admin
22 December 2023
Does sex really define the illustrious "Walk of Shame"?
I went to a party last night at a friend's place. Drinks were poured, foosball was played. People swapped stories about their last drinking experience, as college kids are wont to do. A good time was had by all; especially me. I enjoyed my favorite shooter, the Buttery Nipple, and had my first taste of a magical little drink called Jagermeister. Oh, my. Needless to say, everyone in the room was getting a whole lot prettier. I wasn't all that sauced, but I didn't feel capable of driving home safely. So I crashed on my friend's couch. It was the logical choice.
Why, though, as I woke up the next morning in the same clothes as the night before with my contacts plastered to my eyeballs, did I feel so debauched? As I wandered out to my car to head home, I felt so ashamed; like a scarlet letter had been blazoned across my rumpled shirt. But why? The Walk of Shame is reserved for when a sorority girl gets so trashed that she grabs the frat guy by his shirt collar and they have sloppy, incomplete sex, only to pass out immediately afterwards. Yes, my mascara was a good inch below my eyes, and I needed mouthwash like nobody's business. But I hadn't even gotten laid! Damn you, alcohol. I didn't even have a hangover. Hangovers add to the shame, I think. Even if you didn't have your way with some random partygoer, if you wake up wanting to stick a pair of scissors in your ear to relieve the pressure whooshing around in your head, it's humbling.
The skank factor is upped by the idea that, if someone saw you, they'd think you were doing the Walk of Shame. Which is total crap. Who cares what people think? But we all do, at least in some facets of our lives.
And, guys don't even have a Walk of Shame! They just don't. It's the epitome of double standards. If a guy is seen leaving a girl's house on Sunday morning, either: A) nothing is assumed about that guy, or B) his roommates congratulate him when he gets home.
Shouldn't we all be free to get our proverbial freak on, with or without alcohol? Shouldn't we be able to stagger to our cars with a self-assuredness that keeps us from being rattled? Maybe I judged the drunk sorority girls too harshly-- they're people, too.
So the next time your sister/roommate/best friend comes home and regales you with tales from last night's binge, let's not judge her-- or him, I guess. But, really, see the paragraph above. Can't we all just get along-- and get it on-- without casting stones?
Now, who wants a drink?
I went to a party last night at a friend's place. Drinks were poured, foosball was played. People swapped stories about their last drinking experience, as college kids are wont to do. A good time was had by all; especially me. I enjoyed my favorite shooter, the Buttery Nipple, and had my first taste of a magical little drink called Jagermeister. Oh, my. Needless to say, everyone in the room was getting a whole lot prettier. I wasn't all that sauced, but I didn't feel capable of driving home safely. So I crashed on my friend's couch. It was the logical choice.
Why, though, as I woke up the next morning in the same clothes as the night before with my contacts plastered to my eyeballs, did I feel so debauched? As I wandered out to my car to head home, I felt so ashamed; like a scarlet letter had been blazoned across my rumpled shirt. But why? The Walk of Shame is reserved for when a sorority girl gets so trashed that she grabs the frat guy by his shirt collar and they have sloppy, incomplete sex, only to pass out immediately afterwards. Yes, my mascara was a good inch below my eyes, and I needed mouthwash like nobody's business. But I hadn't even gotten laid! Damn you, alcohol. I didn't even have a hangover. Hangovers add to the shame, I think. Even if you didn't have your way with some random partygoer, if you wake up wanting to stick a pair of scissors in your ear to relieve the pressure whooshing around in your head, it's humbling.
The skank factor is upped by the idea that, if someone saw you, they'd think you were doing the Walk of Shame. Which is total crap. Who cares what people think? But we all do, at least in some facets of our lives.
And, guys don't even have a Walk of Shame! They just don't. It's the epitome of double standards. If a guy is seen leaving a girl's house on Sunday morning, either: A) nothing is assumed about that guy, or B) his roommates congratulate him when he gets home.
Shouldn't we all be free to get our proverbial freak on, with or without alcohol? Shouldn't we be able to stagger to our cars with a self-assuredness that keeps us from being rattled? Maybe I judged the drunk sorority girls too harshly-- they're people, too.
So the next time your sister/roommate/best friend comes home and regales you with tales from last night's binge, let's not judge her-- or him, I guess. But, really, see the paragraph above. Can't we all just get along-- and get it on-- without casting stones?
Now, who wants a drink?
artid
2090
Old Image
6_7_shame.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 07 (mar 2004)
section
stories