sexpot

pondering the Walk of Shame and other post-hookup etiquette pondering the Walk of Shame and other post-hookup etiquetteLast "Sexpot," I was deliberately trying not to be deliberate about whether I would see him again. To make a long story short, it was good. But as I stepping out of his apartment, stumbling down the stairs and fumbling with the lock for the second time, I began pontificating? So I was walking the 40th Street corridor the other morning, at a far earlier hour and far more disoriented than you'd usually find me strolling past My Favorite Muffin and I stumble in. And it is at this point I am most confused, most sheepish, most desperate for stimulant in the form of bad coffee tempered by half and half. It's 7:15 and my hair smells like drool. The Walk of Shame. Materialized. And that's what prompts the question mark: was it worth the warm body I wrapped my arms around blindly? Moreover, what did the warm body think? Does it like sharing the bed with me? Indeed, to stay or not to stay, which at this bleary-eyed moment means consequently, to Walk or not to Walk? Invariably, I wind up walking the walk.Why the hell not? Why not legitimize that purely casual, hedonistic, amoral episode with tender, innocent sleep? Why stop at fulfilling the physical needs when you can kill that longing for intimacy/affection/affirmation with the same stone? And why not stay and get head in the morning? Once, the logic was different. The Walk of Shame was actually a phenomenon accompanied by a certain degree of, well, shame. Flash back to freshman fall: everyone was experiencing their firsts. Not necessarily their first "sleepover" or even "walk of shame" in the technical, universal sense of course -- a select few in the Class of 2000, remember, did not enter Penn naive social retards -- but their first time it wasn't worth it simply for the novelty of parent-duping alone. The first time you could check his last name on the door. For my roommate, it was the first time in a frat house -- one which prides itself on the number water bottles it can fill with urine without pissing on the floor, no less. For a friend, it was the telltale trek back from Hill. For me, it was from 43rd and Spruce. At 5 a.m. I don't know quite where this "issue" with performing the walk at a godly hour came from; perhaps it was leftover romanticizing over my 23-year-old "summer love" that wouldn't allow me to stay there all night, perhaps it was Catholic School leaving its mark post-plaid kilt. (P.S. I am saving the plaid kilt for my column two weeks from now). Whatever it was, it's gone (kinda like the space in this column). An official and highly scientific "Street office poll" revealed that 75 percent of nubile American collegiates, if given the chance with someone other than a complete stranger, wouldn't bat an eyelash over a single night. They'll walk. And so, goddamn it, will I. So I'll smile shamefully if you ever spot me at 7 a.m. again. And I hope I do it again.