NONFICTION
How the Band CAKE Made Me Gay
Jessie Taylor
The CAKE song “Short Skirt/Long Jacket” played loudly from the bass-boosted car speakers when I had my first kiss. This is a terrible song to kiss someone to. The kiss was slimy on his part and chapped on my end. One second, I was chewing gum, and the next, spearmint was splatting onto the center console of his dad’s car.
John McCrea—lead singer of CAKE—continued to serenade us. “I want a girl with a short skirt and a loooooooooooong jacket.” Again, this is a terrible song to kiss someone to.
My first and only boyfriend and I talked about school, sports, and CAKE. Sometimes, we mentioned other things, but we always meandered our way back to the comforting whimsical whines of CAKE.
It had been decided, somewhere in the high school hierarchy of things that go unsaid but somehow push boys and girls together until they date. He was perfect for me. I was perfect for him. We were perfect for each other.
There’s a CAKE song called “Love You Madly.” I always played it when my boyfriend picked me up to drive us to school. He navigated the windy back roads while I sang to him under my breath. “I don’t want to fake it / I just want to make it.”
I can never pinpoint the moment when CAKE became less of his thing and more of our thing. Maybe it never really was our thing—maybe it still belongs to him, and that’s why he’s always in the back of my mind when I listen to any of their music.
It’s confusing because I really did like CAKE. I just don’t think I liked them the same way he did. I liked how their songs were bouncy and retro, with simple lyrics that were easy to sing along to. But he loved CAKE in a way I couldn’t quite replicate, no matter how hard I tried.
My mother had the biggest smile on her face for my first (and only) prom night. Standing there with her phone camera in portrait mode, snapping pictures of her doll-like girl and shining boyfriend.
One night at a church youth retreat, a youth pastor began to pass out small strips of parchment paper and number two pencils. “I want you to write down a sin you are struggling with on these, then go put them in that bowl at the front of the room.” I don’t remember what I wrote. Probably something stupid like ‘gossiping’—you never know who could be reading over your shoulder. When I got up to put my word in the metal bowl, I tried to squeeze the real ‘sin’ I wanted to write into the flimsy paper with my clenched fist, hoping my sweat and desperation would seep into it and God would realize how hard I was trying. I love him. I do not like girls. I can love him. God, I’m trying; please just help me. Help me love himhimhim. I walked back to my plastic folding chair beside my boyfriend and sat with my clammy hands under my thighs. He knocked his knee against mine as the youth pastor revealed a lighter and brought it to the paper piled high with our sins—he leaned into my side and quoted CAKE in my ear. “Sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell.” As the fire engulfed the parchment paper, I prayed I could be a sheep for once in my life.
When I broke up with my boyfriend, I imagine he listened to the song “Never There” by CAKE. I think the song “Never There” represents my presence as his girlfriend pretty well. I was never there, at least not really.
Jessie Taylor (she/her/hers) holds an M.A. in Writing and is passionate about creative nonfiction, lyrical horror, and glam rock. She is the founding editor-in-chief for the long-form literary journal, Last Syllable.