I didn’t cook for Clay again after that night. Well, that’s not entirely true. I cooked, but only while he was there to supervise. We made meals together, but he ran the show. He’d tell me what to do (season the meat, bake the bread, whatever) and I did it, but I never cooked another full meal for him and he stopped eating crab cakes all together. He claimed the mere sight of them made him ill.
When my birthday rolled around about a month or so after the crab cake debacle, Clay told me he wanted to take me out for dinner to celebrate the occasion. We met for drinks and then had dinner at a restaurant downtown. After dinner, we were going to his apartment where I expected both s*x and cake, though not necessarily in that order. Throughout dinner, I’d been thinking about what kind of birthd
