The Boy Scout and the Hacker

The Wedding Planner - Chris

The Wedding Planner - Chris

The wedding date loomed. Sam hadn't asked about anything in some time. Had she lost interest? Had she somehow learned the secret? Or had she forgotten because everything was so busy?

David and Shay created a Gantt Chart to manage all the pieces of the wedding project and ensure that each milestone was met on time by the various contributors. This wedding was more complicated than a rocket launch due to its surprise nature.

The mother of the bride, Jackie, had dreamed this whole thing up and was responsible for communication, catering, and venue preparation. Secrecy was critical, so the save-the-date notices included threats of eternal damnation should anything regarding the wedding be revealed to Sam.

The invitation had a section labeled "Gift Requirements." At first glance, this seemed blatantly commercial until the fine print was read. In addition to standard non-disclosure disclaimers, the invitation stated that the reception would be a pot luck. A favorite family dish was to be the only gift from each attendee. Each gift must include the written recipe sealed in a labeled envelope for the happy couple's eyes only. Jackie did ask for serving needs so the caterers could supply appropriate appliances for heating or cooling.

Shay was in charge of wedding party apparel, most notably the bride's dress and my vest. In addition to making the dress, she had to get Sam into it faster than Superman in a phone booth. The rest of the wedding party received suggestions only--except for one demand: "You clash, and you are out of here!" Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. She trusted everyone to show good taste.

David had the easiest job. He was in charge of the rings once I had chosen and purchased them. My brother had an absent-minded professor vibe. When I said to Jen, "Make sure he doesn't screw up," it came from a place of deep affection.

The kids were in charge of keeping their excited little traps shut. "But I might explode!" exclaimed more than one.

Pastor Don was officiant and needed to be prepared to ad lib since we would have no rehearsal.

Philip handled the music though Jackie made sure her input was received loud and clear. "Yes, Jackie. No, Jackie." Poor Philip.

My biggest wedding job was to get Sam to the right place at the right time. If you are humming "I'm gettin' married in the morning," fromMy Fair Lady, you belong in this story. I had signed us up as volunteers at our church's regular Saturday Meals program serving food-insecure residents of the community. I made sure we weren't assigned anything sweaty. The service was to begin at 1:00 p.m., so at 12:45 I would summon my inner thespian and say, "Oh, I forgot something Thursday in the choir room. Can we quickly run up to fetch it?" I had no contingency plan if she said no. I would engage her attention as we traversed the rear of the darkened sanctuary so she wouldn't notice decorations and 150 people. After the "Surprise!" we would run upstairs to dress--in less than ten minutes.

Nearly every day, I called David or Shay or both. "Are we on schedule? Are there any glitches?" Initially, responses consisted of a pleasant, "Yes. Don't worry." Toward the big day, it was more like, "Get the hell off my back!" I had to control my own anxiety so Sam wouldn't detect anything unusual. It wasn't easy.

I alone held the keys to the third surprise. It was winter, and Canada usually had snow then. I found a secluded hideaway in the Laurentian Mountains and had the proprietor stock it with a grocery list of food, firewood, and snowshoes. I literally held the key to the small lavishly appointed geodesic dome. Four days of delicious seclusion and vigorous delights. I couldn't wait for Sam to see it.

Our wedding day arrived. All indications were that Sam was still in the dark. I made sure we had a long, relaxing shower before we headed to Saturday Lunch. When the congregation shouted, "Surprise!" the unflappable Samantha seemed flummoxed and at a loss for words--briefly. Sam recovered quickly with, "How did you know it was my birthday?" NowIwas flummoxed. Was this really her birthday? I had actually never asked, and it had never come up in conversation. Surely her mom would have told me. I started stuttering.

She laughed heartily. "I'm no dummy, dummy. It isn't my birthday, which you would know if you had ever bothered to ask. I was totally surprised, but I quickly caught on when I saw the decor at the front of the church and the red runner in the aisle. The cute dresses on my nieces were also a clue. This is the coolest idea ever! I love you, but I'm not dressed foranywedding, let alone my own.

I let out a sigh of relief. My plans were working. "Never fear. Shay and I have that covered. Shay, please escort Sam to her dressing room. I'll see you back down here in ten minutes."

As they headed off, Sam shouted, "Make it five! I don't want you to change your mind."

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Surprise! - Sam

Surprise! - Sam

That was way cool! Whoever heard of a surprise wedding? My mom came up with it, but Chris climbed onboard with a vengeance. I had planned nothing close to a wedding in my life, but my own trepidation about jumping into the deep end and cleverly putting it all in my mother's hands allowed the plan to work. My participation in Shay's wedding had been important to me but merely consisted of agreeing to the dress and showing up for the rehearsal and the wedding. Every mother wanted to control her daughter's wedding, and with two boys marrying before me, this was her only chance. I did it for her. Honest.

She was a perceptive mom and understood me better than I did myself. She clearly liked Chris, too, because she certainly gave him plenty of rope to hang himself with, and he tied it in a pretty bow.

After the initial shock and near heart attack of the congregation's shouted, "Surprise!" Shay hustled me to a room upstairs.

As soon as the door closed, she said "Strip!"In a church? Come on, surely you jest.Nevertheless, off came my sneakers, jeans, T-shirt, and socks.

"Everything!" Shay insisted. That was just so wrong. There must have been a biblical passage somewhere saying it wassowrong. I couldn't move, so Shay popped the clasp on my bra. As I frantically covered strategic top components, she yanked my holey underwear down. I didn't turn underwear into dust rags until it wouldn't function as underwear anymore. Whoa! I had three things to cover and only two hands.

She tossed me a pair ofverylacy,verywhite, andverysmall underpants and said, "Put these on. We only have four minutes left. Get moving!"

I followed orders. Shay then handed me a pair of white gaucho-style pants. I put them on. They reminded me of something. Right. She had made me a multicolored pair for the Night Ministry gala. When she handed me the soft white leather boots, I began to see a pattern and suspected Chris had commissioned this work.

I saw myself in the mirror in the Bride's Room and thought it was a sharp look. Topless might not fly, however. But something important was missing. "Where is my bra?"

Shay shoved what was obviously a Cossack blouse into my hands, again mirroring the June outfit that had started this whole wedding train. Short on time and getting no response to my previous question, I grabbed the top and pulled it over my head. "I'm to be a braless bride? Bitchin'!" As the blouse settled onto my hips, I panicked. Shay must have run out of time or material because my back was distinctly cool.

I did a twirl. I only had time for one, but I had to say I was hot! Shay was a genius. The blue embroidery was high impact. I knew where that open back concept had originated, too. Perhaps more risqué for church than the norm, but it wasourwedding. Screw 'em if they couldn't take a joke.

Shay hustled me out of the room and toward the stairs. She handed me the veil, which naturally coordinated perfectly with the outfit, and I put it on my head while walking. At the door to the sanctuary, she stopped me, quickly patted my hair, straightened the veil, and pronounced me, "Perfect." She gave me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, handed me some flowers, and sashayed down the aisle as Matron of Honor. The organ switched gears, rolling into Mendelsohn, and someone prodded me into the sanctuary. I heard oohs and aahs as my nieces spread petals over the path to the altar. I assumed I was supposed to walk down the aisle, though with no rehearsal, who knew? My dad came over and offered his arm, and down the aisle we went. Chris stood in his correct position in his tux, blue vest, and shined shoes, supported by David.

The next few minutes were a blur. Chris and I had written vows months ago, optimistically assuming we would be having a wedding... sometime. I didn't have mine with me. Surprise? But since I had made up the words, and it was from my heart, I remembered it well enough. We did the vow thing and the "I do" thing. Pastor Don pronounced us man and wife. I had kind of hoped he might do the "Mawwage" and "Wuv, twu wuv" bit fromPrincess Bride, but he treated it like a real marriage. I wrapped my arms around Chris's neck and embarked on a long--some might say inappropriate--kiss. Pastor Don belatedly said, "You may kiss the bride," and everyone laughed.

Off we went, headed toward some banquet hall or whatever for the reception. I was a bit surprised when Chris's car, sporting a "Just Married" sign and dragging tin cans, pulled into our own garage area. When we entered the house, we heard a second "Surprise!" I burst out laughing. A surprise wedding reception? Chris and Mom had outdone themselves.

It was an event to remember for everyone. Those who enjoyed a drink or three or five at a wedding reception might have been disappointed as they were only offered lots of milk and soft drinks to accompany the stacked brownie wedding "cake." The food was outstanding, and we would have the opportunity to replicate it again and again through the recipe gifts. Many of the recipes were "secret," never before shared with anyone. Generosity personified. Apparently, Mom had included a note in the invite to bring swimsuits and/or court clothing if desired. Based on the lines, we would have needed three courts and a full-sized pool to accommodate everyone in a timely fashion.

A great time was had by all, including Asta and Meggie. They were wonderfully well-behaved and friendly, so they never lacked for attention. By the time the party was over, we were exhausted and headed upstairs the minute the last guest cleared the door. My clothes were so comfortable, I could have slept in them, but Chris had other ideas. He didn't even allow me to wear the pretty panties to bed.

We woke up the next morning still virgins. Chris said, "Road trip!" and pulled two suitcases from the closet, heading downstairs to load the car. As he came back in to serve up some breakfast, it suddenly dawned on me. Surprise honeymoon! I suspected the destination would be secret until we got there, wherever "there" might be.

I didn't bother asking. I didn't care as long as we were together. Chris had contracted a cleaning service to return our home to pristine condition. With Mom supervising, I knew it would be done correctly. Maggie's girls were caring for the dogs, and I predicted they would start pestering their parents for one of their own as soon as we returned.

We got in the car and started driving on I-94. Five hours later, we crossed into Canada and kept driving through Toronto and Ottawa toward Mont Tremblant, according to the signs. After fourteen hours of driving, I spied a small geodesic dome ensconced in a forest. Chris walked to the door, punched some numbers in a keypad, and beckoned me out of the car. Ever the gentleman, he lifted me in his arms, got my boots off, carried me inside, and threw me on the bed. He brought in the suitcases and coats, started the gas fireplace, took off his boots, and jumped on top of me. We quickly removed the travel-worn clothes from our bodies, wrapped ourselves in a huge quilt, and sat there looking at the fire, the starry sky above us, and each other. Could life get any better?

Chris had planned ahead. He had hired someone to purchase groceries per his specifications and rent cross-country skis and snowshoes. Each day, we went out and played in the snow during the day, returning in late afternoon to find logs and kindling outside our door, ready for our evening fire. After a leisurely dinner, either at a truck stop or Chris-cooked, we relaxed, went to bed early, and did the stuff newlyweds do. To clarify, using rather crude description I had once overheard, we fucked like bunnies. That added a whole new dimension to our relationship.

We took our time deflowering me. Chris caressed every square inch of skin, particularly the boobs and butt. That caused a firming of flesh which I took advantage of, squeezing gently and pumping with no end point in mind. Chris then kissed everything in my chest area, concentrating on my rigid nipples. He did magical things with his lips and tongue, occasionally giving a nip with his teeth which cause me to yip and grab his ears to pull him tighter. Next he moved down to my belly. I was surprised how much that turned me on. Bellies aren't sexy, are they? Mine certainly was if you believed Chris.

His last stop, after a brief side trip to my thighs, was Pussy. While watching (educational) porn videos for an evening we had learned a few things about each other. Chris didnotwant Pussy to be bald. He loved the way my pubes held onto the aromas of my lubes. I could manicure them--minimally--if I chose. I learned that Chris was just right--thank you Goldilocks--in terms of size. I could not believe what some of those porn stars were packing. If I wanted that, I could rent a horse!

Chris's aversion to makeup, tatts, and metal was reinforced. Nearly every woman in porn turned him off, not on. Some of the boobs were so big, they would be kissing their knees when they reached 70. Chris is also a Goldilocks. Boobs and butts: not to large, not too small, just Samantha--me.

I was fairly terrified of actual intercourse. Chris worked my body with such love that Pussy was weeping with joy. As he gently rubbed his penis over my clit and moved slowly in the direction of my womb, I began relaxing and enjoying all the sensations running along my nervous system. A warmth enveloped my brain and I guided him to the right place. He figured it out and poked the head of his cock (we are talking about sex here, so let's use some language people will understand) just inside me. No panic, no pain. As he remained stationary, Pussy began requesting more, and another inch slid in. This was so easy and fun. Why was I afraid?

Oops. An obstacle prevented any further progress. Shit! I had forgotten that stupid membrane whose purpose I could not fathom. "Chris. What should we do?"

Chris replied, "We could call a doctor to come in and use a scalpel or I can just pretend it isn't there and break on through to the other side (The Doors, 1967)."

There were times when Chris isn't as sensitive to nuance as others without AS. Perhaps this was not the time for humor. "I want you all the way in, so do your worst. Yowch! You didn't give me a chance to change my mind. That hurt! It's getting better. It's starting to feel pretty good. Wahoo! I'm giving you free rein, cowboy."

So Chris had deflowered me. Such a quaint term. In any case, the nickname for his penis came into my head as my stupid hymen ruptured. Ironman. And thus he shall be called henceforth. I'm delirious and Chris is now fucking me like a bunny. Ironman began sending spurts of semen into Pussy and I had the orgasm to define orgasms. The sounds we made wouldn't be acceptable in civilized company, which is why we were in the woods.

During our stay, we revisited the above scenario uncountable times, but no more blood--except for a few minor scratches on Chris's back which he didn't complain about. As a wedding gift, I had used my artistic talents (remember the comments as I shopped for the facial identification software?) to create a calendar in which each Saturday has a drawing of a different Kama Sutra position. I chose 52 of the estimated 100-200 out there that seemed like fun and physically possible given my body. Chris got a kick out of it and said he fully intended to stick to the schedule, though he had no intention of limiting us to Saturdays.

So, we had a secluded honeymoon with no Daenzers, no Jakob, and no crime. Unfortunately, we couldn't afford any of these luxuries unless we earned money. As Maynard G. Krebs often said, "Work!?" Fun and games were over, and obligations beckoned.

During our courtship, he'd revealed why he didn't date much prior to meeting me and had many friends who were girls, but no girlfriends. His male friends told him he was weird because, although he could have any girl in his orbit, he had no romantic feelings for them and treated each one as a close friend. They accepted that relationship, valuing it more highly than the boyfriends that cycled in and out of their lives. Chris had never felt the stirrings of love lauded in poetry and song until he saw me across the room--or so he said. Now he was prepared to do whatever was necessary to have my love, and I didn't find that the least bit weird. And I didn't feel jealousy toward those female friends because I knew who he loved. Me!

Marriage was a new stage in my life. Why was it different from living together? Why did that simple "I do" make such a difference? I'll go out on a limb and state that we were now a single organism destined to remain that way for the rest of our lives.

We didn't need to marry to have children, and we wouldn't love them more because of a ring and a certificate. Both were merely symbols of commitment. Obviously, these were my musings, and I didn't doubt others felt differently and defined commitment differently. I only spoke for myself though I was pretty sure Chris and I were in sync.

I could code from anywhere, and my cozy office at home was so insulated from anything else going on in the building that nothing broke my concentration. Admittedly, Chris sometimes barged in and demanded a kiss or three and perhaps copped a feel, but I found that endearing. Especially if he brought cookies and ice-cold milk. Didn't bother me in the least. Everybody needed a break from their workday. He liked it, I liked it, no problemo.

It wouldn't surprise me if he stopped by even more often after I got pregnant. For some reason, guys loved it when their wife's boobs grew in preparation for a new baby. I hoped it wouldn't interfere with pickleball. I'd heard of one woman whose bowling game kept improving as she got bigger and bigger. Must have been something to do with counterbalance.

My AI project with Tyler Chemical was gaining momentum. I'd trained his chemists on how to add new data to more fully populate the database used to feed the AI logic. Like AI poetry, the results would not win awards soon. Skilled humans still beat AI most of the time, but in narrow, math-based disciplines with tons of data, AI was remarkable. Chemists' understanding of the raw material nuances that were difficult to express were critical still, but we programmers were gaining. I didn't want to put people out of their jobs, so I was hoping that the real chemists would always be needed to provide qualitative assessment and numerical data for the AI engine that was improving their productivity and accuracy.

I had taken up knitting. Most people hated untangling the yarn, but to me it was like programming. Follow the pathway to truth (or a straight piece of yarn). I expected I'd be knitting booties pretty soon since I was about to stop the pill, and we had discovered Sex with a capital S. Who knew it would be such an improvement over sex?