I was visiting Ayr some years ago and had arrived, mid afternoon, at the Swallow hotel by a square off the High Street. After a wash to freshen me up I went out to explore the shopping area. I remembered that there was a good kilt shop called Scott and Yankee in the Sandgate but when I got there it had closed and was now a restaurant. I had a look at the sea from the promenade then returned via Burns Statue Square. I then explored the High Street and found quite a good kilt shop in a side road off it. I tried on a couple of kilts but the manager was preoccupied with a lad who was emigrating to Canada and wanted a good kilt to take with him. So not a lot of joy there. I found another shop lower down and actually on the High Street and went in. What a lot of kilts shops for such a relatively small town and nobody around me wearing one. I was in kilt myself but nobody commented. By now it was almost closing time and nobody in the shop was really interested in me.
As I came out I saw a tall young man in a pipe band outfit. He had a very unusual kilt in dark purple tartan and the customary black doublet with shells on the epaulettes. He had a long fly plaid in the same tartan hanging down his back with the front held by a silver brooch on his left breast. He even had a black and red diced Glengarry with a purple cockade in it. A long hair sporran completed the picture and then I noticed that he was wearing spats as well. He had been accompanied by two youths in ordinary jeans but they came in to the shop as I was coming out. He was alone as I went up to talk to him. We exchanged glances and I knew at once that we were two of a kind!
I suggested that he come back to my hotel for a drink and we could have a little chat about kilts. He agreed right away but said that he had to tell his young friends where he was going. I was glad that they weren’t coming too. If they had been in kilts it might have been a different story.
We were soon in the bar of my hotel and he had a pint with a whisky chaser. I sat opposite him in a quiet area of the lounge bar. Even seated he was a big man, not very old, probably about mid twenties and in good physical shape. I had noticed before that his kilt was rather long, covering his knees completely. When he sat down the tartan was therefore well over his knees so no view for me at all. In contrast my kilt was rather short. It was one of the Hillwalker range, this one in the heavy military Royal Stewart tartan. It is a strange fact that longish kilts come further over the knees when the wearer is seated while shorter kilts tend to ride up. The Hillwalker range was supposed to be worn short but this one did not even reach the top of my kneecap. Seated, it seemed even shorter, with both my knees and quite a bit of leg above them fully exposed. I tried to pull the aprons down to be more modest but failed. I could see my new friend, Peter, was his name, take rather a lot of interest in my kilt and legs. He kept looking at me but didn't have a lot to say. I think that he told me his tartan was called the National Tartan. I asked why he was standing there in the High Street in full regalia but I didn't get a proper answer. In fact I never got one. I was liking what I saw in him as a man, and the beautiful outfit he was wearing. I could sense him taking a similar interest in me. I knew that I was becoming aroused. I could feel that my penis still resting on the seat of the chair, but filling slowly and I felt the growing warmth of the thickening flesh between my thighs. I opened my knees slightly with my kilt aprons still straight across. I was looking carefully at Peter, and, from his expression, I knew that he could see up my kilt and almost certainly the glans of my stiffening penis.
I asked if he wanted to come up to my room and he readily agreed. I suggested that we take our drinks with us. As I got up, I could see that my partially erect penis was holding out the aprons of my kilt at the front in quite an obvious way. The Hillwalker kilt has pockets so a sporran is not needed to hold things but I now felt the need for a sporran to hold down my front or at least to disguise the bulge that had formed. I managed to navigate the bar without causing too much interest but the young lady at reception must have seen the tentpole outline in the front of my kilt. I avoided the lift and we soon reached the safety of the stairwell. I began to climb and I could see Peter holding back. Then I realised that he was probably hoping to see up my kilt from the rear. After checking that there was nobody else around, I obliged by stopping on the top step of the stair run, bending over slightly with legs apart, and using my hand on the front aprons, pushed my penis slightly back. From his “Wow”, I knew that he had got the view.
We got to my room and closed the door. After an initial moment of embarrassment, we moved together and kissed. Because of his height he had to bend slightly. He was wearing such a lot of clothing, including the plaid, that it was hard for me to feel his body properly. As we broke apart I looked down at the front of his kilt but all I could see was this enormous hairy sporran hanging down. We must have looked a strange pair, him with all his uniform on, long kilt, plaid etc and me in this short kilt, almost a mini kilt. I knelt down to get a better view of his sporran, I took it in my hand and, at the same time, rubbed the back of my hand down the front of his kilt. There was no doubt some hardness there but it was not sticking out at all.
