The downside of July is that wedding season clashes with Pride.
Every year I'd look forward to getting down with some lovely
lesbians in Soho, only to end up in Harrogate, on a hen night,
drinking Sambuca through a kazoo, with 14 straight girls I'd never
met before.
When my best friend got married a few years back he asked me to be
an usher. It would mean missing Pride, but there was some
consolation in being able to rock a power suit to the wedding. As a
lesbian I've always liked the idea of a three piece suit. It's very
'Madonna circa 1989', only minus the monocle. Unfortunately, when I
tried the suit on I found it was also minus the Madonna bit too. It
was less, 'Express Yourself', and more, 'Go Compare'. Clearly
Madge didn't rent hers from Moss Bros.
I decided to try and improve the situation by getting my waistcoat
made 'sexier'. The trouble is I had no idea how to describe what I
wanted to the tailor. I'm a lesbian. I didn't inherit my mother's
'alteration' vocabulary. So when I picked up my waistcoat it wasn't
what I was expecting. It had been butchered. The back and sides had
been cut away. What remained was basically a bib. It has been
altered, but unfortunately beyond all recognition.
The problem with my newly 'designed' waistcoat was that the lack of
back precluded me from wearing a bra - conical or otherwise. My
invite wasn't for "plus two", so I was forced to borrow some tit
tape from one of the bridesmaids to avoid 'popping out' during the
ceremony. Tit tape is basically just sticky-back-plastic for tits.
I was aiming for Madonna, but somehow my outfit was veering off in
the direction of Blue Peter. At least I could say, "Here's some I
taped earlier".
As if things weren't bad enough, the groom's mother insisted on
helping me apply the tape. - to my bare breasts. She whisked me
into a downstairs toilet. Then she jacked up my tits and stood
beneath them - like a mechanic holding a light under a car engine -
working out how to fix it. My tit's were being 'mum-handled'. I was
dying of embarrassment, but she looked perfectly at home. She was
wearing reading glasses and concentrating on my right breast as if
it was The Telegraph crossword - she'd got 'one down', but she was
struggling to get 'two down'.
But as she picked up my left breast a draft blew through the
downstairs loo and to my horror I felt my nipples harden
involuntarily. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.
Instead the unlocked door opened up to reveal her husband standing
in the doorway. Maybe it was shock, but he wasn't in any hurry to
leave. He just stood and stared at his wife, who had tape in her
mouth, and one of my breasts in her hand. It could have been worse
I suppose. It could have been the other way around.
Happily, as wedding season approaches again, there will be no such
lapse in Pride this year, because for once I'll be in Soho where I
belong.
