[insert wine analogy here]

What I enjoy about (much) older men is that they explore every available inch of skin with a painstaking slowness I’ve never found with anyone else. This one was no different. Tall and lean, almost gangly were it not for the subtle musculature of his chest, he kept his head down to press kisses along the length of my legs, rubbing circles on my knees while I pushed my head back into the pillow. The bed was wide and indescribably soft, as soft as the sound I made when he buried his face between my thighs as if it called him home. 

He crooned about the perfection of my body in a low-toned, quiet voice. I wish there’d been a way to record them, but “You feel so good” loses its impact through a speaker rather than the whisper in my ear that it was. Still, his murmurs and muted groans were my favorite part of the brief hour I had in his room. The second favorite came when he spent himself across my chest and belly, and leaned to lap up every drop. I kissed him deep right afterward; his tartness lingered in my mouth. I rather liked it. 

So appreciative. Kind. Sweet. Traits I’m unexpectedly describing a 35 year old man who had initially lied about his age before I found out on my own. Age gaps become less of an issue the older I get though. I also have very little room for concern or complaint, considering the post-hookup discovery of ages for two of my past men: Ben, and Shane from my cousin’s wedding. Do three (nonconsecutive) occurrences make this a trend now? I’m not sure how to feel about that yet, haha.

For now, I intend on seeing him again. He’s too kinky to discard.