The Walk of Shame

Picture this: you’re frantically searching for your clothes on the floor of a foreign bedroom, ferreting amongst greasy pizza boxes and body odour infested garments.  A guy you barely know and only mildly remember is slumbering noisily on the bed, stark naked. After hastily redressing yourself in last night’s cigarette scented frock, you continue to furtively scan the dirty carpet for your underwear. Only, what colour knickers were you wearing last night anyway? The blue boy-legs? The pink thong? No, you’re pretty sure it was the purple lacy pair.  And there they are – half jammed underneath his sleeping cheek. Quietly cursing, you decide it would be far too risky to extract them, instead opting to go commando. Grabbing your shoes, you begin your stealthy exit.

You tiptoe through the filthy lounge room, out the front door, then down the communal apartment stairs that assault your sensitive nostrils with the stench of curry. Blessedly, you finally find yourself deposited outside, on the safety of the footpath. However, the feeling of relief is short-lived.  A car slowly ambles past, driven by an overweight balding man. He ogles your scantily covered cleavage and smiles conspiratorially, beeping the horn with a lecherous leer.

As you stumble along the street a sickening sense of dread washes over you as you quickly realise you have no idea where you are. The surrounding houses are unfamiliar, the street signs alien. With mounting horror you spy your reflection in the window of a parked car. Your once pristine make-up is now ungracefully smudged from a night spent fornicating, creating the unflattering illusion of two black eyes. Then there’s your hair; so colossally frizzy it could rival the afro of a young Michael Jackson.

Feeling a sudden wave of nausea, you turn and heave into an innocent rose bush planted in a front garden. Wiping your vomit-streaked mouth, you look up and catch the appalled and condemning eye of a blue-rinsed elderly lady on her way to early morning mass. Mortified, you scurry off down the footpath.

Does this sound familiar? Welcome, friend. You too have undertaken The Walk of Shame.

Whilst travelling home from an often regrettable One Night Stand, it is usually blaringly obvious to others that you are still out from the night before. This could involve wearing heels and a short skirt first thing in the morning, bed hair, smudged make up, stinking of cigarettes and alcohol, or in extreme cases, vomiting. Let’s face it, the Walk of Shame is rarely graceful and usually follows after an act of extreme looseness.

By no means is this observation intended in a judgemental fashion. God knows this angel has fallen from her cloud countless times.

Basically there is only one hard and fast rule when it comes to the Walk of Shame – the participant is filled with a deep humiliation over their predicament and often holds a misguided belief that they will never subject themselves to such degradation again.

But hey, rest assured we’ve all been there (unless you’re extremely religious or ugly). The aim of this blog to celebrate in our sexual mistakes, have a laugh, and most importantly, move on. All the stories published here are true. Many belong to my gorgeous liberal-minded friends, while some are of a more autobiographical nature.

And no, I’ll never tell which ones!