Walk of Shame

I’ve been living in Warsaw for nine months now, but until recently I’d never woken up in a bed here that wasn’t my own. When it finally happened, I was completely unprepared: no toothbrush, no change of underwear, no toiletries, and a sudden moment of panic when I realised that I had no idea where to find the kettle.

Luckily I was close enough to my flat that I could get back without having to hop on a tram, so after saying goodbye and stepping out into the sunshine, I was able to enjoy that most deliciously filthy of sexual experiences: the walk of ‘shame’.

When it comes to sex – and to pretty much everything else – the English language is full of misleading terminology. As far as I can tell, cottaging rarely takes place in a cottage. When done correctly, blowjobs involve very little blowing (as a rather sheltered teenager, that one left me with some strange ideas about oral). And as far as I’m concerned, the walk of shame ought to be a walk of pride.

Let’s break it down:

1. You went out for the evening, not expecting to get laid.
2. You got laid.
3. The other person – often a stranger – had the decency to let you stay over, which means that
   1. You didn’t have to get a bus/taxi/etc home late at night
   2. There’s a decent chance you got laid the next morning too
4. And you’re meant to be ashamed of that??

Sure, it’s not always quite so smooth, but for the most part what other people call a walk of shame, I call a pretty fucking good result.

And yet, and yet… It might be misleading, but a part of me likes the idea of a walk of shame. Personally, when it works it’s because it puts the cherry on top of the night of filth I’ve just enjoyed when I embark on one. I like feeling dirty – literally and metaphorically – especially when I know that other people can tell I’ve been out all night. I like opening the front door and emerging onto an unfamiliar street in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, the morning sun a little too bright for my hungover, sleep-deprived eyes, and the taste of someone else’s toothpaste in my mouth.

If I’ve been really lucky, there’s also that ache – the one that comes from sex that’s too rough or too plentiful or, ideally, both. My thighs will burn as I walk down the steps outside her house. My sweat-stained shirt will be buttoned up to the neck to hide the bite-marks. I’ll still be able to feel her hand on my cock, wanking me back to hardness again and again, leaving the skin raw and sensitive; she doesn’t realise that my poor circumcised cock needs lube, and I’m too caught up in the moment to stop for a quick Hand Job 101. I just want to fuck and fuck and fuck and FUCK, and apparently so does she.

The caveat, of course, is that I’m a (straight) man. I get to put on or shrug off sexual shame as I please, because for the most part society doesn’t judge me harshly if I’m promiscuous or driven by desire. No-one wolf-whistles when I dare to show some skin, and I only get called a slut as a joke (or by women bearing down on me with an 8” strap-on). Whether I want it or not, I carry that privilege around with me, not least on the mornings when I stroll through town wearing last night’s clothes and a sloppy, satisfied smirk.

So let’s be clear on one thing: sex is not shameful. Sex is something to celebrate, whether we do it with our partner of 20 years or the person we met last night in the queue for the pub toilets. It doesn’t matter if they looked like Maggie Gyllenhaal when we went to bed and Maggie Thatcher when we woke up the next morning. It doesn’t matter whether the sex was fantastic or terrible – it doesn’t even matter if we were too drunk when we got to bed to do anything other than roll around together before passing out semi-clothed with your head buried in my crotch.

None of that is shameful at the time. None of that is shameful the next morning…unless we want it to be. Like anything else when it comes to sex, shame should be consensual – something for people to adopt as they please (to whatever degree) and to shape to suit their needs. It isn’t – yet – and we need to work on that.

I like to feel dirty, slutty, and well-used; so do lots of people I know, male and female. But when I’m at the counter in M&S, buying a two-pack of boxers and a new shirt before I head into work, and I catch the sales clerk’s eye, I really don’t give a flying fuck what he or she think of me. The shame is a conscious, personal choice, and should only serve to enhance the experience I’ve just had.

Walk of shame: internal fetish, not external label. That’s the only form in which I want to preserve it.