A long time ago, a beautiful man I knew wore a kilt to a party. Like many men who wear kilts to parties, he immediately made a joke about whether he was going commando. His statement was an ambiguous ‘maybe’ followed by a nudge and a wink that invited us to wonder. Never one to pass up an invitation like that, I spent the entire rest of the night wondering. In detail.
This wondering is, to me, the sexiest thing about someone going commando. If he had lifted his kilt at the start of the night and removed all doubt, I’d have grown swiftly bored and moved on to thinking about something else. What another guy might look like naked from the waist down and wanking at his desk, for instance, or whether the barman would shag me.
But he didn’t tell us straight away, he just hinted, then revelled in the attention he got as I and a few others gathered around him drinking and chatting and… wondering.
I very rarely go commando, for the simple reason that I feel sexier in knickers. Knickers that stretch tight across my bum, which can be yanked aside for a quick fuck in the toilets halfway through a party – to me these are way hotter than wearing nothing at all. They’re a sex accessory in the same way a tight pair of boxers would be on a guy I love. The pants perform part of the foreplay work, whether it’s presenting my own arse as a neatly-wrapped gift topped with a bow, or gathering a guy’s junk together in a tight package.
As a general rule, when a guy drops his trousers, I want to see his pants. I want to watch the growing bulge of his erection tenting the fabric. I want to be able to feel hard cock through soft cotton, and squeeze gently to feel the pulse coming through.
But something about that guy in that kilt made my head spin.
Was it because he was going commando, or because he’d felt the need to tell us about it? I think it was the latter. Though I naturally get a bit hot for guys in kilts anyway, I rarely spend entire evenings obsessing over them as they sashay back and forward from the bar. I’d rarely get off my lazy, introverted arse and actually bother to dance with them, dodging other drunken partygoers from other drunken groups just to get a few minutes shimmying next to someone who may or may not be wearing pants.
It’s the not knowing, though. The Schroedinger’s dick scenario. His invitation to wonder meant that all I could do was imagine his cock and balls jiggling as he danced. Ponder whether that evening when he got home he’d flop down on the sofa, exhausted after a long night, and spread his legs to play with his naked cock.
If he’d simply said “I’m going commando” this would never have happened. I’d have smiled, nodded, maybe flashed a quick mental image of what was going on, then promptly forgotten all about it as I took advantage of the open bar.
When I’m at home and my other half wears a certain pair of shorts, I know he’s usually going commando. He wears them for the breeze that wafts up his thighs, and the easy-access bagginess that means he can slip them down – or to one side – and pull out his cock to order me to suck it. But with those shorts there’s nothing to wonder about – I know. Just looking at them means I remember that he’ll be naked entirely beneath the soft fabric.
Far more interesting when he’s in jeans or PJs, which he may have thrown on over pants or could just be wearing directly against his skin. These are sexier than the ‘guaranteed going commando’ shorts because they perform that exact same trick: they make me wonder. If I reach out and slide down the zip on the fly, will I get to touch the soft skin that covers the head of his cock? Or will I meet resistance in the form of a tight cotton package?
As I sit next to him on the sofa, if I stroke his thigh and pull down one of my bra cups so he can play with a nipple… will his erection bulge out in his crotch, all bundled together by underwear? Or will it start to pulse and throb down the top of his thigh, indicating that there are no pants trapping it in one place?
The wondering. That’s the hottest thing about going commando: it’s not what’s actually there, it’s what is in my head. What you cause me to think about when you nudge and whisper, and invite me to speculate.
At the end of that party, just as I got ready to leave, the guy spun round to face away from me and lifted the hem of his kilt.
And he was. Going commando, I mean.
It was hot, but only for the briefest moment. As I sat in the taxi on the way home, remembering what his naked bum had looked like, I felt delighted that I’d been let in on the secret… and a little disappointed as well. Because now that I knew for sure, I couldn’t really wonder any more.
This post was inspired by this week’s Kink of the Week topic – read other people’s entries on Going Commando. You should also check out some of the older Kink of the Week topics because they are an excellent place to find other people’s sexy writing.