Who was I fooling? Besides myself, that is, for at that point I had not yet discovered the wonders of puberty and friction. This was the closest I would get to a perfect wedding. The cake was beautiful--delicately frosted with little pink roses all around. The bridesmaids' dresses were all flattering and elegant and, of course, matched the velvet of the groomsmen's cumberbunds. But in the middle of the ceremony, as if to answer the instruction, "Speak now, or forever hold your peace," Peter Wille walked into the room. Possibly the coolest kid I had ever met stood in the doorway and watched as my stuffed lion, Simon, married my sister's koala. It was bad enough that at fourteen I was playing with stuffed animals. that wlone should have convinced all who witnessed it that I was gay. But I had gone to the effeminate lengths of sewing the dresses, tuxedoes, even a suit for the ministering walrus myself. I had made the cake. I had selected the rings. This wedding was for me; my sister tried to have input but was eventually relegated to the non-voting position of Bride's mother. I was the Bride and The Groom. I walked every one of those plush participants down the aisle. And as Peter watched silently, I felt like the biggest fag in existence. Peter walked away, stunned, as my Mom, clearly grasping the import of what had just happened, desperately apologized for letting him in the house.

"He wanted to get something for his Mom," she explained, "I didn't realize what you were doing." What we were doing was performing a ceremony to seal my gayness. It certainly worked better than the wedding I had later in life to reverse it.