Sex at weddings is the best because if you aren’t discovered, you get a great shag, and if you are, you will either ruin a boring person’s day, or become a timeless dinner party anecdote. And call me childish, but I think it’s all the more fun for knowing that you’re fingerbanging the uptight, colour-coordinated, I-already-made-a-list-of-gifts-I-want* wedding tradition – the wedding tradition that we all know is about materialism, not love (I almost understand – I do believe that feeling smug is better than feeling anything else, even drunk – but I doubt I would spend £15,000 on a party I wasn’t supposed to pass out at). Then again, I’ve never been to the wedding of someone I actually liked. Free from the duties of friendship, I’m doing my part simply by buying a gift and not turning up in a big white dress.
*I am all for helping the young couple just starting out in life. However, if one is already getting a life companion and possibly an extra income for the household, and if one has already been living with said life companion quite comfortably, possibly for a number of years, does one really need a butter dish as well?
Alban took me to a wedding in February. It was the wedding of an ex-girlfriend; of course, he wanted to have a lady on his arm so as not to lose face, and of course, when we got to the reception I stationed myself at the bar and he spun away into a crowd of old friends. I was expecting exactly that, and spent much of the evening chatting with a skiving waiter, who, before leaving, dropped a paper napkin with his number on it into my lap with great panache. I, with much less style and poise, dropped it into a puddle on my way home as I fumbled with my stupidly tiny handbag, and have yet to determine exactly what the blurred figures say.
What is there really to say about wedding receptions? They look like so much fun on telly; Four Weddings and a Funeral really set up some grand expectations. All I ever do at them is drink, and nibble, and fend off the kind of mindless chit chat I think some people only bring out at these events – the events you’re not supposed to leave – just to annoy me. No wonder I’m a rude drunk, when I only get really drunk to numb myself to the impact of boring people.
Fortunately for me, Alban returned before I had to make the transition from champagne to whiskey. Worn out by the whirlwind of old memories catching up with the present, he ground to a halt in front of me and leant on me heavily.
“Are you alright? How are you?” he asks, knowing he should to be polite, but aware I’ve been quite contentedly flirting about. He’s petting my hair, looking about the room, looking for reassurance. I make soothing noises and gently remove his hands, giving one a squeeze as he sits down on the bar stool next to me.
“I can’t believe she’s married,” he muffles, head falling into his hands. He whimpers, to make me laugh.
“Oh sweetheart. Don’t be sad. Do you want to go somewhere quiet?”
I stroke the back of his head, and we both know what I’m asking. He’s not really sad anyway, just tired – like little children are when they’ve been up too long. I think a lot of the time he just says things he thinks he ought to for the sake of the moment.
He perks up, and pulls me towards him, hands on my waist. A naughty little smile emerges, as he stares at my nipples, totally undisguised between the thin fabric of my dress. Sometimes I get off on going braless even though I have a tad too much jiggle to get away with it.
“Hello… Where’s quiet?”
* * *
It was a very posh bathroom – a large, disabled bathroom – that I pulled him into, with flowers and a soap dish with gold legs, and everything was coral, because coral says ‘I am posh and I don’t suit most of you’, and it says ‘grandmothers’, and these are apparently the things that swanky hotel chains want to convey to their clientele. Heads up, ladies and gentlemen: if you’re at a large wedding, this cliche could not be easier to live through. If your mother isn’t present, NO ONE will notice you’re missing.
I pushed him up against the door, shutting and locking it with one hand as I fumbled for the light cord (savvily avoiding pulling the emergency-help cord by accident and ruining all the fun). His hands were trying to reach at my flimsy underwear beneath my dress; I pulled it up and he brought it over my head and tossed it into the corner, as I kicked off my shoes. I tugged at his belt, more as a prompt than anything else – I still find belts and buttons and zippers infinitely challenging after a drink – as I slipped my hand into my pants, charged with that equal desperation to come and the unwillingness to ever have to stop. He hooked each thumb around my knickers and pulled them down, and, hands on my waist, pushed me down with them. He sat me on the closed loo seat – moved my legs apart – got down on his knees and nuzzled his face into my cunt, gently teasing me open. Long, slow strokes up to my clit made me throw my shoulders back and shiver – he always goes on for so long I don’t think I can stand it, one time my foot seized up in anticipation, I was so tense. He began to apply more pressure, go faster, go harder.
He held me firmly as he lapped; my legs were over his shoulders, his hands under the small of my back. I had one foot on the door handle, and one hand holding onto the safety handrail for support. It’s almost funny that a safety handle was present, before you remember that we were already rather taking the piss by being very definitely able-bodied in the disabled bathroom. He gripped the flesh of my hips, his tongue darting as I pushed against him, stiffened all over and came. The familiar weight sinking to the pit of my stomach; my feet going up in flames. (I used to fuck a guy whose feet were so sensitive he would come if I stroked them while were were boning. It was a thrilling power to hold over someone, but I digress.)
I caught my breath, and he sat back, resting on his elbows with that satisfied smile the big O so often seems to inspire in a man. He pulled down the unzipped trousers I’d neglected, pulled down his boxers and I climbed over him on all fours, grabbing my dress and putting it under his head, to cushion him. He slid inside me with ease, and I started rocking backwards and forwards, hands firmly planted on his chest, the ring finger of my right hand grazing his nipple over and over, in time with my hips. I moved my hand up to his neck, my thumb against his collar bone, thrusting with ever more force. I thought of a text I’d sent him: “I’m going to ride you like a motherfucking stallion”. I was joking in tone, of course, but not in intent. I really did.
I slowed, feeling the burn in my thighs. Quicker than I’d expected, he sat up and moved me off him – I leant against the wall – and he knelt up and started masturbating over me. He had this look of utter concentration on his face as he stared at me, at my breasts and stomach and splayed legs. I reached up, stroking the back of his thigh, breathing heavily. He exhaled and threw his head back; he came on my tits, paused, and then spread his spunk across my chest with his hand. He laughed, I smiled. We cleaned ourselves up and left. We spent the rest of the reception shooting each other knowing looks. And no one noticed a damn thing.
So there you have it, my little loves. It is possible. Weddings CAN be fun. But only if you get lucky.
Originally published at The Erotic Memoirs of Crystal Chandeliere