Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Kissing my way across the UK: Edinburgh

Authors note: 
1. This post will be my most historically nerdy of the series. It also contains almost as many wiki links as wiki itself.  
2. This post might not be my sluttiest, but it may come across as a bit whorish. You've been warned.

When we last left the kissing bandit of the UK (moi), our trio was ping ponging their way around the United Kingdom, making a spectacle of themselves everywhere they went. England, Wales, Northern Ireland, and back to England. After a short night's sleep we were up and off to Edinburgh, Scotland.

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Steve (Sue's hubby) met us at the gate with a big cheerful smile and loaded our belongings into to van. Once again, my mind managed to rally for the drive. We were to spend the next few days at Sue's home in Leslie, which is located in the Kingdom of Fife. As we made the drive from airport to home, Sue pointed out the major highlights. I was still fascinated by round-abouts and I might have missed much of what she said up until the point where she said "loch". I stopped staring at the roads and immediately started paying attention. Between Edinburgh and Leslie is Loch Leven. If you're a nerd like myself, you'll know this as lake where Queen Mary of Scots was exiled. Just me? (insert look of abject disdain) Okay moving on.

Sue proved to be not only an amazing friend and partner in crime, but like Lesley... she was a true hostess. Our stay was filled with incredible sights, food, drinks, and trips. We visited Rosslyn Chapel (think Da Vinci Code), IKEA (just because, duh), The world's tallest hedge, and Dunfermline Abbey, where you can see the skull of Robert the Bruce (think Braveheart and don't pretend you haven't see it dammit).

Dunfermline Abbey
The most memorable of our trips took us back into Edinburgh. As luck would have it, we were joined on this day trip by our friend Gerry, a cabbie from Glasgow. Through a tour of Edinburgh Castle (where I learned the truth about why Scottish men don't wear anything under their kilts), the underground, old Edinburgh, and Holyrood Palace, Gerry kept us company and kept us guessing as to what the hell he was actually saying.

Gerry and I had met a few years before in Las Vegas, but that did not help me much in the way of translating Glaswegian to my brand of English. What I did understand was clothing. There's something about men's dress shirts that make me giddy. Not for them... for me. Gerry happened to be wearing a shirt that I knew, at the end of the day, had to be mine. It was Italian, white, billowy, and made of the softest cotton I'd ever laid hands on. I pictured myself wearing it to bed or with jeans and some sexy black knee length hooker boots. I was about to go buy myself a parrot to complete my pirate look when I realized the shirt wasn't actually mine.

Like this except not as sexy. 
"Gerry, I need that shirt." I said. He smiled and explained how much it cost, where it was from, what label it was, and everything else I didn't need to know. "It should be mine.What will it take to get that shirt? " I asked.  Gerry asked what I expected him to wear home on the train back to Glasgow if I were to take ownership. I looked down at the clingy red shirt I was wearing and looked back at him. "We'll trade. Do we have a deal?" Again, he laughed and then got a mischievous gleam in his eye.

A deal was struck. A kiss would be exchanged, documented in a photo for posterity, and we'd trade shirts in the "close" next to the pub we were patronizing. Lesley and Sue readied their cameras. Sue looked at me disapprovingly, shook her head and snapped a photo. Lesley didn't take her picture in time and the lip to lip kiss had to be repeated. From there it was off the the close. I quickly stripped my shirt off and handed it to him while he did the same, albeit much more slowly.

Letting a man see me shirtless in only my bra seemed so risque at the time, but upon further reflection I'm willing to bet my bra covers more territory than the standard bikini top. It was worth it too! I may have shown a little skin, and I might have whored my kisses out, but that shirt is still a staple in my wardrobe. These days it's relegated to bedtime or VCF (very casual Friday), but it still makes me feel tiny and sexy and brings a smile to my face. There is something about watching a brawny, 6'1", Scotsman wearing a women's short, clingy, fire engine red scoop neck shirt under his very manly tweed blazer that just lights me up inside.

Up Next- Back to Liverpool, England's my den of iniquity...

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