Chapter 4: A Dignified Spartan
652 Words
Chapter 4: A Dignified Spartan
The grooms were decked in all white from head to toe. Although I didn’t know the pair personally, I could pretty much guess that neither were virgins. Semi-positioned beneath the fronds-covered trellis and holding hands, the two men spoke their vows to each other and the guests. I snapped numerous pictures of the placement of their titanium wedding bands, their kiss, and the young woman who married them, Rabi Emma Salin. I also snapped pictures of Stephen’s sister, who just happened to be the professional harpist, the jungle flowers, and various birds, some of which pooed on one or two of the guests.
The couple did have a very small bridal party. Behind Stephen stood a beautiful, lanky, black-haired female in cream-colored pumps and a matching dress, who I presumed was the bridesmaid. The gray-eyed fairy could not stop crying during the ceremony and was constantly rubbing tissues against the edges of her eyes.
Next to Ira was my guest of choice, whom I had seen numerous times at other weddings in the last few years. The thirty-five year old eye-catcher stood tall and proud, unwavering and muscular, which reminded me of the poise of a dignified Spartan. Ira’s groomsman was a brute of a man at five-eleven with a rust-colored crew cut, closely trimmed beard, one hundred and eighty pounds, and twinkling eyes. His jawline could cut steel. His thick neck, what I could see of it, was corded with veins, which told me that he worked out and enjoyed taking care of his body. Handsome seemed to undercut the man as a label. Rather, he was mouthwatering and tantalizing, agreeable for my needs
I was always professional at the many weddings I attended for Wedding Peeks, but if the redheaded beau just happened to whisk me into a nearby room of steel-colored tables, office chairs, desks, and computers at the aviary, God only knew what I would have done with his body. Reds were my weakness, of course; a fetish that I had had for as long as I could remember. What was it about their ginger-colored hair, emerald-hued eyes, and pertinent freckles that sent lightning bolts of lust throughout my entire torso, relishing their appealing and unusual looks for my relentless desires? Why was it that male reds knocked the wind out of me and caused me to stare at them like a lunatic? And why couldn’t I control my lust for this particular red, visually digesting him in the most heinous means and unfolding a naughty daydream of our naked bodies mixing as one?
We made eye contact during the ceremony, and he smiled at me. I, of course, smiled back, winked, and had to abruptly look away from him, fearing that I would gained an erection under my linen slacks, embarrassing myself at the function, all because of a handsome red.
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Applause and cheers of contentment fanned out among the guests as Mr. Stephen and Ira Robindock were finally married, kissed, and exited the aviary in hopes of not being pooed on by one of the overhead and feathered friends. Pictures of the pair, including the wedding party, were being shot in the West Garden, outside. I was not hired for the task. Rather, Bobby Highman was. He was a gangly scarecrow of a man who had been in the photography business just as long as I had. My job and concentration was on and for Wedding Peeks and its viewers, not personal pics of the grooms for their adopted children to study in decades to come. Of course, I was at Bobby’s side, but I wasn’t snapping pics of Ira and his new husband. Instead, I kept clicking pictures of the redheaded groomsman, who was all smiles, excited to be a part of the wedding party, and quite handsome in my camera. I took random pictures of the ginger. Some three hundred photographs later, the private photo shoot had ended, and we were all off to The Marilyn Bar.
- Writer
