The Walk of Shame

At the ripe old age of 49, I don’t go out quite like a used to.  I’m perfectly content to stay at home on a Saturday night and enjoy my own company.  But every so often, it’s nice to get out and commune with other human beings.  Lately, I haven’t been doing enough of this.

But l recently corrected that..

I like going to British pubs.  Brits are interesting.  Canadians, too.    These are men old who while old enough to know better, don jerseys of their favorite soccer and rugby teams to watch their teams play and engage in rampant hooliganism.  I like watching them watch their version of football.   Doing so satiates my Anglophilic nature.   Plus, I like my brand of football, too and and that night,  the University of Texas Longhorns were playing Colorado and I wanted to watch the game with like-minded burnt orange bloods.

My friend Martha and I sat at the bar getting tipsy on domestic beer and watched the Horns play solid college ball.  By late in the third quarter when the game was firmly secured in the “W” column for Texas,  I started people watching and I noticed there were  “hetero hookups” happening all around me.

You know, precursors to that horrible, nasty, carnally-based and vile concept known as “the one night stand”.

It had been a good many years since I’d gone into a bar, met a guy that I thought was cute and knew about Kafka, and then proceeded to engage in various and sordid drunken antics with said guy that almost always resulted in my swearing off men, alcohol, sex and the word “Yes” from my vocabulary.   I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m all too familiar with those walks of shame.   Drives of shame, too.  Both are long and painful–exacerbated by the one/two punch that is a throbbing, morning after headache and of course, panic-inducing guilt.

Thanks Mother,  the Catholic church and my paternal connection to Judaism.   You see, I’m Jewlic….or a Cathwish.  Mother is ridiculously Anglo as is my surname, but I was raised Catholic, as you might imagine, Now,  Talmudically, I don’t exist because correct me if I’m wrong Tatyana, but the mother’s side is what determines direct linear descendancy within Judaism, does it not? 

Anyway, I remember these hook ups very well, but as I said, it’s been years since I’ve made that dreaded trek, so when I see hook ups happening all around me, it’s interesting to watch how it plays out.

The night starts out innocently enough.  Two people, in a sea of humanity crammed in a pub, see each other from across the room.  Strangers, but only temporarily.  Wafting pheromones and over-productive glands in dire need of satiation provide encouragement and incentive to correct that social snafu.

He sees her; he’s noticed that she’s noticed him.  Apparently, they both like what they see; smiles are exchanged.  He sizes her up; she likes his build.   He notices that she’s not with a male; just with female friends. She notices he’s not wearing a ring.

Good sign, they think to themselves.

He takes a gulp of fermented ambition and makes his move.  She sits at the bar, knowing full well what’s about to happen next.  She takes a sip of her Dirty Martini.

And then “the conversation” commences:



HIM: I saw you from across the bar and just had to come over and say hello

HER: I saw you, too.  You’re cute.

HIM: Thanks.  You’re pretty cute yourself.  So, do you like football?

HER: Oh yeah.  Never miss a game.

HIM: Wow, that’s so cool!!  You’re cute and you like football.  Not many of you around.  I really like a woman who like sports.

HER:  Well, that’s me alright.  I love football; know all about it, too.  By the way, what inning is it?

On that note, he orders her several more drinks and by the fourth “inning”, he decides that’s ALSO his intention before the night is over.  

You know…inning.  As in her.

One more dry martini arrives which means ANY question asked, she will answer affirmatively.  But she’s getting silly drunk; obnoxious and he starts to question his judgement.   “But she’s so hot!”, he thinks to himself.  “Dumb as a stump, but I’d still tap that.  I just wish I could put a paper bag over her brain!!!” 

So, I woke up the next morning wondering how many of the canoodlers I watched the night before were also waking up but in strange beds with even stranger people.   I decided to Google “one night stands” and more than a few interesting things popped up on my screen.  I’d like to present to you now some lyrical homages to the dreaded one night stand and the long, long “walk of shame” home the next morning.

The content of these videos might seem incredibly familiar to many of you.   That’s why I encourage you to enjoy what you’re about to view.   The music is catchy and and the videos are relatively cute and based on the skeezes I saw in them, I’d say they’re probably communicable, too.



  1. Yes, I’m well aware of that exit strategy.

    There’s also the “through the sliding glass door in the back den and out the back yard when the girlfriend he told you he didn’t have decides to come over… 5:48 in the morning run/walk of shame.

    There’s the “hurry up and get in the closet and take your shit with you. My girlfriend just pulled up. It’s 5:48 in the goddamned morning and she’s here and has a key. Now get in there and keep quiet “tiptoe of shame” into the nearest closet or laundry basket. And uh, I’d really try to avoid that one.

    God, I know them all.


  2. Oh, good one! I too once did the closet “hide of shame”. That time a big, angry, violent boyfriend (that I didn’t know existed) was pounding on the front door.

  3. How about the “push of shame” when you take your car out of gear and push it a block down the street before starting it? Often, the “hide of shame” and “climb of shame” precede it.

  4. Yeah, I know that one too.

    I also know the shame of mercifully waking up before him. You look over at this stranger (that gives you three seconds to question your drunken judgement. Then, the girlfriend he claimed he never had is pulling into the front drive way. She’s in her very loud Glass Packed 2003 purple Mustang with Hijacker Headers. The automotive equivalent of a wife beater shirt) and you notice he’s snoring; sleeping with his mouth open, drool puddling and looking frightengly a lot like Mr. Limpet.

    You think to yourself, “My God!! I went home with that???

    Once the sound of her car breaks you of your hangover malaise and and overall disgust at what’s lying beside you, the moment of urgency slaps you in the face and you make a run for it. You grab everything you came in with, sneak out the sliding door in the den, which leads to the back yard, which leads you to a gate, which leads you to sanctuary—an alley.

    You make your way a couple of blocks and inadvertanly run into the people who you went out with the night before and you’re wearing the same dress; your hair looks like hell; you slept on it all wrong and one side is higher than the other—-like Gumby—-and what’s left of your mascara is running down both cheeks making you look like something out of Tim Burton flick. You’re carrying your shoes in your left hand and you smell like a Koi spawning farm.

    You have to explain to them that you always come to this Starbucks at 6:24 AM looking like you’d just had carnal knowledge of some guy named Tim…..or Tom.

    or Bob.

    Well, he had brown hair (possibly) and his pillows smelled like ass (definitely).

  5. Well G-man, unfortunately parts of this are fiction. Sadly, not all of it though.

    Ah, life as a wild child. I wouldn’t give it up for love or gold….well, maybe gold.

    Or a Klondike bar.

    How was you T-Day. How’s Gabby doing? I miss you. Let’s go grab a beer soon. I’m doing some freelance work for Houston’s newest bi-weekly, abOUT Magazine and yes, it’s for Southeast Texas’ discerning Gay/Lesbian/transgendered reader.

    I got the cover story It hits newstands on Dec. 12. Freelance only–still negotiating on the price and but I can’t haggle over that. I just need the exposure. You never what no which behemoth Houston Gay/Lesbian/Transgendered mover and shaker might read my articles and just dig the hell out of my shit.


  6. Thanksgiving day was great as always with just our immediate family. Gabby is doing super-wonderful. I miss hearing from you too. You know that I’m always ready to meet you for beer. Let me know when you have some free time.

    I’m happy to hear about your latest writing job. I think I know that publication. I have a few accounts in Montrose and in the lobbies of these buildings I have often seen a magazine called “Out”. Is that the same one?

    The cover story huh? That’s great Laurie. I’m going to pick one up next time I’m in one of those buildings.

  7. God luv ya for remembering your walk of shame. I’m one of the few lucky ones that have repressed those memories.

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