There is one person who could not be there, my father. He could not be there because he declined to come, like a modern-day Lady Catherine de Bourgh, growling in California while the ceremony proceeded in New York. It remained, everything about it, an abomination to him and he would not accept the condition that I, and Mother, set for his attendance. I send him a monthly check for what I owe him financially—now up to $1, 500—which he does not deposit and that is the extent of my contact with him.
Putting on the Ritz-Carlton
Because Kerry had school, we put off our honeymoon. But the Family insisted that we do something on our wedding night. Tom put us in the back seat of his Audi and Mom followed in our—that would be the newly-wedded couple—Camry to White Plains where the two of us were deposited and our car parked by their parents who, after yet more hugs beneath the overhang at the hotel’s entrance disappeared into the night.
We were welcomed at the Ritz-Carlton’s front desk with “good evening Ms. Neally, good evening Ms. Neally, your suite is ready” and I was thrilled for the zillionth time that day. After checking into the suite, Kerry insisted that we go up to the restaurant on the top floor. We were still in our wedding dresses—we decided to go with dresses and not gowns—and we were again welcomed with “good evening Ms. Neally, good evening Ms. Neally,” now being shown to a small table to the south which offered a view to Manhattan and its skyline and being given two flutes of champagne. More than a few staff members and guests smiled at us while we sat, several offering us congratulations and genuine good-wishes.
After savoring the view and finishing our glasses and being told that it had all been taken care of, and us leaving a nice tip, the newlyweds—I cannot resist writing it like this, as it remains such a fairytale to me—headed down to their suite on the 38th floor and once the door was closed and locked, the brides kissed one another. The suite was high enough so that there could be no prying eyes and they left the curtains open and could again see out to Manhattan.
I—a fairytale can only describe so much and go so far—reached behind Kerry’s back and slowly unzipped her dress. She stepped out of it, now just in her silk bra and panties, stockings, a garter belt, and heels. She kicked the last of those away, and I unsnapped her stockings and then, after she sat on the bed, slowly removed them as well, dabbing each inch as I went along. The garter belt was next and then she was topless and I leaned over to reach for the globes that I sometimes wished that I had and, well, now actually and legally did have.
She stood, but I put my hand up, again, to stop her. My dress’s zipper was to the side, and I slowly pulled it down and allowed my dress to fall to the floor, holding her blue eyes as I did. I stepped over it and kicked it, gently, to the side. Kerry’s eyes bulged. I was wearing stockings, a garter belt, and heels.
“Holy shit. You went around—”
“Yes, I’ve been commando since we left the room to go upstairs.”
“Good thing I didn’t know ’cause I would have—”
And as she said this I was again leaning into her and whispered, “You would have what?”
“This” and her hands came up to touch my boobs, nipples well extended, and she said, “have I ever told you how much I love these babies, these perfect babies” and she touched them and licked them in turn until I had flattened myself against her and said, “I’m half off the bed. Let’s get more comfortable,” which I punctuated by grabbing her panties and, after she lifted her butt, pulling them off and tossing them who-knows-where.
This was my wife, my naked wife—I still wore the stockings and garter belt—and I was above her as I lowered myself across her left thigh and as I rubbed her and she rubbed me and she scissored me and she wrapped her right hand to rub my clit and we stared into one another’s eyes and slowly and gradually peaked. This was not the wildness we often engaged in, but it was what we wanted this night and after we both used the bathroom to get ready, we got into the bed, both of us now naked, and my wife wrapped her right arm around me, kissed my neck, and said that she was the happiest woman in the world.
“Second,” said her wife.
And with that, the events of the day, and night, caught up to us and we dozed off.
The Grand Tour
The suite was booked for two nights so we would have a day to explore White Plains. It does not take a day to explore White Plains. I got up a bit before Kerry, at about eight, and told her while she was still in bed that I was going for an hour or so run, to which she sleepily said, “Go. We’ll eat when you get back,” and I think I caught a glimmer in her eyes. Then, as I was going through the door she called, “After we shower of course” and I threw her a kiss and was gone.
After heading out for half-an-hour along the course I had mapped out on the path along the Bronx River, I turned around, waving at the runners and cyclists also enjoying the nice early Fall weather as we passed each other—some waving back, others not and all oblivious to the band newly adorning my left ring-finger—and then I was in the elevator and when I knocked the door was opened by my wife after some seconds and she was in a robe. Just a robe. After she sniffed a couple of times and said, “You stink, you need a shower,” she pulled me into the bathroom, turned on said shower, stripped me, unrobed herself, and it was not long before we were somewhat futilely attempting to make love with the water cascading over us. We had only tried this a couple of times at the house and it showed, and this was a larger shower with a larger showerhead.
“Babe,” she finally said, “I’ll get out, you soap and rinse, and I’ll meet you in the other room.”