I was asked repeatedly about the status of the plus-one (Picture: Tom Disalvo)
On its surface, there’s perhaps nothing gayer than a straight wedding.
Floral arrangements, lace fabrics and a pair of white heels are items I already had in my wardrobe, regardless of an imminent save-the-date.
Adele featured on my playlists long before a straight couple waltzed down the aisle to 25, and I’m already accustomed to pageantry and gown-wearing as an avid fan of RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Given this flair for high camp, I was initially excited by the prospect of being the best man at my friend’s wedding.
I hurriedly accepted the role with little thought around how my queerness might oppose the straight norms that defined my best friend’s wedding (unfortunately not the one starring Julia Roberts).
Then came the cold feet.
Granted, they were perfectly pedicured, but they nonetheless remained cold as I participated in a swathe of pre-wedding rituals, each of which showcased the heteronormativity that defines every aspect of the event.
At first it was the suit fittings, which felt like an early manifestation of my unease among the groomsmen. With its symmetrical lines and boxy fit, the suit was a ‘straight’ camouflage — worlds away from the tank tops of my own closet — that made me assimilate to the group but still felt altogether confining.
Then came the all-blokes stag do, an event that in my dictionary roughly translates to ‘hellscape’.
I withheld jokes about ring bearers (to gays, bearing your ring means something quite different) (Picture: Tom Disalvo)
All throughout the party, I failed at the unbridled machismo expected of stags, from countless beer pong losses to withholding my answers in a game of Kiss, Marry, Kill (needless to say, no one mentioned Timothée Chalamet).
It was when writing the best man speech and recalling the groom’s past romances — ones I never experienced as a closeted teen — that the wedding jitters really took over.
How was I expected to behave at a ceremony that, until 10 years ago, was denied to me by law? How, given my existence outside of these straight ideals, could I appreciate all the rituals?
Within minutes of arriving on the wedding day, I was asked repeatedly about the status of the plus-one, Michael, who was assumed by default to be either my ‘housemate’ or a handsome waiter who happened to be standing nearby.
Later, I abstained from catching the bouquet — no matter how good the peonies would look on my windowsill — in fear that doing so would appear ‘too feminine’.
Elsewhere, I withheld jokes about ring bearers (to gays, bearing your ring means something quite different), and begrudgingly peeled my eyes off the father of the bride, who was unfortunately nowhere to be found on Grindr.
Efforts to ‘tone down’ my identity saw me recite my speech in a ‘masculine’ tone (Picture: Tom Disalvo)
This code-switching (change in behaviour to benefit those around me) was my attempt to satisfy an ideal in which I simply didn’t fit. The heteronormativity built into the foundation of weddings implicitly put me on the outs.
It’s a familiar feeling among queer people like myself, who’ve contorted themselves into straight-passing shapes since childhood, and one enhanced by a ceremony where we aren’t considered the picture of holy matrimony.
After stress-eating 50 dinner rolls, I reactivated this defence mechanism and relented to the default straightness of surroundings.
Efforts to ‘tone down’ my identity saw me recite my speech in a ‘masculine’ tone, and adopt a more discreet demeanour in the following hours. As a result, my ‘housemate’ and I spoke unconvincingly to groomsmen about a range of straight topics, namely 3-in-1 shampoo and ‘not quite understanding’ the Barbie movie.
Then, when ordering my eleven-hundredth cosmopolitan (some gay clichés just can’t be avoided), I met a queer guest, Laura, who revitalised my attitude.
Laura told me of her own imminent nuptials, and her decision to avoid the traditions we’d endured all day. She wasn’t organising gendered bridal parties, and all guests would be welcome to snatch the bouquet.
It was a refreshing reminder of something that hours of straight-acting best-manhood had buried. Given our existence outside of tradition, queer people are freer than our straight counterparts to tear up the wedding rulebook and fashion it however we choose.
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Platform is the home of Metro.co.uk’s first-person and opinion pieces, devoted to giving a platform to underheard and underrepresented voices in the media.
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Having inhabited relationships already deemed ‘unconventional’, we are unencumbered by the rituals that define marriage, and at liberty to paint our own, unique picture of matrimony.
It was in envisioning my own picture that I realised the queerness I once thought was opposed to this wedding was actually my superpower; a chance to embrace my identity and the uniqueness that flourishes outside the norm.
This realisation dawned on me as ABBA — something both straights and gays agree on — begun blaring through the speakers. It was then, alongside Michael and Laura, that I revelled in the parts of myself I’d repressed all day.
The three of us, dancing and taking space in a setting we’ve long been excluded from, were the glimmer in a crowd of suits.
Afterwards, we stumbled home, confident in the knowledge that our own nuptials might look completely different — and therein lies most of the fun.
After all, who better to be an honorary flower girl than a community who has been called that forever?
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I abstained from catching the bouquet — no matter how good the peonies would look on my windowsill — in fear that doing so would appear ‘too feminine’.