My Big Fag Freak Wedding

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Taking the plunge at Iguazu. (Photo by Selfie.)

My hubby and I got out of the city for two days to visit the Iguazu Falls. The world wonder contains a mind-boggling amount of water and biological diversity, bestowing immediate peace and tranquility to all visitors that haven’t seen Happy Together. We did all the touristy stuff there — leaned over the edges, took our shirts off for photo op’s in the spray, took a trick shot where I bend over and pretend the falls are my foamy, explosive diarrhea.

The place was overrun by school kids on field trips. One particular co-ed group of 6th graders couldn’t stop staring at us. They’d take turns looking over at us, then whisper and giggle, immediately growing silent if we looked their way. When one finally approached us, I assumed it was to say something snide and adolescent about the two fags traipsing around in the rainforest — I’ve not had good experience with tweens.

We made terse small talk, waiting for the insult to strike, until a second student came up to us, asking where in the states we were from. Then a third joined to ask what we thought of Obama. Then another and another. I spoke little Spanish and they little English, but the crowd kept growing and the questions kept getting cooler, and we all kept talking. We told the class our thoughts on Katy Perry and the Rolling Stones and One Direction and they told us where they were from, what they were studying and how they liked their trip.

We showed them our matching tattoos of our coonhound and they asked about the cats and birds inked into my forearms. The whole class had come up at this point. The questions were coming too fast to keep up with and we finally excused ourselves back to our hotel room after a prolonged round of hug and handshake exchanges with the future teachers, bankers, writers and politicians of Argentina.