By Brett Krutzsch
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, June 30, 2008

The girl I loved married another man last summer. Their picturesque ceremony was on the lawn of a mansion overlooking the Manhattan skyline. I stood by her, as a bridesman.

"Do I have to wear a dress?" I questioned Sara after she asked me to be in her bridal party.

She laughed. Like the groomsmen, I would wear a navy suit, she said, but I would stand on her side.

Sara and I met five years ago at a recruitment dinner for prospective New York University graduate students. My plan was to spend the evening socializing with the professors who'd be deciding my admissions fate, but Sara had such an irresistible zeal that I spent the entire time chatting with her. We spoke often after that night and quickly fell in love.

I was her Will, she my Grace. We shared interests in theater, East Village wine bars and overpriced denim. When I had an emergency appendectomy, she was the first to show up at the hospital, even though she had the flu. We were both single and would go out to bars together. But she was a 26-year-old Jewish girl in Manhattan whose friends seemed to get engaged on a weekly basis. She didn't cruise for guys; she hunted for a husband.

Everything changed, though, after an Upper East Side party one late-October evening.

"I met the man I'm going to marry," Sara called to say at 8 a.m. that Saturday. His name was Ben, and he was sweet, cute and a really good dresser. Their first kiss was magical. "I know he's not gay!" she told me.

Ben was the stuff New York dating legends are made of. He was getting his doctorate in adolescent psychology, which meant he wasn't just going to be a Jewish doctor, he also liked kids. That information alone was enough to send Sara into ecstasy.

Three months after Sara began dating Ben, I nervously walked to the French bistro in the West Village to meet them for dinner. My mind raced: What if he didn't like me? Did she tell him I was gay and not competition? Was I competition? Will I be jealous when she leaves the restaurant with him, not me?

I stepped into the cafe and spotted them at a booth. When Ben stuck out his sweaty hand to greet me, I realized he was even more anxious than I was. His unease boosted my confidence: He was on trial here, not me. The conversation was awkward at first, but throughout dinner I was struck by how Ben looked at Sara like she was the most attractive and impressive woman. Clearly, Sara had found a man who liked her as much as I did, but also wanted her in a way I would not.

At home, I texted Sara so she wouldn't have to wait until morning for the verdict. "He's perfect," I wrote. I got into bed and wished I had someone at my side. In this supposed gay capital, my love life was nonexistent, and after an evening with my best friend and her boyfriend, I felt even more alone.

Ben proposed to Sara 2 1/2 years later, at the top of a cliff. When Sara called to tell me the news, she asked if I'd be a bridesmaid.

"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.