It Wasn’t A Walk of Shame


Until I got to work.

Damn it.

I spent the night over at the lover’s house in the Mission.  I feel all relaxed and easy in my skin.  I slept soundly.  I had packed my over night bag.

It’s not a walk of shame if you pack an over night bag.

I saw some walks of shame this morning.  Most noticeable the girl on 14th street with no shoes on, dress on backwards, carrying a pizza box.  At least she was getting her breakfast on.  If I had my camera ready I would have gotten a great shot.  It really was the classic walk of shame.

But this, what I was doing?


I had brought my toothbrush and my nice lotion, a change of clothes, don’t want the co-workers to see you in the same duds as the shift before.

No thanks.

Although, I did forget an extra pair of socks, so I am a little bit of a dirty girl, despite the morning shower.  And the boy bath products.  I was prepared for the Irish Spring scenario again, so I brought a little bottle of coconut papaya lotion with me and a bag of makeup.

What I was not prepared for was the gigantic mess my hair had become.

Sex equals bed head.

Serious bed head.

He said I could blame him, but I think I may have had a little something to do with it.  Writhing around on a bed doesn’t make for a nice blown out hair do.  And I have so much more hair than I used to.  The last time I had a lover I had very short-cropped hair.  Then I had no nookie for over a year, you, know, I was busy, “Calling in the One,”  much to my chagrin and the statement I made earlier last year, “I will get married at Burning Man next year.”  My hair has grown out a bit since then.

That, Burning Man prediction, by the way, was this past Burning Man and I, Jesus, did I even get a kiss?

Oh, yes, that’s right, Dubble’s friend North kissed me.

That was lovely, but pretty much a not going to go anywhere scenario as the gentleman had a girlfriend back home.

I don’t know about you, but I think that a kiss can be more intimate than most people allow and I would not want my boyfriend kissing other women, but that’s just my opinion.

Back to the walk not walk of shame.

Which, I have had me some.

Ooh yeah.

The time I was living on 22nd and Alabama and dropped some really good E and it hit harder and faster than I was expecting and I was getting ready to go out to the club and suddenly I HAD to change my outfit, it just would not do for the night that was about to go off.  Out came the glitter, the flower hair clips, the ribbons, the sparkles, the flowy shirt and god only knows what else, the platform Steve Madden buck leather shoes–I remember that–I could hardly walk the next day, although I did do walk my in my heels, I won’t do the barefoot walk, no way, no how.

I had gone to 1015, then to the End Up, then to an after party, then to an after, after party.

About early afternoon, somewhere high up in the Castro, or lower Twin Peaks, the view was astounding, I also remember that.

I never really did do black outs, sometimes to my great chagrin, I do have an astounding memory.

As I looked out over the bowl of the city the sun twinkling sharply of the towers and spires and the water, I realized it was time to go home.

I said good-bye graciously to my hosts and began to gather my things.

“Girl, where do you think you are going,” one of the fabulous gay boys said with a wry chuckle.

“I’ll just go flag a cab,” I said, shouldering my bag and fishing out my sunglasses.  This was during a time that I discovered that I always needed sunglasses and would often buy them at the gas station kitty corner to the End Up when I was making cigarette and gum runs over from the club.

“Honey, have you seen what you look like recently?”

Ah no.

I went to the bathroom.

Oh my god, what the hell has happened to me?

My very long hair had been “artfully” braided by someone at some point in the night, entwined with god only knows what, ribbons, flowers, was that a glow stick in my hair?

It was.

I had put on more glitter eyeliner at the club.  Apparently I was just not fabulous enough when I had left my house on Alabama Street the night before.

I had various in and out bracelets from the clubs on my arm as well as door stamps, one of which was on my cleavage.

I was a hot mess.

I tried to wash, but it really was no good.

I came out of the bathroom and the whole room clapped.

I got a ride home.

That may win the walk of shame walks.  And there were a few.

This turned into an inadvertent walk of shame, or ride of shame, as I was on my bicycle this morning.

Come by the shop!  I am working.


After lazing in the sun for a while–there is nothing like waking up in a puddle of sunlight.  Good morning light is almost as good as good morning wood.

Did I just say that?

Ok, so I did not get as much sleep as a girl could get.


I had a hot shower, put on my change of clothes, made the bed, did my morning get centered rituals and went to Rainbow to grab a little light breakfast and the stuff to make lunch today at work.

I do not know why  I was craving sour kraut.  But man, it looked really, really good in the cold case.

Maybe it was that damn blog I wrote the other day about making apple pies, I had cooking in the house of Windsor on my mind and one year we did this retardedly huge batch of sour kraut, over ten 5 gallon pickle buckets of sour kraut–the garden put out a lot of cabbage that year and I believe my step-father also supplemented with some extra from the farmers market.

We had kraut for years.

It was stunningly good.

I saw it at Rainbow and I wanted.

I had an after sex craving, I guess.

I got my black chai spice tea and almond milk, a couple of bananas, a raw bar, a Naked smoothie (ha), and some stuff to make for lunch, including sour kraut.

I hopped on my bike, chuckled when I saw the girl walking home with the bare feet and dress asunder carrying the pizza box.

No one will know, but me and my “tousled” hair.

Then I got to work, why is my stuff wet?  What is that smell?

That is not I just had sex smell, I mean yes, those are my panties and damn they are wet, but, what the?


Fuck my mother.

The sour kraut opened in my bag.

Walk of shame.

You got me anyway.

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One Response to “It Wasn’t A Walk of Shame”

  1. BadLady Says:

    Haha! Been there. Not quite with the sour kraut, but we all get caught one way or another.

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