I never thought that men in kilts would do anything for me. I mean, after all, knobby knees don’t make me weak in the joints. And hairy legs just make me look at my own and run for the razor. Men in knee highs…well, it is the stuff that horror movies are made of and I have never really had the inclination to lift a skirt regardless of who it belongs to. But this weekend might have changed all that.
Over the past four years or so I have had to get used to watching my husband walk around in a kilt. This kilt-wearing began after a trip to Scotland. I was interviewing a bagpipe maker and B went along for the ride. As we exited the quaint shop in Sterling he said, “I think I want to play the bagpipes.” I almost fell to my knees. First off, B had never played an instrument in his entire life and even the best piper can at times sound like a goat caught in a fence. The odds were not in his favor for becoming the next “Bach of the Bagpipes.” Secondly, for the most part men like B just don’t wear kilts. They wear hardhats, they wear steel-toed boots and they wear Calvin’s tighty whities. They wear those whities because boxers make them highly uncomfortable… there is not enough fabric to protect and hold up what lies within. So an open-air let-’em hang kilt…forget it…I just couldn’t imagine such a thing would ever happen. I was wrong.
Not only did B buy his pipes he came home and found a pipe band to teach him how to play. It was only a short time later that this Irish lad came home attired in a Scotman’s clothes complete with a sporin. The first time I saw him I looked at those knee socks and thought, “Well there is no way we will ever have sex again!” But eventually I got used his tartan as his ability to play and his demand increased. Now he is a full-fledged member of the band and spends time performing at funerals, store openings and Celtic Festivals. But still the kilt just didn’t do much for me…until this weekend…Really.
Now I don’t know if it was the whiskies talking or the rain but about 2 hours after I started drinking those men in plaid started to look mighty fine. The more I drank the better they looked and those knee socks began to even look like something that might come handy in the bedroom.
And then I spotted my husband… glory be…that Irishman looked better than any Scot in the place. As we stood listening to the rockin’out pipers of Celtica I put my hand on his butt and…oh laa laa…no thick blue jean material between me and his Calvins and… it felt round and good. Really…the perfect handful.
“Hmmm, maybe I have been missing out on something,” I thought. “I better test this out some more.”
So I did.
That butt felt better the second time around. And I found out the benefit of a man in a kilt. Just where those folds open … how…and why. But I’ve never been one to kiss and tell. Guess you just better go out and find yourself your own man in a kilt so you can find out just exactly what they wear (or don’t) under there and grab your own handful…you won’t be disappointed.