(Continued)

Chuck and Enrique’s love was true and just, which is why I was there that April Sunday, standing up for them as Best Human in their commitment ceremony. I was standing up, to be precise, at the altar of the Church of the Gender-Free God, waiting for the groom and groom to escort each other down the aisle.

In deference to the occasion, I had ditched my daily uniform of black leggings, black tank top, riding boots, and leathers when I dismounted my trusty steed – my 2003 100th Anniversary Harley Hugger. I wore a floor-length silver gown, matched by four-inch sandals and shoulder-length silver earrings. I’d had my normally wild dark hair blown out, and it hung down my back in long silky perfection. My green eyes were fully lined and mascaraed, and my normally bare, raw nails were polished in a fluorescent opal that changed colors with the light. Damned if I didn’t look like my former incarnation of myself – a Boca Babe ne plus ultra.

What’s a Boca Babe, you ask? Well, that’s a two-part question. First of all, what’s Boca? It’s a town on the southeast coast of Florida, located between Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach, that’s been called “The Beverly Hills of the East.” The comparison is apt: just like that other place, Boca’s got balmy breezes, plentiful palm trees, mind-boggling mansions, serious shopping, and beaucoup bucks. In fact, Boca is the second wealthiest municipality in Palm Beach County. Second only to the island of Palm Beach, which is in a whole different world, akin to places like Monte Carlo and St. Tropez. Palm Beach residents are old money; Boca Raton residents are the arrivistes, the nouveau riche. And all their new money sometimes comes from some, well, shady dealings.