The Gospel According to Marc:  

Since getting married in Canada, Floyd and I have received as many questions as congratulations. Questions like: "Did he get down on his knees to propose?" (Answer: "Yes, but he was already down there.") and "Did you exchange rings?" (Answer: "Do cock rings count?")

Everyone wants to know when the reception is and if we are registered. We’re holding out for the day we can legally marry in the U.S. Screw the candlesticks and cutlery, we want Social Security benefits. (But since we are still technically bachelors under U.S. law, we’re throwing ourselves a bachelor party.)

Reaction to our nuptials has been almost unanimously favorable. My Pilates teacher, for instance, said, "Congratulations. I wish it were me;" to which I replied, "I didn’t know you felt that way."

But then there was that little thing with the Pope and the President—perhaps you read about it. Do you think they were upset because we didn’t invite them?

And closer to home, my own sister-in-law informed me I wasn’t allowed to tell her kids I was married.

I told her to kiss my legally married ass.

There’s something about having the acknowledgment of a foreign government that’s made me refuse to take crap from anyone, particularly in my own family.

Speaking of kids, my friend Lisa let me know she wouldn’t be telling my five-year-old godson, Ian the Wonder Child, either. But that’s because Ian already thought we were married, a fact he revealed over Play-Doh in a recent conversation with his best friend Eli.

Ian began by announcing that when he grows up he intends to marry Maddie, the girl next door.

"Well," Eli said, "when I grow up I’m going to marry Cassidy."

Ian shook his head. "You can’t marry Cassidy. Cassidy’s your sister."

Eli looked disappointed. "But I don’t know any other girls I want to marry."

"You don’t have to marry a girl," Ian said. "You can marry a boy if you want."

"I can?"

"Yeah, my Uncle Marc and my Uncle Floyd are married to each other," he explained. "You can marry anybody you want—as long as they’re a person."

"Oh," replied Eli. And the two of them went back to their Play-Doh.

In some ways, Ian’s better adjusted to the idea than we are. For instance, at the end of our six-hour trip home from British Columbia I passed our exit and Floyd started getting pissy about it.

I reminded him that our marriage vows included a promise to be patient and understanding.

"That was in Canada," Floyd grumbled.

Like over-the-counter codeine and decriminalized marijuana, I guess those promises stop at the border.

Of course, our connubial bliss soon became tinged with melancholy at the news that Liza and David had separated, particularly since I lost the office pool by two weeks. (Note to Liza:

Please return the butter spreader I sent you.)

Surprisingly, some queer couples have been less than enthusiastic for us. In fact, some have even informed us (with just a whiff of superiority) that they don’t need marriage, as if Floyd and I were just insecure gay apologists starved for the approval of the heterosexual majority.

"Why do you want to take part in a bankrupt institution?" they ask.

Answer: A thousand reasons. 1,049 to be exact.

That’s the number of special rights automatically available to married heterosexuals. Rights like automatic inheritance of property, residency for foreign-born partners, and wrongful death benefits for survivors.

But as far as I’m concerned, the cruelest injustice of all is the issue of hospital visitation. Consider the case of Bill Flanigan, who was refused access to his dying partner by a Maryland hospital because they said he was not "family." His partner, Robert Daniel, died without Bill saying goodbye.

Flanigan and Daniel, residents of San Francisco, thought they were protected because they had a Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care Decisions and even registered as domestic partners in California. But that wasn’t good enough for the University of Maryland hospital.

The chance to comfort his dying partner is something Flanigan can never get back. "I have a huge hole in my heart and my soul," he said, "because I wasn’t allowed to be with Bobby when he needed me most."

As the life partner of a man with HIV, this is my absolute worst nightmare. For us, marriage is truly an issue of life and death.

You know the old joke: Marriage is a fine institution, but who wants to live in an institution? My answer is the same one I gave to my husband in Canada—I do.

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