These Boots Weren’t Made For Walking

13 Nov
high and red heels on flickr!

flickr image by d u y g u

Whilst packing for a holiday with some friends to Cairns in Northern Queensland, my male flatmate cheekily flung a packet of condoms into my suitcase. Having previously lived in Cairns he proceeded to impart his knowledge of the typical tourist activities and happening night spots. Knowing I’d just broken up with my boyfriend of six months he suggested I visit a bar well renowned for its meat market status – The Woolshed. “If you can’t get a root at The Woolshed, you just can’t get a root,” he informed me with blunt honesty, solicitously tapping a finger against the box of condoms.

My first night in Cairns saw me dressing up in my favourite summer frock, carefully styling my hair and applying my make-up just so. However, the extreme humidity, ever present even after nightfall, ensured my hair was soon unflatteringly frizzy and my make-up already sliding from my sweaty face.

The first bar we visited hosted a large crowd of rowdy British backpackers. They were determinedly downing drink after drink, with some of the females uninhibitedly removing most of their clothes, fondling one another and gyrating suggestively on top of the bar. Surrounded by a sea of intoxicated backpackers, we soon learnt the only way to cope with the looseness stirring around us was to join in.

Heartily drinking an assortment of alcoholic beverages, I found my inhibitions rapidly dwindling. Soon I was posing for a photo with a delightful young Irishman proudly sporting a badge on the front of his t-shirt reading, ‘Can I lick your clit?’ I then found my throat burning as I partook in lick, sip and suck tequila shots with a charming group of Liverpudlian girls. Next my friends and I discovered ourselves being swallowed up in a boisterous group on their way to the infamous Woolshed.

Once inside the heaving bar, the explicit words of my flatmate floated back to me in an intoxicated haze and I understood instantly that he had spoken the truth. If you couldn’t get a root here, then you just couldn’t get a root. The club was pulsating with scantily clad patrons who were probably a lot less good looking than my drunken retinas were reporting. A six-drink voucher purchased by punters for twelve dollars on entry ensured everyone was inebriated, unreserved and having the most unhinged time of their young lives.

The wooden floors were soon soaked with spilled drinks and the tops of the tables covered in dancing party-goers. Whilst journeying through the pumping crowd on my way to the bar, my route was blocked by a tall, gorgeous looking blonde man. I don’t actually recall the details, but I assume pleasantries were exchanged before we locked lips in a slobbery, fervent fashion. Tim (I vaguely recall that may have been his name) from Melbourne took chivalry to dizzying romantic heights as he bought me drink after drink, gallantly refusing my proffered drink voucher. 

As the night wore on, I hazily noticed my friends had all paired up with potential suitors. When Tim asked if I’d like to go outside for a quick chat and a cigarette, I readily accepted, knowing full well neither of us had any intention of re-entering the tavern.

Sitting outside on a bench, we shared a cigarette and engaged in drunken conversation. Tim suggested we head back to his hotel room to watch some movies and I agreed, completely understanding that no movie-watching would actually take place.

We held hands throughout the taxi ride and once safely inside his luxurious hotel room we went at it with ferocious enthusiasm, knocking into furniture before quickly finding we had crashed our way out onto the balcony. Ripping each other’s clothes off, I paused briefly to admire his beautifully tall and sculpted physique, wishing I was sober enough to appreciate his stunning body with the wholehearted admiration it rightly deserved.

Grabbing his hand, I surprisingly had the sense to lead him inside the bedroom, away from potential prying eyes. I believe this is when the talking began. Dirty talk. And I do mean dirty. Despite my level of intoxication, I remember feeling mildly repulsed by the utterances escaping his lips and his tendency to drop the c-bomb when referring to my nether region. But in spite of his crude whisperings, which I am far too ladylike to repeat, my appreciation of his striking body, desire to forget my ex-boyfriend and being so drunk I was about to pass out, spurred me on.

It was as our coupling became more vigorous and I heard the headboard from the bed being partially ripped from the wall by his strong hands during a particularly passionate moment that I realised – he wasn’t wearing a condom.

With superhuman strength I pushed him off and instructed he put some protection on. No doubt thoroughly pissed-off, he began frantically ransacking his luggage, followed by the contents of the bathroom. Wild-eyed, naked and swaying drunkenly he told me he’d jog up the road to a service station. Hurriedly pulling some shorts on he sprinted out of the room.

Left alone in a darkened room, nestled within a comfy bed, I quickly drifted off to sleep. I was soon awoken by Tim, bursting into the room, clutching a box of condoms and noisily snacking on a large bag of Twisties. He rejoined me on the bed, half-heartedly attempting to fondle me. He rapidly began succumbing to his own encroaching exhaustion, snuggling up against me and drifting off to sleep. But not before informing me we would continue our hot and heavy session in the morning.

Waking a half hour or so later, the effects of the alcohol were beginning to wear off. I quickly began to reassess my awkward predicament with increasing clarity. I was stuck in a hotel room with a man I barely knew and whose name I was not entirely sure I remembered correctly. His long body was currently draped across mine, his mouth agape, giving way to earth-shatteringly loud snores. I had no intention of banging this guy’s brains out in a few hours time, our heads thumping with nauseating hangovers. And I certainly had no intention of letting this Man-God see my less than perfect, cellulite dimpled thighs in the unforgiving harsh light of day. No, there was only one obvious option at this point – I had to get the fuck out of there.

Silently slipping from the bed, I began the stealthy hunt for my clothes, littered around the floor of the room. I hurriedly dressed myself, praying his deafening snores would continue and I’d be able to sneak away unnoticed before he awoke. I located the telephone and found the name and number of a local cab company printed within the welcome booklet beside it. Speaking in a hushed whisper, I ordered a taxi and noiselessly exited the hotel room.

I found myself strolling amongst the manicured gardens and flowing fountains of the upmarket hotel grounds, feeling rather conspicuous in my little pink dress with the plunging neckline. I felt even more conspicuous as I sat at the gated entrance to the hotel, still waiting for my nonexistent taxi, the sky beginning to glow orange with the rising sun. I repeatedly rang the cab company, my calls becoming more and more panic stricken as the sky became lighter and lighter.

After an hour of waiting, my prepaid mobile phone credit had run out and still no cab had appeared. Dejectedly I swallowed my pride and decided to return to Tim’s room. After all, last night he had offered to give me a lift back to my hotel in his rental car.

As I attempted to open the communal front door that led to his section of the hotel I realised with a cold sense of dread that the door had locked on my way out. Pride held me back from buzzing his room. “Umm, hi Tim. Funny story – I actually tried to slip away unnoticed, but the cab I called didn’t turn up. Could you please let me back in and give me that ride home after all?” I think not.

Despondently, I finally accepted the only way I could return to my hotel would be to walk. Luckily my sense of direction is quite impressive, after being honed to perfection during my earlier years of backpacking and studying maps in Lonely Planet guidebooks. Somehow, throughout the sozzled cab ride only hours before, I’d managed to take note of the general direction we were headed and felt somewhat confident I’d be able to find the way back to my hotel. Only, I figured it would be a bit of a walk. Quite a long walk actually.

By this stage the sky was bright and I could see the sun rising higher. I had to begin the walk right then, before too many people were up and about. Attempting to make myself appear like less of a skank scampering home after performing illicit acts with a stranger, I stowed the high heels in my handbag and sloppily undertook the task of taming my huge frizzy sex-hair through tying the length of it in a knot.

Barefoot and on a mission, I strode off down the road. Initially, as I ambled along the deserted roadway, I managed to talk myself into a state of denial. There was absolutely nothing wrong and out of the ordinary with a girl walking barefoot along the footpath at the crack of dawn. It gets bloody hot in Cairns and I’m sure all the locals get around without footwear from time to time. And as for the dress, surely it could easily be mistaken for a breezy summer frock I had just chucked on that morning, despite the daring neckline suggestively teamed with a padded push-up bra. And I’m sure nobody would even notice the huge dark circles shrouding my eyes, the lashings of eye make-up now smeared all over my face, the large prominent dollar-sign that had been stamped onto the back of my hand upon entry into The Woolshed hours earlier, along with my inability to actually walk straight due to still being slightly intoxicated.

I wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all myself. As I turned a corner and found myself stumbling along a highway, cars zooming past, drivers craning their necks to stare, it was evident to all and sundry that I was undertaking the mothership Walk of Shame. I kept my head down and powered on, willing my tired legs to move faster, all the while trying to ignore the deafening sound of cars whizzing past. By this stage I had been walking, no, trekking, for over half an hour.

Looking up deflatedly, I spied a truck tootling down the road. A truck full of workmen. Workmen who were soon making loud suggestive hooting noises out of the window. The driver beeped the horn and flicked his tongue lasciviously in my direction. It was now official – I was in hell.

Blessedly I spied a quieter side street and ducked down it, willing my now painful feet and weary legs to carry me onwards. Rounding a corner, I caught a glimpse of the ocean and knew I was now on the homeward stretch. However, by no means was this part of the hike plain sailing. I was now sharing the footpath with many early morning joggers. I stuck out like a sore thumb amongst dozens of fitness fanatics in exercise attire.

After hiking for well over an hour, I spotted my hotel and nearly wept with joy. I stumbled towards my hotel room door, which was subsequently flung open by my very worried friend. “Been out for an early morning stroll?” she asked teasingly, as I dropped onto my bed with exhaustion.

I spent the best part of the day sleeping off the effects of alcohol, my sordid memories of the night before and the exhaustion of my unexpected morning walk.  I cursed the bountiful amounts of alcohol I had consumed. I cursed my apparent loose morals and inability to keep my legs together. I cursed my powerlessness in the wake of a handsome man. I cursed my overly effective push up bra for luring such a good looking male into my wayward clutches.

But despite my regrets, as I drank cocktails with my girlfriends that night, regaling them with all the squalid details of the night before and the seemingly never ending Walk of Shame – they laughed. And so did I. Heartily, I may add. The whole incident certainly wasn’t one of my proudest moments and there were blisters resident on the soles of my feet for a month or so afterwards. However, the memories were so ridiculously shameful, I had to laugh.

Far more therapeutic than crying.

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5 Responses to “These Boots Weren’t Made For Walking”

  1. StewieJT November 20, 2010 at 3:41 am #

    I know the Woolshed! I have to say I didn’t ‘pull’ as it was full of men and there were very few attractive women in the place! Just like many of the other backpacker bars up the east coast. There have to be better places than that in Cairns…

    • Dawn Dash November 20, 2010 at 1:38 pm #

      I managed to attach myself to an attractive specimen there. But then, I was wearing goon goggles, which often helps. Yes, there are some other lovely establishments in Cairns. There’s P.J O’Brien where we watched in fascinated horror as unaesthetically pleasing backpackers removed their clothes while dancing on the bar. Followed by two females practically giving each other cunnilingus on a table surrounded by repulsive men. Then there was Gilligans, where we witnessed a rather violent domestic between two slack-jawed locals.

  2. nickbrownonline November 29, 2010 at 4:15 am #

    hhaah thats awesssoome

  3. Heather December 7, 2010 at 7:02 am #

    I absolutely adored this story. I know it all too well – not the walk of shame part (not yet, anyway) – but that hate yourself feeling that comes with such a dastardly act of deprivation and debauchery. And then the feeling when you can laugh about it later and say, “You know what, it really wasn’t that bad.” At least you can keep telling yourself that until something worse comes along. lol

    • Dawn Dash December 7, 2010 at 5:38 pm #

      Yes, I can easily laugh about it now – two and a half years after the event. At the time I actually managed to delude myself into thinking the whole escapade was perfectly okay, until those disgusting workmen in the truck beeped their horn and carried on. That was when I knew with absolutely certainty that everyone was aware that I was doing the walk of shame. Mortifying! But I can definitely see the funny side – now!

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