I was at the end of the pew, on the aisle -- the assigned spot for my role as family photographer. I was on the groom's side of the church, my Nikon hanging from my neck. I caught it out of the corner of my eye. A spider. A damn big spider. Tarantula-sized creeping along the top of the pew opposite mine. Just what this wedding needs, someone to see this big ol' arachnid and to scream. I can see it now, a panic, a run for the doors, a stampede as the guests at my nephew's wedding run out of the church. I would have smiled if it weren't for my own phobia of the critters.
I turned my head for a better look and a pleasant surprise. What were the "legs" of the spider turned out to be the black-gloved fingers of a woman at the wedding. Long gloves ran up the length of her arm up just past her elbow. I think they're called opera gloves. Don't know if I've seen a woman wear gloves like this in person, but I was looking now, mesmerized. She wore a tennis bracelet of diamonds around one wrist over the glove. It may very well have been costume jewelry. I didn't care, I was taken in. The gloves were more than just a novelty. I found them to be very erotic. I found myself staring at this woman as the bridesmaids began their march down the aisle. I snapped a few photos without thought. My focus was on the woman with the gloves.
It was an evening wedding and most of the guests, particularly the women, were dressed to the nines. Capes, sweaters and jackets camouflaged the ladies' bare shoulders, low cut backs and plunging necklines in deference to the decorum of the religious service. I knew well that the goodies would be revealed at the reception.
She was maybe in her early to mid-thirties with dark hair that barely came to her shoulders. She was wearing a classic little black dress, perhaps a bit on the short side. The high hem of the dress revealed her shapely legs that covered in sheer black stockings. She wore relatively high heels, an ankle bracelet and my long lingering stares. She was with another woman, no male escort in sight. My lucky day, except my wife was with me. Technically, it was her nephew that was getting married. My lust for the woman in the gloves was restricted to my imagination and to the growing warmth under my silk boxers.
It was the fastest wedding I'd been to, or so it seemed. I barely remembered to take a few other photographs. While most participants had their cameras aimed at the couple on the altar, the lens of my SLR often swung to my immediate left. As the new bride and groom came down the aisle to smiles, waves and applause, I wondered if my nephew was still a virgin. I couldn't decide. Finally, the guests filed out of the church and prepared for rice throwing. I lost sight of my quarry, the woman in gloves, in the rush of people.
It was a thirty minute drive to the country club reception. We found the seating chart and our table was populated with other members of my wife's family. I was sipping on a 7 and 7. The tip to the bartender ensured that the octane of my drink was in the ninties. I was feeling warm from the alcohol and the temperature increased when I caught site of the woman in gloves. She sat about three tables over from us. I had a nice view and a safe distance to continue my lechery and leering.
Dinner and toasts came and went. The DJ cranked up the music and dancing began. The capes and wraps were long gone as were a lot of inhibitions. My brothers-in-law and I sipped our drinks and smiled as we admired the booty that was being shook (or is that shaked?) on the dance floor. I was looking to see if the woman in gloves was out strutting her stuff. I was surprised to turn and see her sitting with a couple of old married farts. I could not imagine why some guy hadn't asked her to dance. Could it be that the woman who dressed like a temptress was a shy wallflower? I wondered what passions were smoldering inside her.
I went and bummed a cigarette from one of my brothers-in-law. Drinking gave me a craving for nicotine. I walked out of the reception into the Indian summer night, lit my Marlboro and exhaled a stream of smoke up in the general direction of the Big Dipper. I just enjoyed the evening, my buzz and the music from the DJ.
"Pardon me, do you have a match?" I turned to answer the female voice and faced the woman in gloves. "Um, ah, yeah" was my not so cool, not so debonair response. I recovered with the gallant gesture of lighting the match for her and offering a light. Her cigarette was cradled in the crotch of two of her gloved fingers. Her other hand held mine, guiding the flame to the end of her cigarette. The gloved hand felt soft and velvety. Brushed cotton perhaps? A draw, an exhale and a "thank you" came from her lipstick red lips. I almost burned myself as I became distracted and held the match too long.
"Nice touch," I said.
"What?"
"The gloves. A very nice touch."
She looked down. Her blushing cheeks were visible in the lamplight. "Thanks", she said with embarrassment. "I was about to take them off. I seemed to get a lot of catty looks from the other women. I was becoming self-conscious."
"No, don't. They're a classic. And they're very sexy," I added.
She smiled. "I'm glad you think so. They make me feel sexy. I needed that tonight."
"Oh?"
"Every woman needs that. And my husband decided at the last minute not to come tonight. I was a bit bummed. I was looking forward to having a good time."
"What's stopping you?"
