Kilt Inspectors

I should remember, when I say “I don’t feel like working the kilt booth“. I should remember that I always have a great time. Always. Screwing with people. “You’re not wearing a kilt today, sir! We can hep you with that problem – we can liberate you from those trousers!” “This is a kilted event, […]

I should remember, when I say “I don’t feel like working the kilt booth“. I should remember that I always have a great time. Always.

Screwing with people.

You’re not wearing a kilt today, sir! We can hep you with that problem – we can liberate you from those trousers!

This is a kilted event, sir!, Why are you not kilted?

Or when the guy’s ignoring me and his female companion is not:

You see, she understands, Sir! She wants you in a kilt!” (I turn and speak to her) “Oh, yes, she understands all right.”

You’re walking away sir! Tell me, where did my pitch go wrong?

I could do this all day. It’s like being a carnival barker, you need a good spiel, and you need to be able to think fast and do the verbal spar with people.

But then the day turned more interesting.


This was a hot, hot day in Petaluma, California. The report claims 97, but I’m thinking at least five, maybe eight degrees more. Why they hold a highland games in august in Petaluma, CA I’m not sure. Worsted wool isn’t really the right garment for 100 degree weather, and it’s always hotter that blazes at this event.

So sometimes heat brings out the beast in people. Also, people drink beer and beer brings out the beast in people. And I, whenever possible, try to put the beast in people.

We’ve seen it before. Girls want to get their pictures taken with the Kilt Guys. I guess we’re cool. I mean, big tattooed guys in kilts, some of us maybe even good looking, some of us a little dangerous, and all of us ready willing and able to fuck with people. At Pride we had a set of teenagers wearing tiny skirts and tape over their nipples, and their mom took the picture. Wish I had a copy.

So today it was a set of lovely, vaguely hardcore ladies. One whose name stared with A ‘D’, though she said to call her ‘Cuddles’, and the other whose name, forgive me, I seem to have forgotten. I’m sorry, theree was beer.

Pictures were taken. The usual question asked.

“Boots” was my answer. “And socks.”

Flirting ensued. Some hugging. Some personal sort of hugging that caused, shall we say, physical manifestation. Which I, of course, felt compelled to share with Cuddles. Well, a whispered admission regarding it, I didn’t share the actual manifestation. Broad daylight, man, and there were kids about.

The tone for the afternoon was set. Our friends returned several times. I felt compelled to ask for a kiss. Cuddles proved to be a willing and accomplished kisser. Though later, she asked me why I asked for it. “Because I wanted it” was my reply. I’ve said it before, but I feel it’s important to ask for what we want.

It was a jovial booth by closing. Working hard, the lot of us, but also there was beer, and more flirting. Our young ladies decided it would be entertaining to test a small flogger on me. Which they did, lifting my kilt and applying a flogging that can best be described as annoying, but was clearly a source of mirth to some folks across the athletic field. I then suggested (this may be too soft a term) that it was now my turn to drive. I mean, I’m a keys-on-the-left guy, I work the flogger, I don’t get flogged. Oh, the pain is acceptable, but I’d rather deal it that receive it. I don’t like floggers though. I’d rather use a bare hand. If it doesn’t also hurt my hand, where’s the fun?

I seemed to find someone’s spanking limit. So my work was done.

Some guys are offended when they’re asked the question. Some resent the kilt check. I personally feel it’s rude to lift the kilt – checks should be done with the hand, or even the head, but never via the lift-and-peek. I shared this opinion. Cuddles friend (Help me here with that name, ladies) chose to make a correct kilt check. I’m not sure she really needed to keep her hand there for that long, but you know, I wasn’t stopping her. And she knew I was enjoying it. She could, well, tell.

And there were the pictures. Well, I imagine they’re going to be on the internet somewhere, but you can guess. I hope they’re flattering.

Then we were done, the booth packed and goodbyes being said, plans made for the same crew to work Folsom.

This is the point where I should quote Roxy Music and say “.. dim the lights, you can guess the rest“. But you know me, or should, by now. So I’d like to talk about the royal jesus-screaming back-clawing neck-biting fuck I gave both these girls. It’s certainly how the scene played in my head when they asked me what I was doing after the fair.

Maybe I’m a grownup. How fucked up is that? Or maybe I’m saving them for later. But in any case, kisses were exchanged, goodbyes said. Thanks, ladies, for a damned fine afternoon of kilt-vending. Enjoyed you both. And I drove home singing at the top of my lungs to Thin White Rope, showered the grit and dust and sweat and lipstick off, made a couple of dirty martinis, and made myself a mental note to not give up the kilt-vending thing yet.

And ladies? Really. Send me those pictures.

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