The Gospel According to Marc:  

With Bravo TV’s Boy Meets Boy on everyone’s mind, I’ve been wrestling with how to write about gay dating. Having been in a relationship since I was 20, I just don’t have a lot to say on the matter.

Instead I eloped to Canada.

My partner Floyd and I have waited 17 years to marry legally. So while the ink was still wet on British Columbia’s decision, we made a run for the border. You’d be amazed how easy it is. In fact, those of you ready to tie the knot might want to take notes. Got a pen? Good. Here goes.

First off, Floyd and I chose Victoria, BC because of its proximity to Portland and because it seemed appropriate to marry in a city named after a queen.

We were accompanied by our dear friend BoBo, who came along as the best man, maid of honor, and mother of the brides. The fairies arrived by ferry and we encountered little difficulty until customs confiscated our fruit. (Be forewarned: fruits can enter Canada to be married but not to be eaten.)

Upon arriving at the Empress Hotel, our gaydar immediately went off as we spied a well-groomed front desk clerk named Ashley. After we did the requisite probing (to find out if he was gay; get your minds out of the gutter) Ashley proved that there is indeed a Gay Mafia by arranging for an upgrade. With the help of a fast-talking clerk named Sureena, we ended up in a deluxe room with a fireplace, a turret and a view of the harbor.

Indeed, the entire staff at the Empress was extraordinarily supportive and, dare I say it, "empressive."

We dropped off our bags and immediately set about obtaining a marriage license. We had a choice of two locations, one on Menzies Street, the other just off Johnson. Given our fondness for Johnsons, we chose the latter. We figured nuptial-bound lesbians might want Menzies for themselves.

Gay marriage is so new that the BC government hasn’t even had time to update the forms yet, so one of us actually had to be listed as the bride. A nasty cat fight ensued.

Eventually Floyd conceded that it’s not a matter of who wants to be the bride, but who is the bride. I’m embarrassed to admit how happy this made me. If I were less hairy I’d have insisted on the white dress and the veil, too.

Then we called a Marriage Commissioner to arrange the ceremony. A Marriage Commissioner is a civil servant who performs weddings but, to me, it sounds like a character out of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. I imagine a chorus of men in periwigs singing, "Behold the Marriage Commissioner, a personage of noble rank and title" followed by a poncy little man parading in and singing a patter song ("I am the very model of a modern marriage commissioner"). Our Commish turned out to be a terrific guy named Bill Smith, a straight retiree who, appropriately enough, married us wearing a pink shirt.

We chose the grounds of British Columbia’s Legislature for our ceremony. This was partly our way of saying "thank you" to the BC government, but also because we wanted to raise awareness of same-sex marriage. We hoped that passing tourists would stop and ask what we were doing.

Be careful what you wish for.

You see, each of the television networks have reporters assigned to the legislature and, as soon as they found out what we were doing, they swarmed around us like we were

J Lo and Ben. It seems that not only were we the first gay couple from Oregon to marry in Canada, we were also the first gay couple ever to legally wed on the grounds of the legislature.

So, in addition to BoBo, Ashley, Sureena and Andrea (our waitress from the night before), our wedding was witnessed by four cameramen and, eventually, the entire Canadian television viewing public. Also present was Rich Coleman, the solicitor general of British Columbia (the equivalent of our attorney general), not to be confused with Gary Coleman of Different Strokes, who couldn’t make it.

Naturally, the Oregon media picked up the story when we returned. (I say naturally because we alerted them.) I was hoping they’d run our footage with the weather ("We’ve got a gay front coming in from Canada, followed by a red neck high pressure system…") but we got to see ourselves kissing on the eleven o’clock news. (No tongues. It was our wedding, for Chrissake.)

So I guess I did wind up writing about a gay reality show after all—my own. But if the creators of Boy Meets Boy were hoping to end with a televised gay wedding, I’ve got news for them—we beat them to it.

And that, my friends, is The Gospel According to Marc.