An Indecent Proposal...

Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, our bridezilla had met the one, and his parents, and the rest of his brew. The groom had successfully survived his own run-ins with his soon-to-be in-laws and there had been not a single nervous breakdown in the process.

The next couple of months flew by with little trouble and lots of fun. There was an uneventful New Years Eve that climaxed with a climax to Britney Spears' song "Breathe On Me". Don't judge me. Not even from afar. Next would come a not-so-romantic Valentine's Day where we both had to work and finally, we moved onward to the fast approaching springtime. Over the passing weeks, we had become more than just lovers. We became best friends. There wasn't overwhelming need to be perfect all of the time. Things could become comfortable. Specifically, One evening, Trevor and I were laying on the couch watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I had adjusted my position on the couch pressing on his belly. All of a sudden, I heard a loud rumble emit from his stomach. What happened next was as defining of our love as it was side-pain funny. I heard a small "buurrrrnnn." Here, I am using "buurrrrnnn" as an onomatopoeia. Clearly he had just dropped ass all over the sofa, and me, uncharacteristically I might add, chose to ignore it. But then my lip started to curl in the corner and my face began to scrunch. I just about had it all controlled and then the odor began to catch me right around my nose and that was it. I started laughing and I couldn't stop. Trevor, on the other hand, did not find his flatulence hilarious. He turned this odd shade of magenta and began to fume. Because he was clearly upset, I did the only thing that I could think to do. I told him I would try to blast ass too. So here he is all purple from embarrassment and then there's me all purple from pushing, hoping against all hopes that I didn't give myself a roid...

Trevor was not the only one who had grown comfortable in his nestled surroundings; I too, became more lax in my compulsions over the progressing months. For example, anyone who has ever met me can attest that I have always been a bit obsessed with, shall we say, outer beautification. In layman's terms, I would sell my kidney for a pair of square toe, silk stitch Prada loafers and a bronzer that could both conceal and highlight. In my warped obsession, I had this philosophy: Trevor didn't actually know what I looked like. And more than this, he could never know what lay beneath this cosmetically enhances coiffure and face. So for the first, say 2 months, I ensured he never be burdened with what I affectionately called "The Ugly Truth." Unbeknownst to Trevor as he lay dead to the world in the wee hours of the morning, I had set my alarm to 5 am every morning for a very specific purpose: to hop out of bed and haul my tequitos into the bathroom to apply a thin layer of bronzer and some silky lip balm so as to appear stunning upon his rile from slumber. This way, he would see me in my most natural state: beautified and pretentious. You know, like Paris Hilton, before the scary, green-lit, hotel-room porn. But, as the months rolled by, I dropped the ritual and gracefully allowed him to see me, all rough and tough. (Although I still shy away from situations where he might espy me under flourescent lighting.)

We had become more and more a commodity, and less mutually exclusive. We spent all of our time together and even began to merge our groups. One night, Myself, Trevor, my friends Mike and Carol, Mary Beth, and a couple we new from afar all decided to make an evening of play and laughter. So, we relieved ourselves from the earlier Saturday onslaught at around 7 pm and flew out to the Shoppes of Grand Prairie to a new German restaurant called Kaiserhoff. At this time, I ask you to let me describe the scenery that I shall be immersed in for the next 2.5 hours of my life. Picture it: Peoria, March 8, 2009. Two gays, Three girls and a couple of hetero males find themselves seated in a recreation of a German stereotype. There were large mugs of dark beers, men and women dressed in liederhosen, and an accordian player walking around serenading individual tables to with polka-ed out stylings of "The Sound of Music." Von Trapp, My Ass! It was awful. The scenery, not the company. In fact, the company would lead to the very proposal later that evening.

As I choked down a burnt breast of chicken cordon bleu, the topic turned toward my ideals of getting married. Let us revisit the past so as to clearly define who I had been, pre-Trevor. My last boyfriend of seven years had on occasion asked me if I'd like to get married at random times throughout our relationship. The first time, I was still young and naive, so of course I said yes. The next time he would bring it up would be a few months later, and I said sure, why not. The final time he ever mentioned me headed down an aisle in taffeta I was just plain appauled. And drunk. From what I can remember it went a little something like this:

Bob (ex-boyfriend): "So do you think you want to get married?"

Me: "WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!?"

And then I didn't speak to him again for a week. So, as you can see, my ideals on marriage had somewhat waned over the years. Trevor and I had, in the past, discussed maybe getting hitched down the line, but nothing immediate as he was still in college and wanting to move to Phoenix over the upcoming summer, and I was a homeowner in Peoria, Illinois not looking to make a cross-country move. As we explained our thoughts and feelings on marriage and adoption, Carol took it upon herself to use this time for a cigarette break. Mary Beth joined her leaving the rest of the party to the conversation at hand. Mike, Carol's husband, leaned over to me.

> Don't tell Carol this, but if you and Trevor want to get married, I can do it. I got ordained online. But don't tell Carol. She doesn't know.

At this point, I raise my glass to my lips and drink the entire Vodka and Cranberry Tall that had just been sat in front of me. The rest of the evening occurred with a personal polka serenade of "Do Re Mi" and some gracious goodbyes. No sooner had the doors of my Kia Sportage been shut, than Trevor turns to me and says:

> We need to go be gay.

Let's go down to Diesel

> Done!

With that we whisked ourselves off to Diesel for some faggotry and debauchery, only once we arrived it looked like the debautchery was going to be kept to an absolute minimum. There was next to nobody around. It was the eve of my cousin's birthday, so she was having all of our friends over out at her place located a good 30 minutes from where we already were and the gays that had found their way to the hole of downtown were comparable to that of the color beige: Throw them up against a wall with some throw pillows and they disappear. Seeing that the evening's fun was going to have to come from us, we loaded the Sportage back up and headed home.

TIME OUT!

I WANT TO BE VERY CLEAR HERE. As most of my decision making had been done with some degree of inebriation up to this point in my Bridezilla blog, I would like to let the record reflect that I was sober. Trevor was sober, but more impressively and importantly, I was sober. And all of what is to follow happened pre-sex, so there is no post-coital, male bliss syndrome occurring either. You know, that period of time immediately following a good romp where a man will say anything and you get him to promise doing stuff like wax your car, or pay your bills...

TIME IN!

As we lay in bed, we reflected on the nights involvement of liederhosen and marvelled at the notion of our straight friends being more exciting than our gay friends. I made reference to Mike being ordained and how hilarious it would be if Carol knew that he had offered to make us a union-ed couple. Trevor looked over at me.

> You know, if you asked me to get married, I'd say yes.

Are you asking me to ask you?

> No. I'm just saying. If you ask, I'll say yes.

Oh, OK.

There is totally a huge silence here. I was torn. I was torn between whether I should ask him to get married or not because he was expecting me to. I mean, you can't just say something like that and then not have an expectation. On the other hand, I was terrified. I mean, I hadn't been broken up from Bob too terribly long, and I was scared that maybe I was just replacing one relationship with another one, kind of like how a fatty replaces one piece of cake with the next piece of cake...But then, it hit me: I wanted to get married to Trevor. Lord knows, I didn't want to get married ever. I didn't want the fanfare. I didn't want the commitment. Hell, I didn't want the divorce. But, even in the face of all of that, I did want to marry Trevor, and only Trevor. That was my revelation. I hadn't jumped from one relationship to the next. I had jumped from one relationship into forever. I didn't want to fill any void. I wanted to be complete. I wanted Trevor and no one else. With this realization, I turned to him and say, "Will you marry me?"

> Yes.

And while technically, I popped the question, I will always say we just agreed to get married. So, it wasn't a typical, normal, or even decent proposal. It was our Indecent proposal. And not the awkward Demi Moore kind.

It was the kind that starts with a "will you" and ends with a "yes."