Always a Bridesmaid

Me: Bridesmaid in a middle-school friend’s wedding. The location: the rural south coast of Sicily, where the late summer timing of the ceremony coincided with the celebration of Ferragosto, a holiday celebrated with an all-night rave on the beach.

The action began on the dance floor of a beach club rented for the occasion. Standing out among the smaller-statured Sicilians were a pair of gargantuan and gorgeous gentlemen who looked like swimsuit models, clad only in Speedos. One was dark, the other light. They were, like, Beckham-and-Ronaldo hot. Everyone else was dressed for a wedding.

She pushed me squarely between them. When they didn’t reject me outright, I took the opportunity to shake my booty. (I'm from the Bay Area, so I know how.) They pressed me from both sides. I kissed the one in front of me and grinded against the one behind. His hand wandered from holding my stomach to touching my breasts. I kissed the one behind. We were creating a spectacle. This doesn’t happen in places like this where Catholicism still firmly has its hold. Not in public.

The three of us staggered from the slack-jawed crowd, onto the beach, and towards the tents that litter the shore up past where the waves can reach. I heard a friend call out to me, “Where are you going?” but I didn’t answer. A tiny tent greeted me — hardly big enough for one. Inside there wasn’t enough space to lie down, so we knelt and looked at each other. I felt overdressed; I was wearing a shirt and pants still, while they just had their Speedos. They didn’t seem to know what to do with me. They quibbled in Sicilian. I took off my shirt to encourage them.

One decided to bow out of the action spontaneously. When he unzipped the tent to the world, it became clear that people had indeed followed. A cheer erupted as he made the climb to standing. Inside, I fumbled with the man left behind and tried to console myself about being half-abandoned. He came quickly and I pulled my shirt back over my head. When I got out, my friend, the bride, marrying into a culture not her own, was waiting. Standing sentry by the flimsy tent, she said, "I wanted to make sure only the boys you wanted in there were involved," then she brusquely pulled me away by the elbow before I had a chance to say goodbye. — Jessica