The Front Runner

you can invite your friends."
    Billy and I were married on Sunday, May 8.
    Few straights can comprehend the gay's hunger for dignity and stability. I can't begin to explain what that little ceremony meant to us both. The first time I got married, it was because I had to, in a daze, to something I wasn't fitted for. For Billy, it was one of those dreamed-of moments when he was going to be out front, running free, attempting to lead a normal life.
    Our concept of a marriage ceremony in no way resembled the straight concept, although we did borrow a couple of features and brazenly put them to our own uses. After we did a lot of talking and analyzing, Billy realized that I did not see marriage as a ritual, a sacrament, any more than he did. This was why he was finally able to give in wholeheartedly.
    We saw it simply as a formal public declaration of our love for each other, of our belief in the beauty and worth of this love, of our intention to live together openly, of our rejections of heterosexuality. Neither
    of us was a blushing bride led to the altar. Neither of us was bound to obey, or to be the property of the other. We were two men, male in every sense of the word, and free. Yet in that very freedom we bound ourselves to each other in an equality of giving.
    Our final decision was that we didn't want even a gay minister, or a service identifiable with any church. We ourselves would be, not the ministers, but the makers of the declaration. So we ended up writing our own service.
    It was a fine warm afternoon. The campus was silent, most of the students and faculty gone for the weekend. We had not announced on campus that the wedding would take place, because we wanted to keep the affair quiet and small.
    Sentimentalist that I am, it seemed fitting that all nature was bursting into bloom that afternoon. All over the big lawn around the Prescotts' house, there were masses of pink, red and white azaleas. We assembled behind the house, by a border of late daffodils, near where several ancient apple trees were clouds of bloom.
    Everyone we cared for was there: John Sive, Delphine, Vince and Jacques, several friends from the GAA and Mattachine, Steve Goodnight and the Angel Gabriel, Aldo Franconi, Bruce Cayton, Betsy Heden, the team, a few other faculty runners and students who were favorites—about thirty people in all.
    Aldo's eyes popped out when he saw Delphine, who was wearing a long flowing chiffon dress with green flowers on it, and a large straw hat. He looked like he was going to the Queen of England's lawn party. "When do we throw the rice?" Aldo asked. But he gallantly stuck it out.
    We all sat on the grass, under one of the apple trees. They sat in a big circle around the two of us. Billy was wearing his brown velvet suit and ruffled shirt open at the neck, but he got hot so he took off the jacket. Jacques played some haunting medieval airs on his recorder.
    Then Billy and I, sitting side by side, read our little service. It consisted simply of quotes, each of us alter-
    nating. In his soft voice, Billy read from the teachings of Buddha. "There is only one law," he said, "and that is love. Only love can conquer death." Then I read from the Bible, mostly the Song of Songs.
    Our voices alternated in the silence, as the group sat unmoving, intent on us. We could feel their support and their caring.
    Then I put a heavy gold ring on Billy's finger. Looking at me steadily, he said the formal declaration.
    "I, William Sive, take you, Harlan Brown, as my man and my friend in body and soul. I will love and honor you for better and for worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, until death parts us."
    The magic of those old words (as amended by us) settled over the sitting circle. The only sound you could hear was a cardinal singing off in the woods. Billy put another gold ring on my finger, and I repeated the same words he had just said.
    Then we put our arms around each other, and kissed each other on the mouth. We held each other tightly for a few moments. It was the first time we'd ever dared do that in public.
    To my surprise, I heard a few muffled sobs break out around us. We drew apart, and saw tears on a number of faces. Aldo was shaking his head, as if he couldn't believe his eyes, but I could tell that he was moved and a little shaken.
    To break the tension, I said, "Don't tell me they cry at gay weddings too!"
    Everybody laughed. The weepers blew their noses. Vince sprang up in the apple tree