Lesbian Wedding Quotes

What a tiny life we’d live if we fashioned ourselves to the comforts of others.

I'm not having my wedding day spoiled by a couple of horny bridesmaids who can't decide whether they want to shag or throw up over each other.

Shame doesn't heal people if it did, we'd have a much healthier society.

We'd better get there soon," said Corwin. "They're probably building new streets in Paris right this minute." "What if I don't want to, being a lesbian?" Corwin fell silent; after a while he spoke. "So you think it might be permanent?

The problem with having a family made up of friends is that once they decided to leave, you didn’t run into them at weddings and funerals. Once they left, you never saw them again.

She was supportive, didn’t pry or expect anything from me, and sensed when I needed my space. If she were a guy, I’d probably date her. Or, if I were a lesbian. And if she were a lesbian. I guess we’d both have to be lesbians for that to work. Regardless, she made a pretty great friend.

I walked up to her, shoving her to the door, locking it as our lips collided. I felt my world spin as I remembered this from our college years. We made our way to the couch as she slipped her fingers to my back then slowly began unzipping my wedding gown. Paige Kinsley

Andi, I'm still head over heels in love with you. I want a chance at a life with you, just like I wanted a chance at a life those years ago. with you all I want to be there for all of it.

And no matter what closet we were thrown in, up what river we were sold for an embarrassment, or worse, traded for a bottle of gin-- we’d carry on in playful stitches, friends ‘til the end…which came sooner than wished.

They were married by a lesbian justice of the peace while their friends played a guitar-feedback-heavy version of the "Wedding March." The bride wore a white-fringed flapper dress and black spiked boots. The groom wore leather.

...the fact that Urdu was spoken by taxicab drivers; the presence, only two blocks from my East Village apartment, of a samosa- and channa-serving establishment called the Pak-Punjab Deli; the coincidence of crossing Fifth Avenue during a parade and hearing, from loudspeakers mounted on the South Asian Gay and Lesbian Association float, a song to which I had danced at my cousin’s wedding. In a subway car, my skin would typically fall in the middle of the colour spectrum. On street corners, tourists would ask me for directions. I was, in four and a half years, never an American; I was immediately a New Yorker.

What else would I find if I shelled them like a pomegranate, sucked away at their seeds until I’d torn the exhaustion from their bones? What other names were wedded to the belongings that kept them safe? If I peeled back the neck of their borrowed jacket, would I find their father’s bleeding penmanship? Could I somehow earn theirs on the faded tag of my favourite shoes?

Perhaps the most radical aspect of queer politics was its claim not only to transcend the homo/hetero boundary but to do so in such a way as to challenge the sexual regulation and repression of heterosexual desire, above all female desire. Queer politics, it was claimed, had a lot to teach those accustomed to the narrow confines of ‘male’ and ‘female’ heterosexual roles in relationships. The re-working of notions of monogamy and the send-up of marriage through queer weddings, the greater sexual adventurism, the rejection of the concept of gay men and lesbians as ‘victims’ in favour of assertiveness and redefinition, and the emphasis on the creation of more egalitarian relationships in the domestic, sexual and social spheres, were all cited as examples of how queer could contribute to a new sexual agenda of empowerment.

They argue that opposition to same-sex marriage is a deeply held religious belief, and withdrawing support, whether it’s by declining to photograph a gay wedding or refusing to hire a married lesbian woman, is a rightful expression of their faith. But the logic doesn’t extend beyond the LGBTQ issue: evangelicals aren’t out pushing for the right to discriminate against divorced couples, unrepentant gossips, or gluttons, all people in blatant violation of Christian tenets.

Like Manhattan? Yes, precisely! And that was one of the reasons why for me moving to New York felt- so unexpectedly- like coming home. But there were other reasons as well: the fact that Urdu was spoken by taxi cab drivers; the presence, only two blocks from my East Village apartment, of a samosa-and china-serving establishment called the Pak-Punjab Deli; the coincidence of crossing Fifth Avenue during a parade and hearing, from loudspeakers mounted on the South Asian Gay and Lesbian Association float, a song to which I had danced at my cousin's wedding. In a subway car, my skin would typically fall in the middle of the color spectrum. On street corners, tourists would ask me for directions. I was, in four and a half years, never an American; I was immediately a New Yorker. What? My voice is rising? You are right; I tend to become sentimental when I think of that city. It still occupies a place of great fondness in my heart, which is quite something, I must say, given the circumstances under which, after only eight months of residence, I would later depart.

Still dark. The Alpine hush is miles deep. The skylight over Holly’s bed is covered with snow, but now that the blizzard’s stopped I’m guessing the stars are out. I’d like to buy her a telescope. Could I send her one? From where? My body’s aching and floaty but my mind’s flicking through the last night and day, like a record collector flicking through a file of LPs. On the clock radio, a ghostly presenter named Antoine Tanguay is working through Nocturne Hour from three till four A.M. Like all the best DJs, Antoine Tanguay says almost nothing. I kiss Holly’s hair, but to my surprise she’s awake: “When did the wind die down?” “An hour ago. Like someone unplugged it.” “You’ve been awake a whole hour?” “My arm’s dead, but I didn’t want to disturb you.” “Idiot.” She lifts her body to tell me to slide out. I loop a long strand of her hair around my thumb and rub it on my lip. “I spoke out of turn last night. About your brother. Sorry.” “You’re forgiven.” She twangs my boxer shorts’ elastic. “Obviously. Maybe I needed to hear it.” I kiss her wound-up hair bundle, then uncoil it. “You wouldn’t have any ciggies left, perchance?” In the velvet dark, I see her smile: A blade of happiness slips between my ribs. “What?” “Use a word like ‘perchance’ in Gravesend, you’d get crucified on the Ebbsfleet roundabout for being a suspected Conservative voter. No cigarettes left, I’m ’fraid. I went out to buy some yesterday, but found a semiattractive stalker, who’d cleverly made himself homeless forty minutes before a whiteout, so I had to come back without any.” I trace her cheekbones. “Semiattractive? Cheeky moo.” She yawns an octave. “Hope we can dig a way out tomorrow.” “I hope we can’t. I like being snowed in with you.” “Yeah well, some of us have these job things. Günter’s expecting a full house. Flirty-flirty tourists want to party-party-party.” I bury my head in the crook of her bare shoulder. “No.” Her hand explores my shoulder blade. “No what?” “No, you can’t go to Le Croc tomorrow. Sorry. First, because now I’m your man, I forbid it.” Her sss-sss is a sort of laugh. “Second?” “Second, if you went, I’d have to gun down every male between twelve and ninety who dared speak to you, plus any lesbians too. That’s seventy-five percent of Le Croc’s clientele. Tomorrow’s headlines would all be BLOODBATH IN THE ALPS AND LAMB THE SLAUGHTERER, and the a vegetarian-pacifist type, I know you wouldn’t want any role in a massacre so you’d better shack up”—I kiss her nose, forehead, and temple—“with me all day.” She presses her ear to my ribs. “Have you heard your heart? It’s like Keith Moon in there. Seriously. Have I got off with a mutant?” The blanket’s slipped off her shoulder: I pull it back. We say nothing for a while. Antoine whispers in his radio studio, wherever it is, and plays John Cage’s In a Landscape. It unscrolls, meanderingly. “If time had a pause button,” I tell Holly Sykes, “I’d press it. Right”—I press a spot between her eyebrows and up a bit—“there. Now.” “But if you did that, the whole universe’d be frozen, even you, so you couldn’t press play to start time again. We’d be stuck forever.” I kiss her on the mouth and blood’s rushing everywhere. She murmurs, “You only value something if you know it’ll end.

Elane Photography’s owners were fined more than $6,000 for declining on religious grounds to photograph a same-sex commitment ceremony. A small family bakery was fined $135,000 for refusing to bake the wedding cake for a same-sex wedding. And seventy-year-old Barronelle Stutzman was sued for declining to make floral arrangements for a same-sex wedding.8 Stutzman, who has employed gays and lesbians since opening her store, had for ten years designed arrangements for the couple that sued her. Her only objection was to lending her artistic talents to their wedding celebration. Here

It is not surprising that efforts to keep gay, lesbian, and bisexual people in their place arise in the wedding context. Sexual orientation is a relational property; it’s about the sex or gender of the people with whom you have relationships or desire to have relationships. It manifests itself in the context of those relationships, and unless it manifests itself, would-be discriminators can’t target it.

Dearly beloved... The president’s daughter and Cameron Roberts faced each other, hands lightly clasped, eyes locked. I, Blair Allison Powell, take you, Cameron Reed Roberts, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children, and my wife. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and to stay with you, for all eternity. A willowy blonde stepped to Blair’s side, and Blair lifted a gleaming gold band from her palm. She lifted Cam’s left hand and slid the ring securely on her third nger. With this ring, I thee wed. Cameron Roberts’s gaze never wavered from Blair’s face, her voice ringing strong and clear. I, Cameron Reed Roberts, take you, Blair Allison Powell, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children, and my wife. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and to stay with you, for all eternity. Roberts accepted the matching ring from a young dark-haired woman who leaned on a plain wood cane, and slipped it onto Blair’s nger. With this ring, I thee wed. An anticipatory breath shuddered through the crowd. Six uniformed of cers, the Guard of Honor, stepped in sync to form a path from the proceedings area, facing one another in a line, white-gloved hands on shining saber hilts. By the power vested in me by the United States Army, the President of the United States, and the Commonwealth of... The three male and three female of cers drew their swords with a slick of steel, their blades raised and touching to form the Arch of Sabers. ...I pronounce you wed. The couple kissed, the crowd clapped...

The build-your-own-website program was child’s play to him, and before long we had a home page with photographs that changed every five seconds, starting with a full sanctuary that looked very racially diverse (taken the day we’d invited a nearby Baptist church to our worship service); followed by Amira officiating at a lesbian wedding; then a pan-racial group of laughing kids eating cupcakes (same Baptist church visiting day); a shot of Arroyo House foregrounded by orange trees, with the snow-covered San Gabriel Mountains behind; and last, a yoga class in the new chapel, ten human triangles in a downward facing dog.

I began to see the question of homosexuality in a new light. I couldn't shake the thought that if we applied the same pastoral consideration to gay people that we give to the divorced and remarried, we'd come up with something much different than the categorical exclusions from church and ministry that we have practiced.

So tortured about what? Why were we tortured? We were in love and life was a fast current swarming around our ankles, threatening to topple us into the wet part of the planet. It was intense, that's why we were tortured. It was enormous and exploding like that palm tree. Iris was my Yuri-G, my Delilah, my Stella Marie. Strong dark women you had to love with a strong dark heart the throbbed in gorgeous pain because love is terrible. I mean, ultimately. It would go away like a needle lifting from the vinyl at the end of the song, we knew this. The music would cease, one of us would die or else we'd just break up, and this drove us to drink from each other like two twelve-year-olds sneaking vodka from the liquor cabinet, trying to get it all down, trying to get as fucked up as possible before we got caught.

We’re living in an acquisitive capitalist society that is fundamentally anti-family and fundamentally uncomfortable with just enjoying being human. We’d rather shop than live, acquire than love and stare into a screen than hold each other. The pressure parents put on teenage kids to get into the “right schools” is stressful and cruel. So please forgive me while I preach a little about the joy of children and grandchildren, because plenty of sensible people will tell you to do anything but commit to love first and to career, money and possessions second. And this isn’t only about heterosexual love. Everything I’m ranting about here is just as true for gay men and lesbian women who are in love and who want children and who like me also want to put their relationships ahead of stuff, prestige and ego. So I have news for us all: it’s the entire cycle of life that counts. And that cycle is the only real “biological clock” that matters. Everything else is just a footnote.

No one has ever said that to me before, and I've certainly never said it to anyone...or imagined that I ever would. I thought love would make me weak. And I was right, because when you said it, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Christ, I'm rambling. What I'm trying to say is... I love you too.

I know the obvious things I love about her, but sometimes, I’ll just look at her and wonder how it all works. Like, what was it about her that drew me in? What was it about me that did the same for her? We’d both dated other women before, and the relationships hadn’t worked out. What makes this one different? There’s something there connecting us, but it’s like neither of us wants to ruin the mystery or reveal the magic.

Seeing Addy in a bikini that showed her figure perfectly it made Celeste so turned on. Hearing her laugh echoed in the distance then appearing beside her was Harley, it made her stomach churned feeling that Harley touching her, jealousy stirred inside her. Watching Addy walk her way made her smile seeing that Harley finally went away and she had her woman. “Babe, come on, let's go play in the water with the kids and Harley.” She called me babe, I am her woman...oh my goodness...Addy is wearing my wedding band on her hand. Addy is mine, all mine, this is so real! Addy sat on her lap brushing Celeste hair out of the way and then kissed her with such sweet cherry taste. Addy ended the kiss with a smile, Celeste just sat there unsure of what to do next. Celeste Rayne

My sister will not get Addy for long since I have done enough to prove my worth to Addy of how much I can satisfy her in every way. Harley wouldn't know how to please Addy the way she does and that will come in time before everything else gets involved like a wedding, children, and a big home that I am sure both of them will want. Celeste Rayne

From the dawn of time, the one irrefutably good thing about gay men and lesbians was that we didn’t force people to sit through our weddings. Even the most ardent of homophobes had to hand us that. We were the ones who toiled behind the scenes while straight people got married: the photographers and bakers and florists, working like Negro porters settling spoiled passengers into the whites-only section of the train.

I was so sure we’d be together ten years from then, [...], with the same bond as ever. We said lofty things like friends forever, that we’d be there at each other’s weddings, even though we were a thousand miles apart.

I took a second just taking her in this wild-eyed girl, untamed and free, who'd set me free too, lying in bed next to me with the snow drifting down out the window just past her, the world we'd dreamed of all those years being built around us, and I settled back into a smile, brushing that one loose hair back from her face.