Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental, or because it’s genuinely funny.
Part One: The Cake
Chapter One: Cormac
Gazing at the seven-tiered white chocolate wedding cake adorned with spun sugar Freesia blossoms so spare, the feat of towering minimalist pastry made every bone in Cormac’s gay mid-century-modern-design-loving body ache in thrall. He wanted to cum all over the goddamn thing.
Behind him, J-Co gasped. Hovering nearby, the Latin pop diva’s team of handlers, stylists, assistants, pets, pet astrologists, and publicists held its collective breath as to whether this was a good gasp or a bad gasp.
It could go either way with the ultra-mercurial global sensation, Jimena Cortez—Jimena from the Barrio, the East LA mamacita and songstress of the people, now marrying into one of the country’s oldest robber baron Mayflower families—deep WASP royalty—was a Leo with a triple-med mood disorder she loved to talk about on Insta. The groom, nowhere to be seen in the entourage, one Brendon Stillman-Afton, a 38-year-old entertainment media conglomerate, and politics heir might as well be a goddamn Kennedy with equally thick, lustrous hair... minus the whole multigenerational death curse. And he couldn’t care less about the cake.
“Oh my god, Cormac… if you weren’t gay as fuck, I’d do you right now on top of this cake. We’d roll in it naked and lick buttercream off each other...