Excerpts From My Romantic Fiction Novel About Me And The Cake Boss
I make my home deep in the freezing corner booth of a coffee shop nestled in the bloated, arrhythmic heart of Newark, New Jersey. It is my first time being out since the big break up, though you wouldn’t be able to tell from my attitude. I’m here for the same reason a lion waits in a field where buffaloes graze. Once I find that the time is right, I am going to catch myself a buffalo. But like, not to eat. I’m not gonna eat someone in this coffee shop.
I examine my buffaloes from the safety of my corner booth. First is the barista who is hot in a “used to poke fun at me in high school but never did something completely irredeemable so he’s probably better now” way. Sitting at a table out of my periphery is a visibly sweaty, out-of-shape man who probably has a lot of money, so he’s definitely on the table — both romantically and physically; his gut hangs out onto the table. Finally, I see a pathetic looking weasel glancing around the coffeeshop helplessly. I then realize that it is not another patron I am looking at, but rather myself. I have caught my reflection in a mirror positioned across the room. I now both look and feel pathetic.
Just as I’m about to give up my search, I feel a wave of coldness sweep over me. The bitter air in the corner spreads to my body like wildfire or a rumor that the barista would have spread about me in high school. I shiver, and seconds later, I feel a warm, comforting blanket placed over me. Only, it’s not a blanket at all — it’s an overcoat, and the warmth is emanating from the sheer amount of sweat the jacket is entrenched with.
From behind me, I hear, “Perhaps you needed a buddy to warm you up,” spoken in a thick Italian bravado. I picture the man of my dreams standing behind me: a tall, thin man with perfect facial hair and a bit of a dark side, but he knows how and when to have fun. As I open my eyes, I come to a haunting realization: my dream man is Waluigi. And as I turn to face the man behind me, I am equally haunted to learn that it is not Waluigi at all. In fact, he is the opposite of Waluigi.
Standing behind me is Buddy Valastro, the Cake Boss. He might not be the man I pictured, but the twinkle in his Cake Boss eyes leads me to believe he may still be my dream man.
The restaurant is dimly-lit, which prohibits Buddy from seeing the nerves broadcasted across my face. After all, it is my first date since the big breakup. For whatever reason, the restaurant has a jukebox, which Buddy spent roughly five minutes at when we first entered. It has played twelve Bruce Springsteen songs in a row, and each time Buddy has remarked, “You know, I’m the real boss!”
I never thought I’d find myself in a high-class restaurant in Newark, New Jersey, let alone while sitting across from the Cake Boss. But here I am, in a high-class restaurant in Newark, New Jersey sitting across from the Cake Boss. Along with Buddy, in front of me is a 12oz sirloin steak that is borderline-illegally unappetizing. Buddy’s sirloin, on the other hand, looks infinitely better than mine, perhaps because his is seasoned with the sweat that is rapidly falling from his forehead.
Although the food isn’t great, I couldn’t care less because the date itself more than makes up for it. Buddy even dressed up for the occasion! He dons an extremely large pair of blue jeans, perfectly complemented by one of those brown, interwoven belts that white men are evidently gifted after turning forty because I’ve never seen anyone else outside of that demographic wear them. Above the blue jeans is a Cake (the band) T-shirt circa 1997. When I asked him what his favorite Cake song was, he said “Who is Cake?”
The decades-old couch in my studio apartment has never felt more at home, perhaps because I’ve never been able to share it with the Cake Boss before. But there’s a first for everything, and my first sits in front of me, eyeing me up and down. I find myself smitten by the situation and I can’t help but eye him back. I am lusting for the Cake Boss.
“We had our dinner,” Buddy says with an unmistakable charm. “Perhaps you would like to have dessert now.”
His inherent Cake Boss suaveness is undeniable, and I find my admiration for him growing the longer he pierces through my eyes. Just as I’m about to respond to his invitation, he interjects: “What type of cakes do you have in here? Anything fun to make?” He quickly hops up from the couch and saunters to the kitchen.
I am crushed and embarrassed to learn that his innuendo was no innuendo at all — the man just loves cake.
After two years-worth of love and at least six, maybe seven years-worth of cake, I finally stand in a chapel ready to marry the man of my dreams. I gaze out at the crowd gathered here to watch us marry. I see my friends and family on my side, silently congratulating me through the smiles on their faces. I turn my gaze to Buddy’s side of the crowd, where his Cake Boss team takes up most of the seats. His wife and kids are there, too, and it’s crazy that they’re cool with this.
Finally, my gaze turns to the man I have every intention to marry. Our officiant asks me the most important question I have ever been asked: “Do you take Buddy Valastro, the Cake Boss, to be your lawfully-wedded husband?”
“I do.” I say with zero hesitation.
“You may kiss the boss.”
Our lips intertwine like the brown, interwoven belt that Buddy is wearing. Upon the completion of our perfect kiss, I take a deep look into Buddy’s eyes. He recaptures the look he gave me in my apartment after our first date. Only this time, I know for certain what we’re going to do: we’re going to cut into our wedding cake that he made. And then tonight, I am going to fuck the Cake Boss.