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I was 22 and in my first year of freedom from university. Precisely at the stage wherein the more casual of friends you’ve spent the previous three years with begin drifting away, and you focus on the ‘core group’ of people you want to keep in your life. It’s also the year when the incredibly over-eager couples who somehow managed to remain together over those three years inexplicably all decide to get married.

I already attended two weddings that year. By the time the third and final wedding came around it was already widely known that the first was already close to ending. As such I was suitably jaded and happy to attend simply out of loyalty to a friend I’d probably not see again until someone suggested a reunion in twenty years time, principally for the food and opportunity to consume vast amounts of alcohol.

Weddings are at all times sexually charged events for singletons. There’s a sense that anyone available is just waiting for the formality of the early day to be over so you can begin making your selections come the evening party. You’ve just got to get through the tedium of the ‘magical day’ first.

I was a friend, but not a close enough friend to be a bridesmaid. This suited me as it meant I got to attend but didn’t have any official function other than be there and smile at the appropriate moments. As tradition goes, it meant I’d not be among those guaranteed to ‘get lucky’, but also gave me the freedom to attend wearing whatever I wanted (though still a lovely dress, naturally), and could mingle as I saw fit.

The service came and went. It was the usual stuff and uneventful. The only point of note was that I caught the eye of a good looking guy on the groom’s side of the event, and made a mental note to ask someone who he was and if he was single later on.

As it transpired, there was no need. Quite by chance (And this is true, I can honestly say I didn’t calculate this or force it in any way!) I ended up standing beside him outside the church when it came to confetti throwing. Now he was stood up I realised with delight he was Scottish – the full kilt regalia giving away his origins immediately.

We chatted idly, making usual inoffensive small talk – he was the best friend of the groom’s brother or something equally tenuous and low key. We smiled and chatted, but had an uneventful and brief encounter, before the happy couple emerged and we through shredded paper and petals over them.

While the people of significance posed for pictures, the rest of us got back into our own friendship groups and made our way to the hotel for the reception. There’d be a lot of time to kill, but at least once we got there we could begin drinking.

On arrival i did the most crucial thing (after getting a drink, naturally) which was to check the table plan to see if anyone had been screwed over and stuck on the kiddie table, or with some hideous and disgusting relative. I was quite lucky in that I’d be sat with three friends on a table on the outer corner of the venue. A long way away from the main table and speech givers, but that suited me fine. I also noted with a smile that Scottish guy was gonna be sat at our table too. The day was looking up!

More people arrive and folk begin making their way to be seated, even though there’s likely an hour or more until things really kick off. On getting to the table I notice I’m actually sat several seats away from Kilt-Man, so I sneakily switch some name places around so I’m beside him. This doesn’t make me creepy, it makes me committed. So there!

Soon he arrives and takes his seat and we pick up the idle chat. I’m not exactly flirting at this stage, but I’m certainly smiling and laughing at his jokes a little harder than i might have done in another situation. Time goes by and we then hear there’s a small delay and we may be waiting another half an hour before the happy couple arrive. Cue lots of groans and yet more drinks being ordered. My friend sometime around here nudges me and asks if I’m actually intending on talking to her at all, or am I gonna be distracted all evening. Gracefully, I tell her to fuck off.

Now several drinks in, and still no sign of the bride and groom I’m being a little more obviously flirty. And, as you’ve probably been waiting for, I eventually broach the question of whether he was a true Scotsman. (For anyone elsewhere in the world, it’s traditional that real Scots don’t wear anything beneath their kilt). He, apparently having decided to be flirty back – or perhaps just sick of at all times being asked this and having a go to reply – says I’m welcome to figure out for myself. We laugh, and move on.

Another FORTY FIVE minutes passes before the couple arrive. I am by now tipsy to the point of fully drunk. I’m also a little bored, grumpy, hungry, and, in my own mind, ready to make some sort of a point. I stand and applaud as they take their seats.

Speeches begin and go on for-fucking-ever. At some point during the Father of the Bride’s speech I whisper to kilt man that unless something exciting happens I’m either gonna fall asleep, or smash the place up. He says something back but I’m not really listening as my inner demon has already decided what i’m gonna do.

I ask him if he meant it when he said I could check if he was a true Scotsman. He said of course – its the only way to be sure.

So I, casual as anything, under the table, place my hand on his knee. he looks as me but doesn’t say anything and doesn’t move my hand away,

I slowly begin to slide it up his leg.

He doesn’t move, or make any attempt to take it away.

I slide it under the hem of his kilt. His eyes widen, but he makes no move to take it away.

I don’t have to slide it up his thigh much further before I feel something on the back of my hand. His cock.

He was a true Scotsman!

In the split second this happens I’m now running through my options. Do I withdraw now, having found my answer. Do I keep going. Or do I get cheekier?

The answer is made for me as the Father of the Bride’s speech finishes, and suddenly I need both hands to clap.

But then it’s the best man’s turn. And now I feel it’d be awkward to slide my hand up there again.

Except now I feel I hand on my knee. And he whispers ‘You can double check if you like’.

There’s no hesitation this time. I slide my hand under his kilt and just take his cock in my hand. He’s already semi-erect from the situation, and I can feel it hardening just from being in my grasp.

I think that’s as far as he expected it to go at that particular moment. But I had a point to make (even if i’m now not sure what the point was) So right there, under the table, while I wasn’t even looking at him, but instead looking into the vague middle distance at the best man delivering an awful speech, I begin casually stroking his cock and jerking him off.

I continue all the way through the speech. We were far enough away and everyone’s attention was elsewhere that nobody noticed. My friend did glance over at point and knew I was up to something, but I’m pretty sure she wondered I was just playing footsie under the table. She’d have passed more opinion if she knew what I was actually doing!

Eventually the guy grabs my wrist to stop me. He later explains he didn’t want to risk cumming on the inside of his kilt, as it’d be too obvious.

Every so often during the meal that follows I give him a quick feel to remind him. He does the same to me, but he’s not as subtle. Plus I had underwear on, so he couldn’t be as effective.

After the meal, during the party we hooked up. I’d love to say the sex was amazing as it’d make for a more satisfactory end to this than ‘and it was fine’, but I’d rather be honest. It was average but functional.

Not a great ending, but a pretty good anecdote. Isn’t that at all times the way with weddings?

(One of my very first posts now given a tiny lick of paint to celebrate a Wedding Anniversary! Yup, they’re still together to this day!)

NSFW: yes

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