Stride of (Very Little) Pride

26 Dec
Poo by kudumomo

flickr image by kudumomo

A short while ago, whilst gathering information for this blog, I asked a guy friend if any of his mates had divulged any humorous Walk of Shame stories lately. He peered back at me uncomprehendingly and asked, “What the fuck is a Walk of Shame?”

I’ll admit this surprised me, as I had assumed the saying to be universal amongst both genders. Obviously I realised that people’s precise definitions of the phrase varied to some degree, but I had never considered the term would be foreign to a sociable, popular, single male in his mid twenties.

Then a worrisome thought occurred to me: perhaps this is a phrase only commonly understood by women? Is it possible that only females are familiar with the actual concept of the Walk of Shame?

One explanation could be that males are much harder to spot when executing a Walk of Shame. Female Walk of Shamers are easy to recognise with their trademark tousled hair and smudged panda eyes. Couple that with typical female ‘going-out’ clothes, like a short cleavage-diving dress. Then there’s the high heels clutched in her hand as she walks barefoot, hoping for an empty cab to amble past at the unlikely hour of seven o’clock on a Sunday morning.

Alternatively, potential male Walk of Shamers leave a girl’s abode the next morning wearing their ‘going-out’ clothes, which more likely than not consist of jeans, a shirt and a pair of sneakers. There is absolutely no crazy sex-hair and smudged make-up in sight. Not exactly a conspicuous get-up that would draw unwanted attention from passerby. The lucky bastards.

Although males may prefer to think of the act as a ‘Stride of Pride’, it is my firm belief that the Walk of Shame is not solely experienced by females. I have no intention of launching into a long-winded, rambling discussion on equal sexual freedom for both genders, followed by a ‘studs’ and ‘sluts’ debate.

However, I do have a particularly atrocious male Walk of Shame tale to share with you.

The following story was disclosed by a New Zealander guy I encountered whilst travelling through Ireland a few years ago. My trip consisted of a five day bus tour of the country, before spending some time thrashing my liver in Dublin.

At the beginning of the tour, with twenty odd people crammed onto a bus, most of us strangers to each other, our tour guide decided to play a little ice-breaking game. The game involved each of us sharing our most embarrassing memory with the rest of the bus. The standard responses included accidentally walking in on people whilst they were showering, falling over awkwardly, along with drunken tales of abandon.

Before too long it was the New Zealander’s turn to divulge his story.

The bus full of travellers sat in stunned silence as the Kiwi told the disgusted audience that his friends had once burst in on him whilst wanking. As if the incident wasn’t embarrassing enough, he informed us that at the time of the confrontation he was sitting in front of the television watching Skippy. For those of you unfamiliar with this Australian television show, it is a fictional children’s program centred on the adventures of an innocent kangaroo.

He did however assure the shocked tour group that he wasn’t actually batting off to Skippy. He claimed that the screening of that particular program while he stroked him salami was merely a very unfortunate coincidence.

After the conclusion of the tour, I caught up with this brazen Kiwi for a few drinks in Dublin. Still shocked at his audacity to share such a story with a bus full of strangers, I questioned him on whether he had felt any embarrassment whilst doing so.

He flippantly replied that it wasn’t actually his most embarrassing story. With my persistent cajoling and several more pints I was finally treated to a particularly scandalous and abhorrent Walk of Shame tale.

At first he was hesitant to divulge his story. “You’ll lose all respect for me,” he whined.

Nearly choking on my drink I replied, “Trust me, I already have no respect for you. Now talk!”

The Kiwi began by telling me of a crush he had once had on one of his friend’s flatmates. He’d been eyeing off the lucky lady for quite some time. During a drinking session at his mate’s place one night, he drunkenly made a move on the object of his affection. He was then pleasantly surprised to find his advances reciprocated.

He told of how the beverages continued to flow freely and various alcoholic shots were downed, resulting in him and the flatmate drunkenly tumbling into bed together at the end of the night.

This is where my Kiwi friend’s memory of events becomes a little hazy. He knows they shagged. He assumes he was a pretty crap lay due to his supreme level of intoxication, but can only recall vague flashes of the act of coupling before passing out naked in her bed.

His next memory is of waking up during the wee hours of the morning with the overpowering need to defecate. Stumbling into the bathroom, he went about his business, before sleepily returning back to bed.

Hours later, with sunlight streaming into the room, he was awoken by his screaming companion. He groggily opened his eyes and peered down at the scene causing her distress. The bedclothes had been thrown back and his feet, her legs and the once white sheets were covered in a brownish reeking sludge.

His hungover mind quickly registered the drunken trip to the toilet a few hours previously. Abruptly sitting up, he sickeningly realised that rather than defecating into the toilet, he had instead drunkenly offloaded his faeces onto the bathroom floor. At this point, his hazy mind came to the sickening realisation that he must have then trodden through his own waste, before returning back bed.

By this stage, his companion was on her feet, ripping the sheets off the bed. She shrieked in disgust as she discovered the slimy footprints trekking backwards from her room to the brown reeking mess on the tiled bathroom floor.

Thinking quickly, he remembered the ancient pet cat in residence at the house. He promptly blamed the innocent feline for the repulsive mess, claiming he must have traipsed through it last night whilst drunk.

As he slinked off to the bathroom, side-stepping the mess on the floor and making his way to the shower, he heard his companion relaying the nauseating story to her flatmates who were drinking coffee in the kitchen. After washing his own faeces from his legs and feet and half-heartedly wiping at the mess on the floor with a wad of toilet paper, he opened the bathroom door. His companion was waiting in the hallway with a mop and a sour expression.

Mumbling a hurried farewell to the flatmates in the kitchen, my Kiwi friend exited the house as fast as humanly possible.

I’m unsure which ending to this story is the most disgusting. It could be that the elderly pet cat was apparently put down not long after the incident. Or perhaps the more repulsive outcome is that even after acquiring this knowledge, I still proceeded to spend an hour pashing him outside my Dublin hostel in the pouring rain.

My penance was a week spent suffering from tonsillitis.

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5 Responses to “Stride of (Very Little) Pride”

  1. Frank December 26, 2010 at 10:21 pm #

    Interesting story. I have to admit that I have never heard of the Walk of shame till I read your blog.

    Still, I wonder what this incident with that Kiwi taught you?

    • Dawn Dash December 27, 2010 at 10:45 am #

      Never heard of the Walk of Shame? Well, then, I’m glad I’m getting the word out there. You know, for someone who’s fairly intelligent on paper, it takes me a little while to learn important life lessons. Therefore the incident with the Kiwi taught me nothing more than pashing in the Dublin rain for one hour will give you tonsillitis!

      • Frank December 27, 2010 at 3:04 pm #

        At least you learned your lesson and got nothing worse than tonsillitis!

  2. newyorkcliche April 21, 2011 at 3:45 am #

    Well, his story certainly makes us all feel better about ourselves, doesn’t it!

    • Dawn Dash April 22, 2011 at 12:05 am #

      Yes, well… I imagine it would probably make me feel better if I hadn’t then spent the rest of the night pashing the guy who told me this story. In the rain. The result being tonsillitis. Not to mention a massive loss of dignity.

      Yes, I’m a class act!

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