I lost my scarf virginity down a narrow alleyway out of touristy obligation. This was before the phrase “YOLO” became a thing, so the peer pressure sounded more like, “You’re only in Scotland once.”
Just as I was adjusting the itchy plaid scarf around my neck, I saw the most beautiful sight my twenty-year-old eyes had ever beheld:
A man, wearing nothing but a Speedo and a six-pack, covered in shaving cream, running toward me. But wait—not just one semi-nude Scottish hottie—but three, no, four!
At lightning speeds I reached for my Nikon, aimed, and prepared to shoot.
The Scots passed one by one, but the last one was my prize. He had a tiny scrap of green fabric around his goods, a pair of swimming goggles on his forehead, and about half a can of Gillette everywhere else. He stopped and flashed me a smile the size of Great Britain.
“If you want a picture you’ll have to give him a kiss,” his friend hollered.
We locked eyes, and he looked surprisingly willing. So I dropped my bags in the middle of the pavement, walked straight up to that handsome buffoon, and stood on my toes until our lips were just centimeters apart.
It was wet, cold, and all over me. The white foamy mess soaked into my clothes.
There I stood, wet, kissless, and brokenhearted on the rainy streets of Scotland, watching my almost-souvenir-kiss run away with the culprits who’d pushed him into me. I shoved the dirty scarf back into its bag, and vowed never to wear one again.