the biggest regret of my life. You have quite the imagination, but no, nothing quite that cool happened on the golf course. And I have you to thank.