My first actual visit with a person on my journey to figure out who I was after Jenny died, was in El Cerrito, near Berkeley California. My old college buddy Fast Rob Meyer lived and was a chef at a restaurant there. He invited me to stay at his house, and we planned a camping trip for his first weekend off from work. My truck was set up for camping. Inside my self-built cap on the back, was everything needed for camping. Stove, tent, utensils, spices, cooler, and accoutrements of that sort. My dog Sabu, my fishin pole, my guitar. The essentials. Rob and I decided to go to Big Sur, and camp in the state campground around there. As the time approached, and we talked about the trip, one of us said, “Hey! There are a whole bunch of waitresses at the restaurant, why not invite a couple of them to accompany us, just to make it more fun?” Women always make a camping trip more fun.

So inspired, we made a poster to put up in the break room of the restaurant. It basically said, Babes Wanted. Fabulous Opportunity to Have a Fun Weekend Camping! We are looking for a couple of women who wish to be driven to an exotic nature filled spot in the mountains, and have two fun guys cook for them, entertain them with guitar and singing, and hike the trails there. No cost to you, you only have to want to have a fun weekend. Words to that effect. We put pictures of ourselves on the poster, and a map of where we were going, and when we would be leaving, and told them to talk to Rob if they were interested in more details.

Well, the poster generated a lot of gossip among the waitresses. Most of it was, “Oh, you guys just want to get laid” type of comments, which wasn’t true at all. We just wanted company. No amount of denying an ulterior motive made any headway, and when the weekend arrived, not one single woman was willing to go have fun with us. So, we went anyway. It was a fabulous weekend, the hiking was beautiful, Big Sur at sunrise was gorgeous, we ate like kings, swam in the ocean, and took lots of photos of the things we were doing.

On Sunday morning, Rob and I sat at the picnic table in our campsite, eating blueberry pancakes and drinking fresh squeezed orange juice, and hand ground Kona Coffee beans coffee, and we talked about the women’s reaction to our poster. It was puzzling. We both were low key, egalitarian guys, and felt that the sexual comments were unkind. And out of line. Was that what it all came down to? Did people think that we would resort to such a cheap ploy just to get laid? We guessed some men would do that, but neither Rob nor I were anything like that, and if you talked with us for 10 minutes, it would be obvious that we weren’t. Still, nobody had even asked much about the trip. We decided that one reason that no women had been interested in camping with us, was that they were uneasy with their sexuality. Granted, sexuality is a complicated subject, and making bold statements about it is not useful. But in the end, only the woman can say what she wants to do for herself. But still, the tension surrounding a simple invitation to go camping was a sad realization. The women seemed really uptight about something simple. That discussion gave rise to our idea to actually be upfront about the subject, and try again. When we got back to town, we made a new poster.

“Looking For a Woman Who is At ease With Her Own Sexuality”, the new poster said at the top, a sure attention getter. On the poster we addressed the issue that we were only looking for company, and not trying to convince anybody to do anything that they were not interested in doing. That truly, we would wait on the women hand and foot, and feed them well, and provide music and entertaining conversation. But we only were interested in women whose unresolved issues about their sexuality would not be a dynamic of the weekend. If, in fact, there was such a woman working there. About which I had doubts. We glued pictures from our last camping trip on the poster, showing us having fun at Big Sur, which we certainly had had, and eating yummy food (Rob was a chef, and I am a creative camp cook). This next trip would be to camp near Lake Tahoe up in the mountains. And free for those who were brave enough to come with us.

If you haven’t already guessed, make the sound of a basketball halftime buzzer right now. No takers. So we went to Lake Tahoe, and, of course, had a great time. When we got back a couple of the women at the restaurant asked us about the trip. We told them that they had missed out on an experience par excellence. And we went out and bought sweatshirts with the slogan on the front, and wore them when we were at the restaurant.

I wore that sweatshirt now and again, as I traveled around the country after Berkeley, and it generated some interesting conversations with those who were curious enough to ask me what it meant.

About a year after I was back in Austin, I went to the grocery store one night. It was cool, and I was wearing a sweatshirt. As I walked across the parking lot toward the store, a woman was walking toward me, reading my sweatshirt. I actually had not paid any attention to which sweatshirt I had slipped on when I left, but I could tell she was reading it, because she was staring at my chest, and her lips were moving. It always amazed me how people moved their lips as they read things. She walked right up to me.

The Woman: You think you gonna find you some women like that in the grocery store, hon?

Me: (realizing I had the famous sweatshirt on, and laughing) No, but I always have my eye out for a woman like that.

The Woman: Well, honey, I am at ease with my own sexuality, but I got me a husband, and he don’t leave me much time to run around with a man looking for me, like you are.

Me: (chuckling) My bad luck, I guess.

The Woman: I just come from the store, an I didn’t see no women like that when I was in there.

Me: Ok, good to know. I was beginning to believe that there is no such thing. And I need some cat food anyway.

Maybe it was the word “Babe” that was the issue.

Honesty is the best policy.  

Being at ease with your own sexuality matters.  .