As I stumbled commando down the high street, knickers crumpled up in my bag, hair brushed with a fork, smelling like a pub carpet, smudged eye-liner making me resemble a big slutty panda- I wondered when will I do the last Walk Of Shame?
I like to think of myself as a throroughly modern, sexually liberated young woman, like Carrie Bradshaw except poorer and less equine. But somehow, if the options are walking guiltily through broad daylight in what is obviously last nights clothes OR lying in someone elses cummy bed sheets, watching T4 and peeling durex wrappers off me, then I think I may have to go into retirement.
This is not the soft focus humping that 90s RnB had promised me as a young pup. Fuck you Jodeci- you didn’t warn me about the intense paranoia that a dog passing by might smell the sex on me and try humping my leg, or the friendly face of the corner shop man falling into a smirk as he clocks the five Red Bulls and cornish pastie can only mean a night of boning OR the perils of sloppy re-dressing… it’s a TOOTHPASTE stain you big, staring prick.
None of this is a strong look for a young lady.
While friends settle comfortably into convenient and boring relationships or alternatively just accept lives of celibacy I’m still out there ploughing through the most inappropriate men I can find.
I imagine they see me- foul mouthed, check, rampant binge drinking, check, bad tattoos, check, screaming abuse at strangers in the street, check, probably has daddy issues, check, etc. – and think I’m ripe jump-off material.
At the time of humping everything is all gravy, you’re probably both shitfaced and it’s all a big lovely blur of drunken undressing and falling off the bed. But in the cold hard light of day, rolling over to see the mug of someone who’s asked ‘do you like my cock in you’ or perhaps crymaxed and said ‘that’s never happened to me before’ (LIES), makes me think that actually a four storey drop out of their flat wouldn’t hurt that much.
I think I would take hurling myself out of a window over morning awkwardness any day. In fact I would probably take murdering someone over awkwardness in any walk of life. See, I may look like an aggressive hispanic hooker with a hideous melting hangover face in the morning but why are they always shorter, less single and and have a dramatic wind problem the next day.
Yes, I’m sure the equivalent for blokes is women who flop over them and ask ‘whacha thinking?’ or feel the need to give them a run down of every single relationship they’ve had or that they got fiddled by their uncle as a child or summat.
Either way, male or female, rules need to be applied as damage control to soften the blow of that long, shameful walk home. So here’s my top five. I like making lists I do.
1- No morning humping unless your still drunk or will get some kind of decent breakfast in return. Otherwise cup of tea at the most and then out.
2- No showering. If you’re serious about escaping why prolong it with towel borrowing and hair drying. Smell very powerfully like a brothel? Too fucking bad.
3- No mentioning the spent condom stuck delicately to the windowsill. Play safe kids just don’t talk about it, ever, and I’ll politely ignore you disposing them.
4- You must always have some kind of appointment, meeting with a friend, driving lesson to get off to. Sobered up and desperately want to leave at 4am? You just remembered you have to walk a friends dog, that’s why, so stop asking me fucking questions.
5- Lastly the number swap- you haven’t mentioned it, I won’t mention it…you’re butters, I’m mentally unstable, let’s leave it at that. Don’t even bother bringing up Facebook.
All in all you’ll probably still feel like a filth wizard whatever damage limitation you take so until I find my Prince Charming (read: sugar daddy/ psychiatrist) I guess I have a couple more Walks of Shame ahead me.
