What's the solution to a disappointing night? Getting lucky the next morning...

Turning a 'Walk fo Shame' into a 'Stride of Pride'.

I’ve always found the so-called ‘Walk of Shame’ to be a surprisingly cathartic experience. There’s something wonderfully Zen and calming about stepping out into the crisp morning air still resplendant in the previous night’s finery. There’s nothing quite like some gentle sunlight and a morning breeze to soothe the rough edges of the inevitable hangover - Because, lets be honest, the illustrious Walk of Shame is rarely strutted without the intimate acquaintance of Mr Alcohol loitering - and allows the first moments of reflection on the evening’s antics, safe in the knowledge that you’re heading and and have once again managed to avoid losing a kidney to a lunatic on the black market..

…Or is that just me?

Perhaps I’m romanticising the situation a little (And I very much am. Living in England it’s rare even in the tender embrace of deepest Summer to wake up to such a serene and delightful day. British mornings are invariably freezing cold, overcast and drizzly, and you spend your walk lamenting on not bringing/losing your coat), but on the whole I do genuinely find a sense of peace and tranquility to the morning walk after a night of dubious debauchery.

Such a sunny outlook however does come with two basic requirements:

That the sex was not shit.

That wherever the hell I have awoken has access to a decent shower.

Let me clarify. ‘Not shit’ sex sounds like an almost dangerously low watermark, I know. But as the WoS occurs invariably after horrendously drunken encounters, such dabblings rarely involve either party operating at the top of their respective games. Drunken sex is its own truly unique beast. Thoroughly exciting and satisfying in its own way, but rarely something to be held aloft as a finer example of the act if compared to its (more) sober counterpart. Without trying to put too blunt a point to it; standards are lower in almost every conceivable regard when thoroughly inebriated, so, in the cold light of day, if the sex proved not to be *shit*, then it’s more than reasonable to feel a sense of achievement, however small.

The shower clause speaks for itself. I can’t be alone in - when awaking in a strange bed, hungover and still reeking of the previous nights shenanigans, evidence of physical ‘residue’ remaining or otherwise - feeling like the need for hot water and soap out-ways almost any other. Except perhaps fried food and many mugs of tea - but those are more easily accessible from the comfort of your own kitchen, and without the need for tedious small talk. I require a shower to feel even vaguely awake on the best of days. If I’m waking up bleary eyed, thick headed and already feeling dried patches of bodily fluid turning flaky, then a decent soaking is, I feel, the very least a gentleman can be expected to provide come the morning.

As a student studying in a particularly ‘university town’ type area, the sight of individuals shuffling through their own Walks of Shame was a far from unusual sight. Indeed, a mid-morning WoS was practically the best opportunity you had to catch up with certain friends during the daylight hours, as all survivors of the night before would flock to McDonalds or various independent cafes to be nourished with fried food, bacon and hot beverages. The comment was often passed at my particular eatery of choice that if they simply dimmed the lights, sold alcohol and added a disco ball, the atmosphere and appearance would be almost indistinguishable from the night before, such was the prevalence of folk still ensconced in their evening-wear and gladrags.

The night had, despite my adamant belief at the time, not been a successful one. In their defence, my friends had done their very best to warn me. Which is to say during a brief toilet check-in, two of my friends had questioned if I *really* intended to depart soon on the arm of the guy I’d found myself sharing several drinks with. But I was eighteen, stubborn and phenomenally drunk. Three excuses which I’m incredibly aware excuse precisely nought. I was very insistent (so I was told later - my own memory is hazy at best) that I was making an exceptionally good choice, and was looking forward to bragging of my success to them the following day. At which point I exited the lavatory with a flourish, marched over to the man in question and told him in no uncertain terms we were going back to his place.

Precisely though what rose/booze tinted glasses I was viewing the guy that night I have no idea. All I can recall with any accuracy is waking the following morning and thinking with horror that I must’ve gone to the toilet during the night and inadvertently wandered back into the wrong room, now finding myself lying beside his considerably less attractive housemate (At which point my brain shrieked “FUCK, NOT AGAIN!” but that really is a whole different story). I spent a moment trying to settle my rattling head sufficiently to mount a stealthy escape from the bed. This procedure clearly took long than intended as before I was able to slide with cat-like grace to freedom, he awoke, smiled, and wished me good morning.

Damn. He was either incredibly unsurprised to find a strange woman in his bed, or this in fact was the same guy from last night. Which he very much was. Not actively *un*attractive, just somewhat *less* attractive than I’d pictured.

“So,” he beamed in that optimistic manner that exists primarily when it feels like some action might be on the cards, “last night was fun.”

He’d phrased it not as a question but as a statement. And one in which he was clearly hoping I was going to say ‘Yeah, lots!’ and immediately roll toward him for an action packed round two. However now I was sufficiently awake I knew with absolute certainty that his statement was far from accurate.

The last night had not been fun. There had been some small moments of entertainment, sure. But, for me, to describe a sexual encounter as blanket ‘fun’, would require at a very minimum for both partners to receive some form of gratification from it. A sense that I was very much lacking.

Describing bad sex is as unsatisfying to write as it is to read, so I’ll keep this brief. In short - even by drunken sex standards - his performance had been woeful. For a guy that boasted of his oral skills (now learned to be a red flag in itself), his tongue appeared to only operate in vertical motion, with no lateral movement at all. It was akin to being licked by one of those perpetual motion drinking ducks. But bad oral doesn’t necessarily make for bad sex if instead they excel in other areas. Which, suffice to say, he did not. To save dwelling on the issue further, he came twice and felt very pleased with himself, while I didn’t even come close (Pun intended).

It was the sort of pathetic performance that would usually have me making my excuses and leaving in the immediate aftermath, but I was very drunk and the sheer disappointment had left me somewhat exhausted. The only thing the poor guy had going for him was a comfortable bed, so I’d decided to fall asleep and regroup in the morning.

I swiftly bypassed his optimistic statement by changing the subject.

“Where’s the shower?”

This was doubly cunning as not only would it put me one step closer to feeling human again, but didn’t necessarily sound like a dismissal of his optimism. Maybe I was suggesting morning shower sex? Of course if he’d followed me I’d have slammed the door in his face, but he wasn’t to know that.

“Oh, sorry. Boiler is on the blink. Shower doesn’t work unless you fancy it cold. I can boil the kettle if you want to wash your face and wake up properly first?”

If he’d been found dead I’m sure I’d have been forgiven. Again, this wasn’t technically his fault. Student flats are notoriously shit and inconsistent hot water is something we’d all encountered at some stage. But I feel this was something he ought to have made me aware of *before* I made the decision to go home with him. It would have provided greater incentive to him to get it fixed so as not to miss out next time if nothing else.

To say I was not happy would be putting it mildly at best. I was still half asleep. I’d apparently opted to sleep in one of his t-shirts which, to put not too fine a point on it, *stunk*. I was still mildly suffering from anticlimactic sexual frustration. And I desperately, desperately needed a shower. Not least because in manoeuvring out of his t-shirt and back into my night before clothes I’d discovered a somewhat sizeable crust of dried cum across my midriff and chest. Cold water would have to suffice to swiftly wash away what would be visible above the neckline to make my walk home somewhat less unbearable.

My parting words with him were succinct. While I didn’t cripple his ego with reference to his sexual failings, be was considerably berated about his squalid living conditions. Whether my words had any lasting impact I have no idea - I didn’t encounter the guy again. But I choose to believe he now lives a happy life without ever lacking in hot water, and that he still feels a peculiar pang of guilt should his boiler ever break.

My luck had seemingly turned as I stepped out of the flat and into the light of day - It wasn’t raining! I was almost disappointed. Water of skin would have felt blessed relief.

I began the trudge back to halls, guessing it to be in the region of a twenty minute walk. I’d considered a Taxi but it felt like an extravagance on a not-unpleasant day. Plus I was a student and poor. And twenty minutes would be more than long enough to play out every frustration from the night over in my head in order to be done with it and ready for the day.

I texted a few friends to see where the evening had led them. One had headed home, the other was seemingly about to embark on their own journey after a significantly more successful endeavour than mine. Keen to enjoy some satisfaction via osmosis we agreed to meet in our regular ‘morning after the night before’ for a debrief and, more importantly, a bacon sandwich.

The misadventure had taken place thanks to some midweek drinking, and thusly the cafe was quieter than usual, with only a handful of hungover students seeking solace in fried food. Nods, “mornings” and wry smiles were offered to fellow revellers and survivors of the night prior. I ordered my food and settled at a table to await my friend.

The sandwich and tea came and went. My friend did not. I’d somehow managed to find myself stood up even the morning after. But I didn’t much care, I’d already found myself a distraction.

Jamie and I were already mild acquaintances. Which is student slang for ‘We’d fucked during freshers week’. The sex had been good enough that we’d always spoken whenever we’d seen each other and made the vaguest of gestures towards ‘we should do something sometime’, but not so earth shattering that we’d ever followed up on any of these pleasantries. But he’d seen me sat and, ironically, stood up at the WoS cafe, and popped over to say hello.

“Good night?” he asked, somewhat sarcastically given how clearly miserable I must’ve looked.

This was a greeting, not a question. But I didn’t care. I unloaded the whole sorry affair onto him. It was cathartic.

He, as it transpired, had an equally disappointing night in that he’d spectacularly failed to achieve anything at all, and had slept on a sofa after he’d found himself further afield that expected, but with no offer of a bed.

We laughed and lamented our respective failures and frustrations.

We both have slightly different tellings of what happened next. I’m certain this was when I found him sliding his hand surprisingly far up my thigh, and I suggested that perhaps we eased each others frustration, since we’d both been left disappointed.

The way *he* tells it, I simply outright propositioned him.

Either way, minutes later, he was fingering me in the tiny cafe bathroom. And it felt fucking amazing.

We’d have fucked right there and then, but the bathroom was so ludicrously small that just fitting us both in was struggle enough. Plus we were only ten minutes from my place.

Having made his point with his fingers we hurried home. I leapt straight into the shower, suddenly acutely aware that I still had the crust of another man somewhere around my torso, but by the time he followed me in it was long washed away, along with the disappointment of the previous night.

He finished his finger work in the shower, assisted by some excellent use of the shower head. I’d been waiting for this orgasm since the small hours of the morning, and when it arrived it was far from subtle.

Since I was practically on my knees in the aftermath anyway, I set about trying to thank him with judicious use of my mouth. But shower blowjobs tend to result in near drowning, so instead we decided to dry each other off and move to the bed.

Within the hour I needed another shower.

Thank fuck we had hot water.