Walk of Shame

When going to an underwear party, the most important decision is, naturally: which pair of underwear do I wear?

I wanted something slutty enough to say “Take me home” but not slutty enough to say, “Take me to the back room.” I selected a new pair of very thin briefs and a pair of knee-high American Apparel socks.

I made the mistake of pregaming at home. A few rum and Cokes in, my logic wandered, and I decided, “If I’m going to an underwear party already, why would I bother wearing pants?” My long wool jacket with fox fur trim just barely covered the light blue material of my underwear, but I didn’t mind. I hopped in a cab and got out on 106th Street.

Through the throngs of jockstraps at The West End, I made eye contact with a beautiful brunette, bulging out of his briefs like a banana ripe for the picking. I went straight to him, and within a few minutes of conversation knew his name, his address and that he was a bottom. (Don’t judge a book by its cover, readers. This book likes tops and bottoms alike.)

We danced, we drank, and at the end of the night we went back to his place. We had intense, amazing, toss-you-around-your-bed sex, and I fell asleep immediately after I came.

I woke up around eleven the next morning, a little hungover. I got up quietly, assembling my clothes and getting dressed, when I remembered I didn’t have any pants.

I checked my coat pockets: I’d left my credit card at the bar. I hadn’t taken my Metrocard with me.

I’d have to walk home. Nearly 20 blocks. In daylight. With no pants on.

I snuck out, passing his roommate watching TV on the way. I said, “Hello, just a pantsless stranger in your apartment, no big deal.” I fled faster than Cinderella fleeing the ball, but instead of losing a shoe, I lost my pants.

I kept my hands in the coat pockets, pushing down as much as I could to cover my junk. I passed by dozens of families, kids dressed in their Sunday best, while I listened to Ellie Goulding’s new album and tried to pretend I was wearing pants and everything was fine. “Maybe they think I’m wearing running shorts,” I told myself. “Yeah, that’s it.” An elderly man turned to watch me walk by. “He just likes my coat,” I told myself. “It’s well tailored.”

When I finally got back to my apartment, I threw off my coat and collapsed on the bed. I made it. And even though a prince wouldn’t be combing the city, trying to find the boy that fits into my jeans so he could marry him, I’d call it a successful night.



Ian-Michael Bergeron

Iowa-born writer Ian-Michael Bergeron has written his weekly column in Get Out! Magazine since 2015, as well as editorials and interviews. He lives in New York City in a one-bedroom with two cats, Alexander and Thomas, and spends most of his income on shoes.

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