Mystical Mysfits Village at 4:30 and B held a Scotchfest celebration at Burning Man 2015.
The “price” of admission was a bottle of scotch.
I managed to navigate my way there all by myself. I was so proud.
I sat and chatted with people while we waited for the ice to arrive.
Scotchfest was taking place during a wicked duststorm.
The man in charge was GORGEOUS and wearing my old school tartan in a green and blue kilt with no shirt, a tanned chest, and a perfectly muscular body.
I nearly creamed myself when I saw him.
He had dark wavy hair with bright blue eyes and looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine instead of in a dusty den in the Nevada desert.
He poured me my first drink – a lovely, peaty Lagavulin.
After that, I sampled a few more scotches – Laphroig, Caol Ila, Glenmorangie, and God I forget the rest.
At one point I went up to him to get a pour of Bowmore Black Rock (I’m not kidding, it was called Black Rock scotch). I was putting on chapstick just when he turned to look at me and I got flustered and dropped the chapstick cap straight down my cleavage (which is impressive). I paused for a moment.
“You want me to get it?” he joked with a grin that made my knees weak.
“No,” I squeaked. “I can get it. Some Bowmore, please,” and with that my humiliation was complete.