There's something about this dress. The lace is both delicate and restrictive, its translucence setting my person aglow under the dim light. Each movement sends the fabric whispering against my skin, a mixture of soft caress and taut cling. The hem brushes lightly at my ankles, teasing as I shift nervously in place. I can feel the intricate patterns of lace etching faint impressions on my body, a reminder of how exposed and adorned I am in this moment. I observe all this quietly, as I wait patiently in the parish sacristy for someone to come get me. I mentally shuffle through this morning's events, grasping at fragments: the tight embrace from my mother before she broke into tears, the rush of candlelight reflected in the polished wood of the altar, and Greg's anxious smile as he whispered, 'Are you ready?' Yet, as always, the deck of frenzied memories quickly scatters and falls away beyond reach, leaving only the faint aftertaste of emotion.
i had probably taken too much xanax (against my better judgment) and will never recover one of the most momentous occasions of my life - my sacramental marriage to Gregory, my rock and confidante of 2 years, now my husband, forever, in the eyes of the Church and before God.
The small sacristy was starting to get to me--the air felt stifling, dense with the faint scent of incense and aged wood. My dress, ethereal just moments ago, was beginning to sag as cold sweat formed beneath the lace. The fabric clung awkwardly to my body, chafing with every small movement. I could hear the distant, muffled sound of footsteps echoing from the nave, each step amplifying the unease curling in my stomach. My breathing became shallow as the walls seemed to press inward, crowding me in this sacred yet suffocating space. the lace clung to my figure like vinyl, and i knew better than to try and pry it off and risk making it worse.
About three years ago, the magisterium of the Church issued a new decree ratifying the sanctity of sacramental marriage and denouncing the rising rates of annulment among validly married Catholics across the world. In many ways the document proclaimed the same truths as always - except it now came with a radical, almost punishing, directive that forever changed how Catholic couples approach and prepare for marriage.
Gregory and I are part of the first generation of newly-weds affected by this new directive, which was implemented with immediate effect across the global Church. Despite this, he still proposed to me a month after our diocese announced the implications of non-compliance - the sacramental validity of the marriage is now contingent upon the couple's full submission to the Church's terms.
Of course, the usual prenuptial inquiry remains - our parish priest met with us separately and had us swear upon the Gospels that we faced no known impediments to a valid union. Specifically, he had to ask Greg if he could hold an erection (and therefore capable of penetrative sexual intercourse). For myself, he asked if I (or rather, my vagina) was capable of physically receiving an erect penis and confirmed that my womb and ovaries are, to my knowledge, functional.
Then came the unfamiliar addition, which I now recall with a mix of shame, quiet arousal, and intrigue.
The Church's directive was this:
"The consummation of marriage between two baptised Catholics must immediately follow the wedding mass, in the presence of witnesses, specifically the groom's parents (or relatives) and at least two members of clergy. The marital act is to take place in the house of God (a Catholic church) and may be done before the tabernacle, with the witnesses watching from the sanctuary."
The decree echoed in my mind, each word striking like a bell of foreboding. My heart quickened as I tried to imagine myself in that moment, exposed under the gaze of people who had shaped my life with expectations and quiet scrutiny. A wave of fear coursed through me--fear of judgment, of my body betraying me, of failing to embody the grace and dignity the Church demanded. Yet alongside the fear was a strange undercurrent of curiosity, an unsettling intrigue at what it would mean to truly be witnessed in the fullness of my vulnerability. Could I bear such exposure, or might it shatter me entirely?
The marital act is considered complete and final only upon the successful penetrative act, a visible and verifiable sexual climax for the groom by ejaculation inside the bride's vaginal canal, a visible and verifiable sexual climax of the bride beyond a reasonable doubt, and lastly, the testimonies of at least 3 witnesses, one of which must be the bride's father-in-law, the other of which must be a Catholic priest or religious brother known to the couple.
The spiritual preparation for the upcoming ritual has been intense, embarrassing, and incredibly difficult. The nature of this ritual requires extended conversations between Greg's parents, especially his father, and myself. Greg and I also met weekly with Brother Jerome, Greg's childhood friend who had since taken solemn vows of celibacy and poverty.
Most of these conversations revolved around my womanhood, or rather, the lack thereof. Greg's parents raised concerns about my lack of domestic skills, my devotion to my career and studies, and apparent apathy towards my appearance and conduct as a young woman and future bride.
Brother Jerome spoke to me alone on several occasions about my understanding of a woman's rights and responsibilities in marriage, and her sacred wifely duties--to be her husband's sole source of sexual pleasure and intimacy, to ensure her husband's seed spills inside her and nowhere else, and to remain open and watchful for new life--pregnancy. I could feel a growing tension in my chest during these talks, a mixture of discomfort and simmering anger that I dared not show. My hands often clenched in my lap as I fought the urge to avert my eyes.
Brother Jerome's calm, measured voice felt both oppressive and soothing, each word lingering like a weight pressing down on me.
Towards the end of our preparation journey, Brother Jerome asked to speak more plainly with me about the public consummation itself. He was bound by canon law to be open and transparent with the bride regarding his feelings and to mentally prepare the couple for any potential signs of arousal we might witness from him.
He assured us that he held no romantic or erotic feelings for me and that he regards me as more a girl instead of woman. I held all these things in my heart, and did not say anything when Greg asked me about how I felt afterwards.
I would confess this to no one, but that afternoon the minute I was back home, in my room, alone, I was overwhelmed with a rush of searing shame, self-loathing, and something big and heavy in my chest that seemed closest to rage.
In that moment, filled with that strange, dizzying mix of emotion, my senses sharpened and blurred all at once. My skin seemed to tingle with an unbearable awareness, a heat blooming deep within me, making my breath catch. There was a strange, electric pull in my body--like a current demanding my attention, centering between my thighs. I froze for a moment, unable to comprehend this sudden, primal sensation. Each heartbeat echoed through my ears as I stood suspended in a fog of conflicting urges: fear, arousal, shame, and a need I could not yet name.
There was a growing dampness between my legs, and the more I tried to stop it, the wetter my panties became. I felt a strange heady urge to feel myself, and before I knew it, my fingers were touching my slick folds and against my better judgment, I slid my index between them and cried out as I felt it slip deep inside me.
I remembered then a passing comment from Greg's father about my womanhood - he had commented that I reminded him more of a young child than a woman.
I caught a glimpse of myself then and there in my small bedroom mirror, a woman in baggy jeans, undone, legs spread and hips arched, and observed with curiosity this strange unbecoming sight - I started to slide my finger in and out, gasping with each thrust. I had a crazed look, and my mouth was open in a silent cry as I continued to touch myself irreverently.
I wished, with all I could muster, and imagined as hard as I could, that Greg's father and Brother Jerome were before me at that very moment, witnessing my shameless throes of barely restrained frustration and arousal. There was a part of me that loathed the idea, sickened by the voyeurism I was conjuring, yet another part found an inexplicable thrill in being laid bare before these symbols of judgment and morality.
Imagining their eyes on me, taking in the sight of my self-pleasure, stirred an inner conflict that I couldn't resolve. Was this defiance of their control, or was it a desperate attempt to be seen--not as a girl under scrutiny but as a fully realized woman, capable of both virtue and sin? I wanted them to hear my low moans, rising in waves, each cry a fractured plea for God's mercy. The tension mounted, spiraling higher and higher, until I felt it implode within me--a torrent of quivering convulsions and contractions I could neither control nor deny.
With a long, audible moan, I surrendered to the climax--my body spent and trembling, fluids soaking through my jeans, as the ache for Greg's manhood slowly dissipated into a hazy aftermath of release. The fantasy lingered, leaving me to grapple with the enormity of what I had just experienced, and the deeper realization of the ritual yet to come.
I could do nothing then except pray for God's mercy on my filth and lust.
---
That night, as I stood beside Greg for the first time as his wife, I felt the weight of both expectation and dread pressing upon me. We had spoken little after the reception, each of us locked in private thoughts about the moment to come. Now, in the dim glow of the church's candles, I traced patterns in the lace of my gown, as though distracting myself from the reality of the eyes that would soon be upon us.
Greg reached for my hand, his fingers warm and steady. "We'll get through this together," he murmured, his voice low and full of quiet resolve.
I nodded, though I wasn't sure I believed him. Together, yes--but alone in the deepest sense. I felt exposed already, the ritual looming like a shadow over our union. What would they see in me when I stepped into the sanctuary before them? Would their gaze pierce through every layer of vulnerability I had tried to hide, stripping me down to nothing but fear and flesh?
Brother Jerome had warned us about this moment: the stillness of the witnesses, the weight of the sacred. "You must find strength in your sacrament," he had said. "The act is not just physical; it is a covenant, a revelation of your commitment to each other and to God."
