The Walk of Audacity

When there's no shame left in your game

The writer & walk of shame expert in 2006, NYC.

The walk of shame is never pleasant. But you do get used to it. A New York City walk of shame isn't half-bad, save for when you inevitably wake up next to a bike messenger somewhere out in Red Hook, asking yourself why the hell you wore the Chloe slingbacks with the five-inch platform out for a night of doing rails off the lid of a dive bar toilet tank again. And don't think for a second you're taking a hot shower before wandering the concrete jungle in search of your own bed, either. If you're showering after banging the guy from the bar, you need to cut the slut, because you're someone's girlfriend now. Congratulations. 

All jokes aside, though, no matter the borough, a New York City walk of shame has one non-negotiable: sunglasses. Forget to pack your eyewear in your handbag, and every man, woman, and child meeting your tired panda gaze will immediately know you're a slut. Plus, the morning sun is vaingloriously bright––don't mock my twenty-dollar-word; it said "fucking" bright first.

Shame is subjective, though. By my fourth year of waking up in strange beds, I wore one-night stands as badges of honor. Then, one night downtown on Rivington in an ambient cellared bar, surrounded by other succulent youth, I met David's eyes. He stood tall in the corner, all black attire, shoes that almost guaranteed he lived in Manhattan–one roommate max. He watched me. No one ever looked at me quite like that before. Curious but careful. Obvious, but innocuous. He studied my figure like I was the colorful mess of an abstract painting. He watched my wild–hell on high heels–as if he was sure he could tame it somehow. And he almost did. If not for the ferocity of my wild, I might have let him. 

One walk, two walk, three walk; should I keep a pair of shades at his place? Chinatown, one roommate. Boyfriend material. But, as fate (and my habitual overindulgence) would have it, our first real date was our final romp––without the romping. I drank too much at dinner. And before dinner. And after dinner, at a bar, where I can't remember leaving my dignity. Perhaps I dropped my self-regard somewhere between the bar and David's apartment when he shouldered my dead weight across six city blocks. Boyfriend material. I know I passed out cold across his mattress––only the second I'd seen off the floor, on a frame––no headboard, but for aesthetics, not financial insecurity. His was a mattress thoughtfully designed, picked from a showroom, paid for in cash––no previous owner, no closeout sticker. His bedsheets felt like an A.P.C. Oxford shirt.

That day's morning sun was brighter than ever, and in case I lost you at A.P.C. Oxford shirt, this wasn't a guy with blackout curtains and a bong. This was a guy––shouting, horrified, wet. If memory serves me right, it took me a minute to process it––the rude awakening, the predicament, the piss. So. Much. Piss.

"Ashley, get up!!' 

"*insert Aussie slang obscenity here*"

"I can't believe you peed all over my bed!!"

"Jesus H Christ, you shouldn't have drank so much!!"

"*insert Aussie slang obscenity here*"

I watched him strip the linens and struggle to lift the mattress off the frame. I watched him maneuver his urine-soaked, thoughtfully designed, showroom-picked mattress against the wall with the two open windows. 

"You actually wet my entire fucking bed."

My dress was on by the time his outrage turned quiet disgust. With my shoes in hand, sunglasses on, and my soaking wet panties in my handbag, I turned to him there in his stark white, picture-perfect bedroom as he studied my figure like I was the colorful mess of an abstract painting.

"How do you know it wasn't you?"

He was stunned. Mouth agape, Aussie slang words. 

I walked barefoot across the coals of red-hot rhetoric like a runway model, albeit one itchy in the damp, sticky thighs. I shut his bedroom door behind me, wafting the ammoniac air toward him once more for good measure before sashaying toward the apartment door—leaving one tiny pitstop: the bathroom for a hot shower.