Why You Need To Stop Calling It The Walk Of Shame, From A Guy’s Perspective


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Nice Move


It’s the morning after a party in a fraternity house. The odor of stale beer, vomit, and shame clings to the air. A door at the far end of the hallway creaks open and a head pops out. Her long blonde hair is messy. Her mascara smeared. Her short white dress accented with a light red splotch of PJ on the side. She looks both ways — careful to avoid being spotted by any early risers — and slinks into the hallway, high heels in-hand. She tiptoes her way down the stairs, through the front door, and out into the heart of campus, where she begins the tedious journey back to her dorm room.

As she walks down the sidewalk, a pickup truck full of dudes wearing pastels slows down as it passes. A few of them lean out the window and shout, “YEEEEAHH GUUURLL!” “YEEE-YEEE!” She averts her eyes to the sidewalk and moves a little faster.

It’s a classic Walk of Shame. She will likely tell as few people as possible about the previous night’s encounter — probably just a few close friends who ask where she ended up.

Meanwhile, back at the fraternity house, the man emerges from his room to be congratulated with a chest bump, a high five, and a “Yeah, bro, you slay that puuuusss!”

It’s a double standard that has always baffled me. Girls want sex. Guys want sex. Why is it that only one of us is allowed to openly celebrate getting it in? There is a simple fact of life that even the most ardent of Men’s Rights Activists can’t deny:

If you’re a guy who sleeps around, you’re a legend. But if you’re a girl who sleeps around, you’re a whore.

It’s bullshit. And in an age where word travels at the speed of light, you’d think it would keep women from wanting to have sex in the first place. Well guess what? That’s exactly what is happening.

I don’t know about y’all, but that is not a road I think we should be going down. It’s time for all of us to take a stand before every campus becomes as sexless as Brigham Young.

I’m no sociology expert, so I don’t know how to repaint the big picture, but I do have a hunch as to where we can start, and it’s as simple as a correction of vocabulary.

The Walk of Shame. Stop calling it that. You got laid last night — get hype about it. It’s a Stride of Pride. When you wake up in a strange bedroom after a night of partying, here’s how things should go down.

You stir awake, pat the dude on the junk, tell him, “Good show, Pony Boy,” then stroll through the frat house and out the front door feeling like a new woman (even if he was shit in bed, you still got some, which is revitalizing in itself). You got your head held high. Where are the fucks you have to give? Check your purse… hmm… you see a t-shirt with the frat’s letters on it… a slice of pizza (nice call, drunk you)… but nope, not a single fuck.

Make your way down the sidewalk. High five the dude on a riding mower. A pickup truck slows down as it passes by and a group of guys lean out the windows, but before they can holler, you drop into a slight squat, point at your crotch with both hands and shout, “YOU WISH YOU HAD SOME OF THIS, BITCH BOY!” They roll up the windows and keep driving in humbled silence.

When you open the door to your room, your homegirl asks where you were last night. You make a circle with your fingers on one hand, stick out your pointer finger on the other, and thrust that pointer finger in and out of the circle. Homegirl’s like, “YEEEAAHH BITCH!” and you’re all “YAAAASSS!” Then you titty-bump.

That’s how you crush a morning after. Stride of Pride. Remember that shit.


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