Colour Me Kilted

This past weekend was the Highland Games in my wee little town, and do you know what that means? Lots and lots of men wearing kilts. More kilts than I'd ever seen at one time, and that's speaking from someone who's lived in Scotland! (Many Scotsmen that I know actually find kilts vulgar and cliché, including my grandfather and father-in-law.) But since I'm not a Scot or a man, I say bring it on!

It reminds me of this time in high school: We had one particular friend in our group that was good looking. Well, that's putting it lightly - he was fucking stunning. He looked a lot like Brad Pitt, but without the "I've been beaten to a pulp numerous times" look. I cannot deny that being arm-in-arm with him at a bar made me feel like hot shit as women would approach him to ask for his autograph, thinking that he actually was Brad (yes, that happened.. twice).

He was a genuinely nice guy too, which just made him more desirable. Friendly, artistic, smart, funny and musical. What can I say, he made my brain soft. It was around the same time in my life when I had to start wearing pantiliners that I also sat next to him everyday in Art class. Coincidence? Doubtful. Ahem.  He didn't seem to affect my other friends as deeply as he did me, (perhaps because they had been going to school with him for a lot longer than myself) but for whatever the reason, I learned to keep my cool around him for the most part...

Until the day he wore a kilt.

He showed up to school in a plain white t-shirt, black Doc Martens and a Macgregor kilt. It was definitely not a fashion statement that was seen every day in 1996 and I doubt anyone but him could have pulled it off without being made a laughing stock. He was already known for his eccentricities, in addition to his alarmingly good looks, so this hardly got more than a few double takes.

In the middle of the main foyer, crammed with approximately 100 other students all rushing to their respective classes, I snuck up behind him and lifted up the back of his kilt.

Beautiful. Bare. Ass.

He wasn't even startled. He slowly turned around, smiled at my flaming beet-red face and laughed, "You look surprised. Commando's the only way to wear a kilt, darling."

In-fucking-deed.

Sadly, that glorious two seconds would be the one and only time I would get a glance at that man's under carriage, so to speak. Hindsight is painfully 20/20 because if I had known that, and however much I really do appreciate a nice ass, I wish I had lifted up the front.

Instead, I'll just hold on to that regret thought and masturbate to this photo...