No More Sex on the Beach, (Cake Doesn't Give a Fuck Part II).

We walk down the narrow trail under the stars, guided by his headlamp. The stairs are steep and while it is not a long trail, it is a bit tricky to discern between the shadows the light is throwing and the actual depth of the path. We finally get down to the beach and see the fire in the distance. His friends are there, all younger than us by about fifteen years, drinking tequila and stoking the fire. Fall mingles with the wind; there is a hint of a chill, but nothing more. I am happy to be on this adventure. 

"This is about accepting who you are based upon....you. This is about asking for what you want, or don't want, based upon....what you want...or...don't want."

We drink some beer then walk out onto the beach. It is low tide so we walk quite a ways out, until our shoes are muddy and we can barely see the fire near the shore line. If we stand in any place too long the mud sucks us down, goo sliding into our toes. The stars are bright and beautiful and we look up at them as he tries to point them out to me. We kiss, hold hands, and snuggle up to each other. He tells me that he loves my writing. He has read all of it, he says, and he is so happy that we can be casual and have sex and not worry about any misunderstandings. 

"It sounds a bit ridiculous; asking for things that you don't want, settling for things that you don't want, but we do it, I do it, all the time." 

We walk back to the fire holding hands and sit down. There is a young woman there insisting that I blow on her stick, then, insisting that I suck on it. She is clearly tripping on acid and her friends are trying to take care of her. She is young and soft-spoken and a bit of a mess; she reminds me of a much younger me and I am happy for that. As I look at the fire, I think what a perfect and relaxing day it has been. I look at the dude and think he is pretty cool to have read all my writing. I look at the fire, warming my muddy feet, wondering to myself what he will think about my most recent and awesome post about Cake.  The girl chatters on about her stick, everyone drinks tequila out of a skull, and the dude gets up to go to the bathroom. Then he falls down. He gets up, then he falls down again. He is stumbling drunk and for some reason, I have not noticed until now. I look around the fire, and no one seems to be too concerned, but I am, because the dude is my ride, and I am not stoked about trying to find the trail in the dark and walking home. I figure I will wait for him to sober up a bit.

"Because it makes the people around me more comfortable. I mean, when the people around me are comfortable, then I am comfortable, right?"

It gets to be late, about two a.m., and I decide to take a pee in the brush. When I come back from behind the tree, I see the dude, making out with tripper girl. Ugh. Fuck. What was shaping up to be at least a year of great casual sex has been violently flushed down the drain. After several minutes of weighing my options, (just leave and walk home, get his keys, take his car and leave his ass there, or make him take me), I decide that he is taking me home. I call him over, tell him I need him to take me home, and he sheepishly, drunkenly agrees. As we start to walk back to the trail he falls. He is still stupid drunk. He tells me that he didn't think that our "relationship" precluded him from hooking up with other chicks. I do my best to explain that this is true, except for when he takes me to a place as a date. I make sure to emphasize that I am stoked for him to have sex with other chicks, just not while I am on a date with him. He seems to get it.

"Even if I have to sacrifice just a little bit of who I truly am, just a little bit of what I value, it is worth it, so they will be more comfortable, so I will be more comfortable, right?"

We search for about a half hour, but cannot find the trail. He is still falling down drunk. I look up at the hill that stands between myself and the car, my feet muddy and wet, my sexual horizon recently stripped of hope, and I decide to bushwhack and drag his drunk ass with me. He follows me pretty well, falling down, sometimes falling on top of me, which for some reason strikes me as hysterical, and finally, after passing many abandoned druggie camp sites, we make it to the railroad tracks. As we walk along them, I ask him why he did it. His answer is simple and profound, "because I am fucked up." Oh yeah. I forgot. We are all fucked up and this is his version of that.

"If there is a moment in your day when you are thinking you might want to amend your habits, hold back expressing your point of view, or otherwise re-consider being all of your true self, remember, you are like cake."

As we arrive at my house, he apologizes. He says he is sorry for having acted the way that he did. I tell him that I appreciate it, that I accept it, and that I see this as a real loss. I tell him that this hurt, and that I liked him, and I had been looking forward to months of casual sex with him. But because he put me at risk, because he was grossly inconsiderate, our time together was over. He reacts to this news with surprise, but within moments settles into it. Then I say good-bye.

"And you don't give a fuck."

The very day that I wrote the post about cake, I had the opportunity to walk my talk. The thing is, I am like cake, but I do give a fuck. I care that I was treated poorly. I am sad that this person did not think enough of me or himself to act in a manner that was respectful, and I am mourning the loss of The Sex That Might Have Been. (TSTMHB). But I am also proud of myself for taking care of myself. I am proud that I did not have to cut him down and be cruel to him to take care of myself. And I am proud that I know that I will not tolerate this type of treatment. 

So I guess it is fine to be like cake, but it is also very nice to give a fuck. 

It is more human that way.

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