“Kissing the bride is such a sexist tradition.”
“You would prefer that guests just fuck the bride?” I joked.
Kimmy’s reply shocked me. “You would just love that, wouldn’t you Jeff?” Then she stuck her tongue out at me. “You are such a perv.”
Though no prude, she was by all appearances conventional about sex. I enjoyed teasing her about the contrast between her gender liberation and her sexual conservatism. Occasionally, I hinted at the ‘open marriage’ lifestyle I shared with her mother, but never to explicitly. There were certain rules that Ruth, my wife, Kimmy’s mom, insisted on. Not letting family know was one of them.
Like her mother, my step daughter liked to defy expectations. Ever since she was a young girl, life played by Kimmy’s rules, not the other way around. Now as she her wedding approached, her mother, and her future mother-in-law, wanted to run it all. Kimmy would have none of that. So, since her biological father was again half way around the world on an oil rig, she turned to me to mediate.
My reward was watching her, now a week before the wedding, model gowns for me. The stuffy traditional model favored by the mothers, and the low-cut backless sheer designer gown she preferred. With both of them, she wore stay up stockings and an under wire half cup bra. I was so busy bobbing my eyes from her legs to her chest I barely registered the dresses. Still, while she switched back into her casual clothes behind her half shut door, I had sensibly agreed with her choice.
When she emerged, tiny diamond glistening in her ‘slut gut’, I had a hard time not preferring the loveliness of her tan legs bared against the ivory hose, and her extraordinarily large but naturally firm breasts hardly needed the enhancement of the bra. ‘But why,’ I puzzled, ‘did she want the demi-cup? What if her nipples got stiff?’