The Walk of Shame

The walk of shame is sometimes accompanied with a limp, but always with a bowed head and a bursting bladder. My roommate, the ineffable handsome young bachelor child Charlie, brings home the occasional overnight visitor who inevitably leaves her handbag in  the living room, thus necessitating a maneuver past me and my computer in the early hours of the morning to retrieve said handbag. This is done with an averted gaze on her part (I frankly stare) while she tiptoes in on little slut feet, picks up her handbag (usually a knock-off Coach) and tiptoes back out, little doggies barking madly with joy as they escort her to the door. Not only does Bachelor Child NOT accompany her to the door, but said maiden does not so much as stop by his bathroom to tinkle.

Now, I am not a slut and cannot ever hope to be one, but trust me, if I had spent the night slipping up and down on someone's cock, you can bet I'd be jumping up as soon as the ride was over to use the toilet, take a quick shower, and swig about a gallon of cranberry juice with a Flagyl chaser. I'd pee again the morning, first thing, BEFORE tiptoeing past the woman who actually pays the rent on the flat (must collect in cash from Bachelor Child, btw) who is sitting innocently, sipping coffee, and moaning as she looks at her bank statement. I would have offered her coffee, but I had the feeling her date, who was monitoring everything from behind the closed bedroom door, would not have approved of the gesture.