"It's called Exercise"

"It's called Exercise"

Last night, after the customary fortnightly GB party, the four of us sat splayed in a suburban living room, downing orange juice spiked liberally with vodka, and discussed a phenomenon called The Walk of Shame.

Practically every gay man alive has done the Walk, and the others are just big fat liars. So, what's the Walk all about? What's so absorbing and hateful about it, yet so tantalising and crucial, that no man can ever truly want to dissolve his ties with it? It has to do with the unmistakeable thrill of that other phenomenon called a Hook Up.

So, it's The Morning After. Party's over and done with. Hurried and garbled sex in the middle of the night is over and done with. Morning comes, rise and shine, - so yawn, and squint your eyes, and reach out to give your Hook Up a quick hug. But, of course, it is nothing more than a mere lustful coupling, a hook up, so that little hug cannot exceed a few seconds, and within five minutes, you're out of the door.

This is where all the defining characteristics of the Walk come into sharp focus:

1. There hasn't been time to brush your teeth or (probably) wash your face at the Hook Up's place, so you are walking in a decidedly sour mood, with a decidedly rancid feel in your mouth.

2. Inexplicably, there's always blinding sunlight whenever a Walk is on the cards, and since you have't bathed or anything since last night's frenetic coupling, you're feeling quite sticky and dirty.

3. Remember the wardrobe: last night, you were dressed in something suitably camp and glitzy, with perhaps shining and tight material. This morning, you realise, as you walk down the road to fetch the auto, that people are giving you the filthiest of looks. Not only are you stinking and sticky, you're also dressed like a cheap Gigolo Joe.

4. The voice is usually broken as well, from a night of partying and begging the DJ to play your favourite songs - so you've been singing on the dance floor and you've been moaning in bed after that - so that, by the time you're supposed to instruct the auto rickshaw guy where to take you in the morning, your voice makes a mouse squeak look like a baritone.

Does anyone remember that song called The Walk of Life now?