I'm a wedding planner, and yeah - I'm sure your first thought was that movie. I get that all the time. Believe me, that story has nothing to do with this story. This one is sure as hell not going to make it to Hollywood.

I've been at this stuff a long time, starting with helping a friend from school keep her sanity when she got married and I found I had a knack for organizing things. It took a while to realize I could almost make a living by telling other people what to do, but that's how I pay my rent and keep myself fed. Since I probably could stand to lose a few pounds (who couldn't?) I guess that means I'm pretty good at it. I do have a part-time day job to fill in the cracks, though.

I've done some big affairs, but the one that this story is about is the biggest I've ever been involved with. 413 invited guests, glitzy Las Vegas ballroom, horse-drawn carriages (limos are so nouveau-riche!) gaggles of bridesmaids in hoop skirts and tiaras, groomsmen in cutaway tuxes, catered dinner, big band for dancing, if it was excessive it just wasn't enough for the bridal party. More like a coronation than a wedding. I had to draw the line at having Beefeaters line the way down the aisle for the bridal to procession, although those fuzzy hats would have been a nice touch.

I'm getting carried away, aren't I? Believe me, with this group it was just so easy to do.

So how did I end up involved with these people? My sister Bernadette (better known as Bernie) was the maid of honor for her childhood friend Irene, and I got the call moments after she got the call from Irene.

I'm Jules Martineau, by the way. Our father is a displaced Cajun seduced by all the oil money running around Texas, so the family is hung with French names. Dad insists my name should be spelled with that funny kind of 'é' the French use, but it's a major pain to type on a keyboard so I just use a regular old American 'e'. At least I didn't get tagged with Heloise like my youngest sister. She positively hates that name and goes by Helen.

I have to admit that while Irene is a pretty good kid, her family is batshit crazy. The entire family has been grazing on the locoweed for as long as I've known them, but that didn't stop Irene's grandfather from owning land with a fortune in oil under it.

As luck would have it, we lived next door to the family. We didn't have any land with oil under it, but dad made a pretty good living selling other people's land for them and taking a chunk of the profits. He still scratches his head that his son makes a living planning parties and weddings while his daughter makes her bread in construction. My sister is an artiste running a construction crane and her touch with a backhoe is so delicate she can clear a half-inch pipe in the ground without scratching it.

Anyway, about six months ago I got the call and we started planning Irene's wedding. Like most men, her intended Steve just shook his head and said 'whatever you want, dear' and left me to the tender mercies of Irene and her mother Stella.

Now Stella and Ron got hitched at a JP's office because Stella's father the oil tycoon didn't think Ron was good enough for his daughter at the time. Grandpa eventually changed his tune as Ron showed his expertise at increasing the family fortune, but it always bothered Stella she didn't have big wedding. You've probably guessed by now that Stella was determined to make up for that when her daughter got married.

Thus it came to pass that I was tasked with planning a Royal Wedding in Las Vegas with all of six month's notice. Money was no object, glitz, glamour and sheer spectacle were the goal. Like many crazy Americans, Stella was enamored of the British Royal Family, eagerly reading all those silly checkout line magazines that regularly announce the Queen Is Dying, Diana has risen from her grave or Harry and what's-her-name are divorcing and doing something scandalous. As far as I can tell it's all boilerplate and they insert a new scandal every couple of weeks. I really wonder just how many times Queen Lizzy can die before she really kicks off.

Naturally, with 413 guests there was no place in our town or anywhere nearby to hold the coronation - I mean wedding - so the idea of Las Vegas came rather naturally to Stella. Irene and Steve were perfectly happy to spend a week or two hanging around losing the family fortune and seeing the shows while waiting to say 'I do'. I designed some pretty sweet engraved invitations with a hint of a crown in the embossing. There was the standard Mr and Mrs so-and-so invite… and such, but I did throw a Royal We or two in the text just for the fun of it. They loved it.

Stella and I took a trip to Vegas and we found a place she liked for the whole shebang. I did have to talk her out of having an Elvis Impersonator perform the ceremony, though. I did find a sweet, elderly minister lady (Margaret by name - who knows if she's actually related to Elizabeth somehow) who looked a bit like the Queen. I took her aside and she got a kick out of me asking her to dress up like the actual Royal Personage for the ceremony. She has a lovely sense of humor, asking me if she should work a sword and scepter into the while thing. I told her it was left to her discretion.

I made a few phone calls to others I know in the area and visited various caterers, decorators, carriage suppliers and such, then spent a couple of weeks arranging everything by phone and Internet.

The tuxes, as usual, were easy - measure the dudes and put in an order. White silk with red piping, top hats (look - I just do what the customer wants, not what makes sense!) and shiny black boots. The bride and her mother went crazy with her gown, but I had no input. I say this because they decided the bridesmaids should be wearing fussy hoop skirts. I think Stella temporary transferred her allegiance from Lizzy to a Mexican Qinceanera celebration.

The girls looked pretty good, but I was afraid I was going to have to knock a hole in the wall of the room so they could all fit in the place. This was before the recent pandemic, but wearing those things the ladies didn't have to worry about social distancing. I wonder if such attire will come back into fashion if the pandemic keeps up?

Bernie made me come along with her to the fittings - something about if she had to suffer than I had to suffer with her. We're less than twelve months apart, we figure Dad must have been pretty randy when he got back from his occasional extended trips, and we were sometimes been mistaken for twins until Bernie developed a figure. I have to admit I'm a little bit jealous of her good looks, but I've been told we share the same features, especially since Bernie keeps her hair short because of her construction work. It gets in the way, or so she says.

No problem with the fittings, she looked spectacular in that dress and Irene was a vision. Bernie bitched that the silly tiara that Stella insisted she wear kept falling off her head since her hair was too short to keep it in place, but they discounted my suggestion that superglue would fix the problem. OK, I was jealous - growing up the only boy with two sisters they got all the attention and I was just there. Bernie the Princess - bitch, bitch bitch! This time I got to tell them what to do since I was the wedding planner.

A week before the wedding we four youngsters all headed for Vegas and settled in to have some fun. We had to give Irene and Steve some hassle about not seeing the bride before the wedding, but since they had been living together for a couple of years already they told us to buzz off.

I did take care of many last-minute details, but had plenty of time to play tourist, overeat at the casino restaurants, lose a bit of money gambling and watch some of the shows. We all had a great time.

It happened three days before the wedding. We decided that it was time to visit Hoover Dam and check it out. The place is pretty impressive and we took the big tour, marveling at the Art Deco touches and the sheer size of the place. We walked out on the new bridge to see the thing all at once and headed back to the hotel tired and happy.

We were stopped in the left turn lane on a corner somewhere just outside Vegas when I heard the siren, so I kept my foot on the brake and scanned to find where the noise was coming from. An ambulance was coming from the right with lights flashing and siren blaring, intent on crossing the street ahead of me. Just as the ambulance got into the intersection some damn fool cowboy in a rusty white pickup, complete with hound dog in the bed, plowed through the intersection and clobbered the ambulance. The Ambulance spun around and clobbered us, denting in the passenger side door and pinning Bernie in place. The good part was she passed out immediately, but the jaws of life had to cut her free. I assume they had to send another ambulance wherever this one was going but we had a couple of EMTs right on scene to take care of us. The rest of us were just shaken up but Bernie had a compound fracture of her right leg and required surgery to set it.

It was fortunate that the ambulance was on the way to another accident so there was no one to be injured all over again riding in the back. The cowboy in the pickup was drunk as a skunk - or maybe that should be a polecat since we were in the desert country - and got hauled off to the hoosegow after a doctor pronounced him healthy enough to be arrested. Miraculously, the hound dog just picked himself up and curled up in the shade and went to sleep. I have no idea what happened to the poor dog after that.

It was after ten when we dragged our sorry buts back to the hotel after filling in all kinds of police forms, insurance forms, medical forms, rental car forms and any other form some sucker shoved in front of our noses. Bernie was staying in the hospital at least overnight, Mom and Dad would be here the next day, as would Stella and Ray, to do whatever they could do. I just fell into bed and slept the sleep of the dead, thankful that I wasn't really dead after the accident.

Waking up the next morning was not a pleasant experience. The phrase shaken up sounds so benign after being in an automobile accident, but every joint in my body ached and I had these two purple bruises on the inside of my knees where my legs had snapped together. I fleetingly thought 'it's a damned good thing I don't wear mini-skirts' as I looked at them, but laughing at that thought hurt, too. I took a couple of aspirins from my travel kit and wandered down to the continental breakfast at the hotel. My fellow-travelers had already arrived, but they didn't look any more chipper than I felt. I croaked something more-or-less pleasant to them and found a bowl of cereal. Too much trouble to do the make-your-own waffle thing this morning.

"You check on Bernie yet, Jules?"

"Not yet. I feel like shit."

"I hope that asshole in the truck gets life in the pen. The pigpen, preferably."

"I hope he hurts as much as we do. If he doesn't let's find a mobster around here and hire someone to beat him up."

"Good idea. Think we can get away with it?"

"Nope, we'd miss the wedding if we were in jail."

"Shit! My maid-of-honor is going to miss the wedding!" cried Irene.

"Maybe Bernie will be out of the hospital in time."

"Right. Compound fracture, Jules. Big cast, no walking, and just how do you propose Bernie gets around in a wheelchair wearing that mega-skirt?"

"Never thought of that. We could maybe get some paint and paint her cast to match the dress color."

"Just like a man! Always an impractical suggestion."

"Hey! No insults, I'm just trying to be helpful."

"Helpful like a compound fracture before a wedding."

"Maybe we should go and visit her. She might have a good idea."

"It's obvious you don’t!"

"Alright already! Forget I said anything! Oh shit!"

"You keep saying that."

"You just reminded me - compound fracture, cast, wheelchair. She's not going to fit in the replacement rental, is she?"

"Oh shit is right! What are we going to do?"

"Fire up the laptop and start searching van rentals, I guess."

Would you believe there were several places that rented wheelchair vans in Vegas? We even got lucky and there was one available right away, not something that happens every day. I guess we used up our bad luck quotient by having a car wreck and a broken leg.

"You OK, Bernie? You look like you've been smoking something real good."

"No smoking in the hospital. They got me full of happy juice. I hurt, but I don't care."

"And all I've got is some stinking aspirin."

"Poor baby. You can have my leg and then they'll give you my happy juice."

"Not a good trade, sis. When are they going to spring you?"

"This afternoon if nothing goes wrong. In time for the wedding, for all the good it will do. I sure as hell aren't going to fit my dress any longer."

"We were hoping you could come up with a brilliant idea, we've kinda struck out."

"I have one, but I don't think you'll like it."

"Why not?"

"Well, you brought up baseball talking about strikeouts. We could maybe get a pinch-hitter."

"But I want you to be my maid-of-honor, Bernie!" wailed Irene.

"I'm sidelined with injuries, Irene, but we could send in my twin."

"What?"

"We can ask Julie to step in for me."

Oh shit!

"What the hell are you talking about, girl?" queried Irene.

"Julie and I used to play dress-up until not that long ago. My little sister Julie could still fit into my dresses even if she didn't bring any of her own."

Double shit! Irene and Steve were staring at me.

"You mean… like…"

Words failed her, but not Bernie.

"He cleans up pretty good, Irene.

"You're kidding," Steve sounded like he was ready to fall over.

"I should have known better than to ask my sister for her help. I really should by this time."

"Don't give me any bull, Julie. I know you were out clubbing a couple of weeks ago."

"Well away from home, sister. Places where nobody knows either Jules or Julie."

"What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas, or so they say."

"With only 413 people who will figure out who I am. Two of which are Stella and Ray. You really want to go to their funerals before these two get a chance to say 'I do' to each other?

"Irene? Any heart problems with your parents? Shortness of breath? High blood pressure? Homophobia? Transphobia?"

"Just what the hell are you two on about?"

"I'm a crossdresser. I wear women's clothes. Well away from home and people who know me, dammit! And my big sister just outed me."

"And about time, too. And don't tell me you haven't been drooling over my dress. Why do you think I invited you to the fittings, little sister?"

"You could have picked a better place than your hospital room to do it."

"I figured if you dropped dead from embarrassment we could just throw you on a gurney and take you to the morgue. Efficient, eh?"

"Are you two done bickering?" asked Irene.

"We have not begun to quibble!" crowed Bernie. "Now she's going to whine her clothes are all back home and she won't wear my bra and panties."

"Panties hell! I don't even have my falsies or my gaff."

"What the fuck is a gaff?" Steve asked in a small voice.

"Hides you prick and balls." I supplied. "Uncomfortable as hell, too."

"Not necessary with a skirt as wide as the Queen Mary, and if you can't find all the enhancements you need in a town like Vegas you're just not looking hard enough!" crowed my traitorous sister.

"The skirt may fit an ocean liner, but the bodice is damned skimpy. You going to finance a pair of falsies that will let me show as much acreage as you do in that dress?"

"Get out your damn phone and find a place that sells the good stuff, Julie. I've got you covered."

"The problem, sister mine, is that I'd be rather uncovered with that bodice."

Just then the doctor entered, putting an end to my embarrassment, at least temporarily. Bernie was checked and pronounced fit to leave, after a suitable detour to the hospital pharmacy for some happy pills. Me? I wasn't sure whether to be happy or scandalized that Bernie had outed me to Irene and Steve.

But to be the maid-of-honor in a wedding? It just might be worth it!

We must have been a sight transferring Bernie from the hospital chair to the one that came with the van, then loading the chair into the van and figuring how to lock it in place. Good thing the guy from the hospital was there to show us how or Bernie might still be sitting there yet.

When we were settled in I consulted Google Maps and headed to a place that said they could supply my needs as Julie. Actually, I rather looked forward to sticking Bernie with the bill for a pair of really good prosthetics, along with the glue and makeup and whatnot to be able to show the world my cleavage.

I was not, however, looking forward to showing my parents my cleavage. Sure they knew I played dress-up, but the few times they've met Julie I was carefully and conservatively dressed. Stella and Ray's health status was not the only things on my mind that morning.

Poor Steve and Irene, they just plain didn't know what to do as the friendly salespeople fitted me with forms and the accouterments. The discussion got a bit technical as to just what I needed and how I was going to be dressed and how much other people could see. When we debated cup size poor Steve practically feinted on the spot. Since I was going to wear Bernie's dress and she's a D cup, the answer was obvious.

The devil in me couldn't help but ask if he was interested in being fitted himself. Not the kind of question most grooms were accustomed to be asked before a wedding, I suppose.

 

Where had the day gone? Rental agency, hospital, boob shopping - and we hadn't even gotten me any underwear and some street clothes to wear until it was time to change for the wedding. Oh yeah, I needed some makeup and shoes, too. Bernie and I are pretty much the same clothing size, but I have bigger feet.

The parents texted us that they had arrived sometime in the afternoon, but we were in a pre-wedding shopping frenzy. They weren't happy that they couldn't see Bernie as soon as they arrived, but Bernie assured them she was recovering well and we had things that needed to be done before the wedding, things that had been screwed up due to the accident. I was damned well going to leave it to her to explain.

We dragged into the hotel in time to go out to dinner with both sets of parents, and had the fun of trying to get Bernie a place to sit where her leg wasn't sticking out or resting in someone's lap. She was showing some fatigue and the happy pills were starting to wear off, my big sister can sometimes overestimate her resources. She did wait until we had all eaten to spring her little surprise, and it's a good thing we were in a public dining room so that the explosion was contained.

Somehow the assurances by all four of the younger set were received with some incredulity. That's a nice way of saying they were pissed and not trying to scream "How can you do this to your mother?"

Hey - I left it all to Bernie, who again pleaded fatigue and went to her room. Coward, I still had to explain the whole thing again when we got up to the rooms.

The next morning I arose early and it was Julie who came down to breakfast. It may have cost me some sleep and Bernie some serious money, but the new forms were a delight. I loved them! I guess I'll chop off a few years in purgatory for Bernie since they were so nice. Not that Bernie won't go straight to hell for her other sins, but I was prepared to be generous.

In deference to my bruised knees I wore a full, ankle length skirt in a summer print, three inch heels that would have been very flattering to my legs if they could be seen and even pantyhose. My pale green blouse was not terribly low cut, but there was no doubt that I had two separate breasts with a valley between them. I figured I should take it as slowly as I could to prepare them for the bridesmaid's outfit.

I wheeled Bernie into the dining room and I think Stella and Ray thought I was a hotel employee at first. When I sat down next to my folks and introduced myself as their daughter Julie it was all I could hope for. Nobody grabbed their chests and keeled over but their jaws did drop. A good thing we all had another day to get used to my revised self before the wedding.

By the end of the day the parents had stopped staring at me with a blank look whenever they thought I wasn't looking. The details of the wedding helped keep everyone busy. As the official wedding planner I was able to issue orders and assign tasks to keep everyone busy. The first time I went into the ladies room with my mother was kind of strange, but we managed. We even had time for a bit of touristing, and were ready for bed early with the big day coming up in the morning.

Actually, having the van was a big help, there was a lot of stuff to be taken to the wedding venue. As Julie, I found the staff was perfectly happy to provide services that Jules wouldn't have gotten. One of the reasons I enjoy presenting as Julie.

At last everything was ready and we adjourned to the dressing room to change. Mom and Stella were almost cool by this time, but I did wear a gaff just to prevent any problems when we put on those ridiculous outfits. There is no way you can dress yourself in a hoop skirt, so we all helped each other. When Irene put the tiara on my head she called me her princess and kissed me on the cheek.

I was introduced as Irene's friend Julie who stepped into the breach when Bernie broke her leg. No hassle, no questions, and I looked fabulous in Bernie's dress. I may have to reconsider this whole dual identity thing.

After the wedding - never make decisions when you're high.

 

Our Queen impersonator was great, looking just like the pictures of Elisabeth in the checkout magazines, except that she was smiling and not grimacing like those charlatans like to show her. She even referred to the Royal Court accompanying the bride, with Princess Julie attending. That was pretty cool, even if I was ready to bolt when Bernie first proposed the idea.

So that's about it - I danced with a whole bunch of guys at the reception, thanked Irene for letting me be Bernie's substitute and had a grand time. Julie was the one to drive Bernie back to Texas, since she obviously couldn't fit in an airline seat. My boss at my day job was very understanding when I asked for the time off to drive my wounded sister home, so Princess Julie was able to have an extended reign.

I may have to do some serious thinking, once a Princess, always a princess, they say.