the glare of chandeliers. There was cheering all of a sudden; I clenched my empty fingers with relief. I began to bolt back to my seat when I noticed the loop of lace dangling from my chest. The garter had hooked itself on one corner of my tie tack. It was fixed there so firmly that removing it caused the material to tear slightly. “Easy there, cowboy,” said the DJ, winking. “Getting it off’s only half the fun.” The bride had vacated her seat; the chair was now occupied by the girl with the bouquet. A few pink petals tumbled from her lap to the floor. She had removed her shoes; her toenails looked coppery stubbed beneath her stockings. “OK,” the DJ continued, “now this next part is crucial. You paying attention? Or are you too busy trying to look up the pretty lady’s skirt? . . . Your mission, should you choose to accept it”—I will let the reader fill in the most appropriate musical accompaniment—”is to slide that garter up the lady’s leg as far as it will go. The higher you go, the better luck for the bride and groom.” I was, needless to say, rather skeptical about the provenance of this superstition—it had no precedent in the texts I could recall offhand—but the music was too loud for me to make my queries heard, much less understood. I went down on one knee. The blare of brass was soon joined by whistling and more applause. Her foot slid between my palms. Her big toe dug sharply at my wrist. I looked up and caught her wink. I proceeded to honor the bride and groom. It did not occur to me to consult with my presumptive partner about the extent of my reach. The clapping grew louder, more rhythmic as I eased the lace further up. Her mouth, rimmed with sweat, smiled tautly. Somewhere above the knee, her thighs squeezed my fingers to a stop. I sank into the warm pressure. She yielded another inch, then another. Finally, I stopped. I gave her thigh a firm pinch as I withdrew. Her yelp of surprise was masked by the music in front of us and the shrillness behind. “Let’s give these two some room,” said the DJ, introducing Marvin Gaye. We were clenched together now at the waist. I felt her mouth at my ear. “You’re bad,” she said, with a trace of admonition, but I could feel her stomach flutter through her dress. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did you like molesting me in public?” I nodded wordlessly. She leaned against my shoulder, facing out. Others had joined us, but swayed along at a discreet remove. Her lips grazed my ear again. “I think you’re cute,” she said. “As long as you keep your mouth shut.” She laughed and leaned back onto my shoulder. “Why is that, anyway?” “Why’s what?” “Guys are so weird. They treat you like shit in front of everybody. But get them alone and they can’t keep their hands to themselves.” “Is that what they do with you?”
62 · The Paranormal Guide to Wedding Etiquette