Despite my wishful thinking, I’ve accepted that Halloween weekend has come and gone, but there’s not a single part of me that could resist a holiday-themed article.
Halloween allows the most bashful to don elaborately crafted disguises, and — more applicably — the most tame to be embrace their wild side.
Men throw on revealing leotards without even batting a well mascara-ed eye. Women can adhere a handlebar mustache to their upper lip and still get hit on. Costumes range from slutty to just perplexing, but little earns the slightest judgmental glance once night falls. Granted, a part of me wants to curse the day that “sexy George Washington” ever reared her powdered wig-wearing head (sexy John Adams, on the other hand … ) but I’ll admit that there’s something fun about throwing caution to the blustery October wind and tapping into your secret desires for a weekend of out-of-character fun.
Sure, the parties are great and the costumes provide endless conversational fodder, but the most amusing Halloween side effect is the costumed walk of shame.
Due to a particularly stubborn, lingering hook-up dry spell, I avoided the walk this year — chalk that one up to a blessing and a curse. Apparently no one wants to hook up with a girl with vampire teeth. Geez. Sure I bit a guy at a party, but he was asking for it. Seriously though, he asked for it. What’s a girl with a vampire fetish to do? Additionally, I hereby promise that that will be my last vampire reference of the semester.
Lucky for me, I got my fill of embarrassing costume-clad walks last year. It’s easy enough to acquire some serious tunnel vision during Halloweekend. What with the themed party drinks, remembering you’re wearing a costume tends to slip the inebriated mind — a lesson I refuse to learn twice. Last Halloween, without the wherewithal to recognize a mistake in the making, I navigated my way to the apartment of my then-friend with benefits. Thankfully shrouded in a veil of darkness (as well as a bridal veil, garter, tulle skirt and elbow-high white gloves) I traipsed my way through Collegetown. Needless to say, I was truly a blushing bride as I walked/ran my way back to my apartment in the morning. No good walk of shame would be complete without the judgmental and bewildered glances of diligent students on their way to their 10:10 classes on Friday morning.
Although the Honeymoon was great, I vowed after that morning to leave the face-reddening treks back to my apartment to non-costume wearing weekends. I won’t even do a “Tacky Christmas Sweater Party” morning beeline back to my apartment. Of course, my walk didn’t stop me from loving every one of the spectacles I saw parading down College Ave. Friday through Sunday morning this year. I can’t even imagine the feeling of shimmying your way back into your scanty Lady Gaga outfit at 8 a.m. and the heart-dropping moment when you realize that you didn’t even wear a coat. Or the overwhelming regret of not wearing anything under your Giant Gingerbread Man costume — but at least he had a mask.
For all of us who just can’t get enough of the liberating feeling of harnessing our inner sexy barn animals or creepy zombie alter egos, good thing there’s always role-play. I like to think of it as Halloween for the other 364 days of the year. Halloween lets us ditch our own personas for a night and adopt a completely new character without the risk of violating social norms; role-play offers the same wonderfully freeing experience in the privacy of your own bedroom.
Hardcore BDSM is probably not the best way to break-in your newest sex buddy, but some unabashed and straightforward communication with a trusted partner could spice up your next shag session. The possibilities are endless. Sure, there are the tried and true scenarios — teacher/student, stranger sex and doctor/patient (to name a few) — but that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Let’s say (just for the sake of argument) that I absolutely love period costumes and Jane Austen novels and (again, just as an example) nothing gets me hotter than a leather-clad Mr. Darcy. With some helpful coaching of 19th-century dirty talk, maybe a little reading aloud of several chapters as foreplay, he could have me down to my petticoat faster than I can say, “Thank God I didn’t fall for that stupid twerp: Mr. Wickham.” We’d be well on our way to re-enacting our very own Porn and Prejudice in no time.
So while Halloween has come and gone (and I doubt I’ll ever be able to relive a collegiate-style three day dress-up booze-a-thon once I enter the real world), there’s no reason to retire those disguises for good. Keep them handy next to your hottest lacy bra or sexiest man-thong for when you and your partner get the hankering to recycle. The best part? No embarrassing, costumed walk of shame.
The Preacher’s Daughter is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at [email protected]. Decent Exposure appears alternate Thursdays this semester.
Original Author: The Preachers Daughter