“Standing up” in a cousin’s wedding is like an unwanted pregnancy — it’s a huge fucking hassle and your parents will disown you for aborting. I’m almost 2,000 miles away from portions of my gene pool that I wish extra chlorine could expunge. Unfortunately, I’m a little too polite at the family Christmas party, I guess.
Anyway, two weeks ago, I’m standing on stage in a Men’s Wearhouse suit made of pebbles and papier-mâché, or so it feels, when I see a blonde I hope I’m not related to (closely at least) eying me in the second row. I’m ready to make a move, but the preacher doing his best True Detective revival church impersonation drones on to the point that I can’t imagine what the candid photos of my increasingly disdainful facial expressions look like.
I’m about to combust when “shut up and dance with me” starts playing and I realize this signifies the supposed end of my first low-class wedding experience. I now know how Nickelback sold 40 million albums. Much to my chagrin, the Amber Heard doppelganger, and possible relative, in the second row is not on the “party bus” to the reception, though this does relieve some of my fears of eventual incest. I’ve packed my pocket with nips of Patron, expecting Busch light and a cash bar, but the awkward mini bottle shape makes my balls look like oblong potatoes and sitting is almost impossible.
“Bro!” my confirmed cousin exclaims. “Hit this shit bro!”
He’s holding a bag of wine (not during his freshman pledge semester, instead in his early 30s). “Fuck it,” I think as I dive in deeper than Bill Cosby into an unconscious vagina, falling off my high horse so violently even Roger Goodell couldn’t deny my head injuries. Like my sandal wearing ancestors wandering the desert in search of the promised land (at least on one side), it was time to nut up and make the best of it. Except my promised land involved spilling my milk, not finding it.
We arrived at the party, and I felt like Patrick Bateman heading to dinner, generally horrified, and, even when feigning optimism, projecting an undeniable aura of unhappiness. As I expected, it was a cash bar, and the “country club” looked more like a Polish Hall than Augusta National. Thankfully, I spotted the aforementioned blonde and consumed enough liquid confidence to faintly say hello, at some point, at least, I assured myself.
I finished the second to last of my minis in the bathroom and pumped myself up like Drama before his Five Towns audition, stopping just short of a pre-game tug to calm the nerves. Walking like I’m brimming with confidence, though my groomsman mandated attire and mom’s “don’t wear an expensive watch they think you’re spoiled” advice had shattered my artificial inflation of self-worth.
“So don’t tell anyone, but I snuck in some contraband,” I said as I sat down, motioning to the last of my tiny tequilas.
“I won’t tell, but only if you share,” she said back.
Basically, the exact response I wanted.
“Sure,” I replied, “but only if your boyfriend doesn’t come after me. I’m here to celebrate, not get killed.”
She looked around, smiled, and said, “I don’t see a boyfriend — do you?”
We killed the rest of my stash and hit the cash bar, alternating between pretending to dance and openly gyrating like our clothes were acting as America’s thickest rubber. By this point, the cross on her inner wrist essentially guaranteed we weren’t related, and asking might’ve kill the mood, so I assumed the risk and slid my hand up her leg before asking her to “go on a walk with me.” She smirked, realizing my actual charm paled in comparison to my ego, but obliged anyway.
“Let me return the favor,” she said. This was the first time I have actually ever heard this from a woman, at least from a sexual standpoint. She took a mini bottle from her purse. She drank first, and as she went to hand me the bottle, I moved it from her lips and it was on like high school spring break — too much alcohol and total sloppiness, but a lifelong spank bank addition.
She was down to a lacy black thong when we heard frantic stomping down the staircase. I dove toward the one stall bathroom and pulled her in with me. The lights were off, door locked, and we were covering each other’s mouths, unable to stop laughing. “Jesus,” I thought, “I hope I don’t get caught fucking a long lost cousin in the basement.”
We could hear someone speaking faintly, but getting louder, as they approached the bathroom door. They tried to open it, and my balls retreated so far into my stomach that I felt a new understanding for Caitlyn Jenner. They jiggled the door not once, but twice, and then give up. At this point, we could hear every word they were saying.
“Michael, I didn’t tell you to enlist. I’m not waiting here for two fucking years. Yeah, well you had your chance with me. Last night was a mistake, but it’s over. I’m married now I’m not fucking talking about this today. Jesus Christ. Of course. Yeah. Of course. I still love you. Well, what the fuck do you want me to do? No, no fuck you! I swear, if you leave, you will never see me again. Make up your mind or I’m sticking with this.”
We heard stomping again, and then silence. Now, naturally, this sort of gossip and fear can only serve to make a woman hotter, so for the next 78 seconds or so I jackhammered her like it was my first time, and held off finishing by thinking of the “Hills Have Eyes” looking mongoloids I might have to care for if I let my pop shot slip. Fortunately, I used my firehouse like her tits were ablaze and later confirmed we were in no way related.
Which brings me to my conundrum. I’m 99% sure I heard my cousin’s new wife talk about fucking some dude the night before they got married, and I know her ex is in the military, so sincerely what should I do? I’ve sat on this info for a couple weeks now for a few reasons: 1. Huge fucking hassle for me, how do I explain being in the basement, why would I want to be the center of this, etc. 2. The “other guy” is a veteran, and my cousin an idiot, so I mean where really is my loyalty here? 3. I guess it is sort of possible I am wrong, and someone else recently married was saying the same thing? Again I was in the bathroom with my pants around my ankles. I never saw her face. 4. What if they now have a happy marriage, she’s over the other guy, and I fuck it all up? So, TFM, what should Paul, Donny, Tracy, Robert, Michelle, and I do about this? Please help the Siblings of Mark Wahlberg. I’ll post a followup after making a decision, since this is legitimately a true story..
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