When I was in college, a buddy of mine went to Scotland and came back with an authentic kilt. A couple of us joked that he should wear it to a party, but he wasn’t having it. He said it was just a souvenir, something to show pride in his Scottish heritage.

After some more ball busting—mostly from me—he looked at me and said: “Why don’t you wear it?”

Now, I was chubby in high school, but I started working out in college and got into pretty good shape. Couple that with my endowment and let’s just say I wasn’t ashamed of my body. So I said yes.

Everybody jumped on it right away: like, “You said it, now you HAVE to do it.”

My buddy who owned the kilt smiled and said that, if I was really going to do it, I should do it like a true Scotsman—no underwear.

“Fuck it,” I said. “Yeah. Ok. I have Scottish ancestors too.”

So that Friday, I showed up to a party in this knee length green and red kilt. I went to college in the southern US, and this thing was made of wool, so it was hot as fuck. But the breeze between my legs was really nice.

I was the center of attention from the start and multiple people—guys and chicks—tried to lift the kilt to fuck with me.

An hour or so after I got there and things had calmed down a little, I started talking to a girl I’d never met before: brunette, beautiful tan skin, big brown eyes, and a trim figure. We were flirting back and forth, both a little tipsy, when she asked in a soft, breathy voice if it was true that I really didn’t have any underwear on.

“Whitey tighties aren’t very traditional,” I said.

She was silent for a few seconds and bit her lip. “Can I see?”

I looked around to make sure no one was watching—we were at the edge of the hallway—and gestured for her to follow me to a nearby bedroom. We went inside and I closed the door and lifted the kilt.

Between the heat and the lack of constricting underwear, I was hanging long and low, and my balls looked like they belonged to a prize-winning steer.

Her face turned bright red. “Huh,” she said and nodded. She was smirking. “OK then.”

I dropped the kilt and we went back out to the party and kept flirting and her body language started to change. She stood a little closer to me and touched my arm when she laughed.

A few minutes after the reveal, during a moment of silence, she said, “I can’t believe you showed me.”

“It’s the kilt,” I said. “It does things to me.”

She giggled. “You’re fucking huge, dude.”

We ended up back at her place, and she laughed when I pulled a large-sized condom out of my sporran (that little pouch that hangs in front of the kilt).

We had a lot of fun that night and a few more times after that. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m proud to be Scottish, lol.