After I catch the bouquet, there is a smattering of applause. (Apparently I was not the crowd favorite.) But Michele does come up to me and kiss me. The guitarist asks my name, and sings “Juuuuuu-lee” as the band performs impromptu backup.
I slink back to our table, placing the bouquet on it, and letting you ironically congratulate me. I feel numb.
You’re still thinking about losing the bet. “What are you going to do to me?” you ask.
Much as I was intent on flirting with you a moment ago, I am a little distracted. I turn to you. “Right now, I’m just a little more concerned with what’s going to happen to ME,” I say, for once not being ironic.
“Now then,” interrupts the guitarist, booming his voice in a kitschy cheesy way, “it’s time for our bride Michele to lose an article of clothing!”
He places a chair on the edge of the stage, about a foot and a half above the dance floor, facing out. Michele, loving the attention, walks up and sits down. The crowd, by now drunk, gathers around. The horny bastards in the groom’s party stand in front.
The groom, Mark, is supposed to slide his hands under the bride’s dress and remove her garter. But instead he lifts her hem above her knees. Michele blushes, but it’s not clear if she is really uncomfortable or just playing the part.
As the band plays something raunchy-sounding, Mark slides the hem further up Michelle’s thighs. The groomsmen kneel, ostensibly so others behind them can see, but in fact to get a better view,
The guitarist leans over and peeks. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue,” he says. “I think we can see what Michele’s wearing that’s blue, and it’s NOT her garter!”
The crowd roars. The guitarist was worried that his joke was too risqué, but now he is emboldened.
Mark slides the garter to Michele’s knee. “Oh, give us another look!” the guitarist urges. Suddenly Mike lifts the hem of Michele’s dress, and everyone can catch a glimpse of Michele’s light blue lacy panties between her slightly parted thighs. She blushes and mock-tussles with him for the hem, then he lets go and removes the garter.
The drunk crowd cheers with delight. Michele playfully slaps Mike and walks off. “All in good fun,” the guitarist crows.
Our table is well-situated such that you are distracted getting a good look at Michele. Finally you look back at me. Suddenly it starts to dawn on you why I’m upset.
“I caught the bouquet,” I remind you. “So whoever catches the garter gets to put it on me. Taking the garter off the bride is usually the tame part; it’s putting it on someone else that everyone always plays to the hilt. And thanks to you … I’m … not … wearing … any … panties.”
You look away, feeling awkward, and once again notice Michele and Grandpa whispering.
