Older Men

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Somebody I know recently reblogged a post, which was written in the first person, from another “older man”. I related.

Yeah, I’m officially fuckin’ old now. Eh, whatever. I’ll still wreck a woman better than you young bucks, so just shut up, sit back and take notes boys. Multiple orgasms is a man’s game.

After two weeks on the road drumming up business with people I can’t stand and would never talk to otherwise than I want their money, I sit back and am reminded of my age each time I fuckin’ roll out of a hotel bed and my back feels like I just helped a friend move a hundred refrigerators.

But this post I refer to, as I read it, really hit home. I could swear every single word written was a thought I’d previously had myself.

The concept conveyed in his writing, was essentially this — an explanation of why older men are just flat-out better, in every fucking way. I’ll attempt to recreate the notion, by paraphrasing in my own sarcastic, nonsensical douchebaggery way.

You are welcome.

You can read what he said linked in this post, but here is my take on it, which basically agrees with everything he says.

Older men. We get to know you. Your hearts, dreams, and ambitions — and we actually fucking care, or at least I do. We can take care of you, and the good ones, really fuckin’ want to and define themselves as men by being able to. We don’t expect you to end your own ambition, but we give you the security to give your boss the middle finger if they deserve it. We are your security blanket, in every fucking way.

We love who you love. As fathers, you don’t need to tell the good ones to be a man. We are one step ahead of you, spinning around the room dancing to music with our girls or taking our sons to the park to throw a ball. We go on dates, with our daughters.

We sure as fuck make sure the men we are gets used as a measuring stick for future husbands of our girls and the role model for our boys. Real men would rather die a slow painful death than fall short in this area. Failure is not an option.

We open doors. We pick up the check because it makes us proud to do so. You don’t bust your fucking ass in college, then career, to not handle your business when the waiter walks over.

In bed, we take our time. We start with your minds and expose them for the best sexual organ you have. We send you very descriptive texts about what your body is going to be withstanding when we get our hands on you. We make you wait. We anticipate. We make sure the real event exceeds your expectations.

We walk by you in the kitchen and slap your ass, hard, when you least expect it. We yank your hair, hard, when standing in line at the market. We walk through the door, after church, fix you a Bloody Mary, and when the straw makes the sound indicating your drink is gone, an alarm sounds in our heads that it’s time to eat your pussy, aggressively.

We wait for that first orgasm, then ignore it happened so we can get another, then repeat, again and again and again. We pin you down and make an unmistakable plea to your souls through our look, that we are going to give the best we have, right now, in this moment.

We wait for that scared but excited look in your face before we force a violent fingered orgasm from your body as you desperately look for more real estate on the California King but soon you run out, have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and you have to succumb to my ambition.

Deep inside you with my hardness and it’s just a matter of time before you cum that sweetest orgasm with me inside you, eyes inches apart, pounding you into a heaping mess of blissful exhaustion.

Older men. I’ll take a back ache sometimes if the trade off is the knowledge I posses, and it’s not even close.

Take notes, boys.

Originally published at The Romantic Dominant.