(Continued)

Beyond the front row sat an assortment of Chuck and Enrique’s friends and acquaintances, including their gay matchmaker, who savvily saw this event as a supreme marketing opportunity and brought along all his clients. There were also all the bad boy bikers from Chuck’s maintenance shop, the Greasy Rider, and from the local biker bar, Hog Heaven; and all Enrique’s coworkers from the Boca Beach Hilton, where he was the hotel dick, that is to say, the Chief of Security.

Outside, I heard the unmistakable potato-potato-potato rumble of Harleys. Ahhh … the day’s musical entertainment had arrived, in the form of the Holy Rollers Motorcycle Club and Gospel Choir, a group of five black drag queens whom I had met at the rehearsal dinner the previous evening.

I knew they rode their Hogs in full riding gear, so it would take them a while to change into their wigs, makeup, bras, girdles, gowns, and all. So I would be standing here in my misery a while longer. I tried to take a deep breath to send some healing oxygen to my aching back and feet, but my chest wouldn’t expand beyond the rigid steel cage of the corset. I coughed and staggered, drawing all eyes to me. Great. Like I really wanted to be the center of attention here. Apparently, my cough provided some kind of permission to the assembly to engage in similar behavior, as there followed a flurry of throat clearing, foot shuffling, seat adjusting, and other expressions of discomfiture.

Finally, the nuptial procession started with the entrance of the first of the Holy Rollers, Cherise Jubilee. She came down the aisle in a red sequined clingy sheath and a headdress piled high with fake cherries, à la Carmen Miranda. I hoped she did not intend to pour brandy on them and set them afire.