Always a Bridesmaid, Never the . . . Groom

"We're going to call you a bridesman," she said. Ben was thinking of having his sister stand on his side. She would be a groomsgirl. I immediately said yes but was nervous that the arrangement would divert attention from the couple on their big day. Weddings are stressful enough without explaining to elderly family members why a gay man is one of the bridesmaids.

My first act as a bridesman was to attend Sara's bachelorette party with 30 of her female friends and relatives. We played a drinking game to see who could best predict her responses to such questions as, "Would the bride-to-be rather win a pie-baking or a wet T-shirt contest?" As the lone man at the event, I offered to do a striptease, but Sara demurred. "I've seen you dance, and I've seen you in a Speedo," she said. No need to combine those two awkward images.

On the big day, the bridesmaids awoke at 6:30 to have their hair and makeup done. I got up at 8, showered, shaved, threw on my suit and was dressed and ready by 8:30. No one else was, and they squealed when I walked through the door of their suite. Sara's mom said I looked like I could be the groom. I smiled, but felt my breath catch. Perhaps being a bridesmaid was the closest a gay man could get to the altar. When I came out in college, people stopped asking if I wanted to get married or have children, as if those were no longer options for me.

During the ceremony, on a cool summer's day, as the rabbi recited ancient prayers, I vacillated between joy and self-pity. Sitting in the last row of chairs was Brad, my boyfriend of the past two years. Like Sara and Ben, we lived together, merged our finances and wanted kids. Our future, though, didn't seem as mapped out as theirs did. As the rabbi chanted Hebrew blessings, I remembered my mom's words the first time I fell in love with another man: This relationship probably won't last. Gay men in their 20s don't typically remain in committed partnerships. She wanted me to be a realist instead of a romantic, but her warning left me believing I'd have a life of solitude. Even though Brad and I were happy, I wondered if we would be one of the few gay couples to make it down the aisle.

When Ben placed the wedding band on Sara's finger, their symbol of an eternal connection, my friendship with Sara changed. For three years we had lived two blocks apart, but after the honeymoon they planned to move to the suburbs. Children and a mortgage would likely follow, and the distance between us would only grow. Yet, when Sara said her vows, I was overcome with delight, and my tears were happy ones. The day was her celebration, and I was touched to be included, honored to be her friend.

I thought I would be a trailblazer as bridesman, but no fuss was made. The photographer never mistakenly put me in line with the groomsmen, and not one guest asked what it felt like to be a bridesmaid. The liberal New York crowd, however, wasn't remotely fazed by my nontraditional role. They didn't even blink when Brad and I danced together at the reception.

The bride's first slow dance was with her groom, the second with her father. The third was with me. Before our song ended, Ben came up and put his hand on my shoulder. "I have to steal her away," he said. It was time for me to kiss my best friend farewell, but we weren't ready to let go.

Sara took only one hand off my waist and put it around Ben. I put my left arm around Ben's shoulders, and the three of us -- groom, bride, bridesman -- danced together in a little circle, our own mini hora.