Memoirs of a Dirty Girl

I wrote this little memoir for my creative writing class. Eh Ahem.....

We walked out of the McDonalds, back into the gray wet air. As we crossed the street, headed toward the train station, I rifled through the plastic bags around my wrist. I reached into the yellow sack and pulled out a colorful plaid scarf. I’d never worn a scarf in public before, not even when I was a little kid, but my scarf virginity was lost at a shop earlier that day.
“It’s so cute, and it matches your shirt,” Morgan had told me.
“You’re only in Scotland once,” said Allison, “You have to get something Scottish.”
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I tried to wrap it around my neck, unsure of how it should look. The material was itchy against my skin and the end of the fabric hung awkwardly off my shoulders. My pace slowed as I tried to check my reflection in the window of the store. Something jerked my attention from the window back to the street.
It took me a moment to comprehend what I was seeing—a man, wearing nothing but a Speedo and shaving cream, running towards me. But there wasn’t just one, there were three. No, four.
Four nearly naked Scottish men doused in foam, headed my way.
At lighting speeds my hand dove into my bag and pulled out a camera, knowing this was a moment I would regret not capturing.
The group passed me one by one. The last one caught my attention. He had a small piece of fabric tied around his goods, a pair of swimming goggles on his forehead, and a smile the size of Great Britain. It looked liked he’d drained an entire can of Gillette shaving cream lathering up his skin. He was beautiful.
I aimed my camera at him, and he slowed to walk, posing for his moment of fame.
“If you want a picture you’ll have to give him a kiss,” his friend hollered.
My heart jumped at the word kiss. Our eyes met as we sized each other up. His undeniable expression of agreement made me fearless. I dropped my things where I was, walked up to him, and stood on my toes until my lips were just inches away from his.....

It was wet. It was soft. It was all over me.

I held out my arms and looked down at the foamy mess soaking into my clothes.
Wet, kissless, and brokenhearted, I shoved the dirty scarf back into the bag, and watched him run away with the culprits who had pushed him into me.

(the end)_

Aaaaaand......just for kicks, I dug up the pictures to prove it.