Page 2 of Walk of Shame

The whole experience was a horrid exercise in masochism, but the last straw was when I went out with a guy that Snapchatted the entire time and barely spoke to me. I’m serious, he said less than ten words our entire meal and pushed the check at me when the waitress placed it on the table. When he pulled up to my building, he told me I was hot and asked me to blow him. I said no. And he had the gall to get all insulted. He called me a frigid bitch and was already opening his Tinder app before I managed to scramble from the car.

I shut down my account before I even took off my coat.

Which leads me right into humiliation number four’s open arms.

I decide I need a proper rebound, someone known I can trust that will help me get a little bit of my dignity back. No commitment. No dating. Just fun and sex. Someone to get me over the hump of Trevor, so I can get my life back on track. After much consideration I settle on a guy named Chad Fellows.

Chad was the perfect choice for a hookup. He was new to my extended group of friends. He’s tall, successful, and unbelievably gorgeous. He’s the rare guy that’s nice and respectful but somehow manages to still have enough sex appeal to send girls swooning. He actually seems to like women.

But best of all he had potential to be something permanent. He was one hundred percent boyfriend material. As a bonus, because our core groups of friends didn’t have tons of overlap except for parties and weddings, if things went south, I’d only see him occasionally. The way I figured it worst-case scenario we had a good time in bed. Best-case scenario we got married.

A win/win, right? Wrong.

He flat out rejected me. What’s worse, he gave me some sad little speech about how casual sex wouldn’t fix what’s broken inside me. A speech that made me want to burst into tears and made my lower lip tremble, which he kindly pretended not to notice. After going home and, once again crying in a pathetic heap on my couch, I assumed he must be gay.

Wrong again.

Five minutes after rejecting me he turns around and hooks up with my friend, Ruby Stiles, and now they’re getting married! Married! I don’t even know how that’s possible? Up until Chad, Ruby only dated unemployed musicians. What could they possibly have in common? Why her and not me? Not that I’m hung up on the guy, because I don’t even know him, but still, what was wrong with me that I didn’t even warrant a date?

Last night was their engagement party.

I put on a big, huge fake smile, a killer black dress, mile-high heels and pretended to be thrilled for them. I thought that was my rock bottom. That attending the engagement party of a man whose last words to me were—no, I don’t want to fuck you—would be the depths of my lows. But again, I was wrong.

I’m sensing a pattern here.

Which leads me to the walk of shame, my latest humiliation.

Because I wanted my stomach to be extra flat, I hadn’t eaten, and to cover my awkwardness, I promptly started downing Champagne.

Naturally, I became overly drunk and flirty. And what do I do?

I flamboyantly hit on and sleep with the groom-to-be’s younger brother! I mean, he’s not like jailbait young, but young enough to be embarrassing. He’s only twenty-seven! I’m thirty-two. We’re not even in the same decade. He’s still in school, for god’s sake. Okay, medical school. Well, really, he’s an orthopedic resident, but that still counts and it’s humiliating. And he’s the groom’s brother!

How cliché can I get?

My stomach heats and jumps and my knees wobble a bit at the few memories I have. I think I might be sick so I sit down on a park bench and put my head into my open palms. The night is a series of blurry images, vague conversation and sex.

Lots and lots of sex. Correction. Lots and lots of mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex. The kind of sex your momma definitely didn’t tell you about. The kind of sex that makes you believe in god, because you’ve screamed his name so many times.

When Chad introduced Christopher as his younger brother, it had given me a moment’s pause. But then he’d said hi, with that smile, and it had been game on. We’d flirted shamelessly, and he’d been so cute. Christopher Fellows was boyishly, endearingly handsome with butterscotch hair and light golden-brown eyes. He’d been tall and built. His hands big and hot on my hips. And he’d been so nice. So attentive. He seemed genuinely to like me. Although in retrospect, it probably only seemed like that in my drunken brain.

A guy always seems like he likes you until he screws you, right?

I shake my aching head at the part of the night I still remember. After hours of flirting like we were sixteen-year-olds, he’d dragged me into a storage closet and gone down on me. He’d knelt on the floor, put my leg on his shoulder, and went for it. I’m not going to lie; he has the most talented tongue in the history of tongues.

I’d come so hard my legs shook.

I groan and squeeze my lids tight. If only that was the end of it, but then he’d pinned me against the door and proceeded to fuck me hard enough I saw stars.

God kill me.

The rest of the night is kind of a blur. We drank. I know that. I remember us talking but I don’t remember what we said, all I know was that it seemed like he listened to me. Was interested. Even after the closet.

I’d obviously ended up at his apartment. I remember lots of sex. I remember orgasms. At some point I’d fallen asleep and when I’d woken I’d never been so humiliated.

It was bad enough to have a drunken one-night stand, but no, I had to go have a flirtfest with the groom’s baby brother and make a fool out of myself in front of practically every person I know.

My mind has a brief flash of us rolling around on the bed, hot and sweaty. Me riding him, my head thrown back, his hands on my breasts. I get another image of him pounding into me from behind, his fingers working my clit.