Every year I go to the Ligonier Highland games for the scenery and I do not mean Pennsylvania's Laurel Highlands.   
There is nothing in this world like a well formed man in a kilt. I love to watch the hammer throw. They spin around for that one, in kilts, of course.

Many years ago, at an S.C.A. event, a suitably kilted Scot met a woman who asked what he was wearing under it. The Scot was fairly drunk, so he pulled up his kilt and showed her. She screamed and hid her face like she'd never seen one before. (She'd seen several.)
Pleased with the reaction, when he met a foppish cavalier, he pulled his kilt up again, with a suitable whoop.
The fop looked, shook his head and said, "Is that all."



Now I risk being annoying, but, my freshman year in college I was dating a senior named, alas Bill Bailey. We weren't serious about each other. But several of the girls predicted our marriage, since he WAS a senior, after all.
I made the mistake of telling one of them that I wanted my bridegroom to wear a kilt if I ever got married.
"Does Bill know that!" she demanded.
"You better tell him!"
"It might be against his religion!"
No, I didn't tell Bill. Neither did she. She told his sister, which was, let me assure you, infinitely worse.
Of course I didn't marry Bill Bailey, or anyone else.   Though the kilt thing isn't the reason why.