He called me a “mad rooter”. Of course, there’s nothing mad about it. The way I fuck is the way I fuck. It’s honest, it’s frequently intense and it’s almost always loud. But I guess I don’t think about the way I fuck in those terms because it’s just who I am and what I’ve always known. It’s only when someone tries to slut shame me or calls me “very sexual” that I take stock of how others might perceive me.
Open? Certainly. Experimental? Sure. Dirty? My mouth is and I guess my mind. How I came to be this way? I’m not sure. But when a 44-year-old man who has likely had as many partners over the years as me calls me a mad rooter, I do pause.
Firstly, I hate the word “root” and its variants. I’ve always found it abrasive, like sand on sunburn. Anyone who knows me knows that I fuck. Even when it might be classified as “making love” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Virginia Andrews and Judy Blume have a lot to answer for in the way they influenced my views on sex. “Love making” is a no. “Members” are another. Thinking that all men named their cocks something as mundane as “Ralph” would be the worst.
I love sex and although I appreciate not everyone does, I think many do. It doesn’t mean they necessarily get it very often or at all, that it’s how they want it, that it’s kinky enough, naughty enough, fast enough, long enough or even worth staying awake for. But, I think many can agree that when sex is great, it’s a pretty amazing fucking high. So why wouldn’t I want that?
He says I come easily – not really. I can, given the right position, the right toys, the right mindset, the right combination of alcohol or drugs and libido. But so could anyone. The fact is I don’t come with everyone. If I’m feeling generous, I might fake it but usually I won’t. That does both you and I a disservice. You won’t get better and I’ll feel lousy.
But I didn’t need to fake it with him. We were drunk, oh so drunk, but it was drinking spread out over hours from a lunch date that turned into drinks, turned into dinner, turned into a sleepover. It was fun drinking with music and movies and the sharing of a million anecdotes. It was boozy sex, where we were both a bit sloppy but it didn’t really matter. When he got on top, I had no expectations of coming. It’s a rare occurrence for me to come in missionary without me taking my head elsewhere. So, when I felt that oh so familiar build, that exquisite warmth and clenching take over, no one was more surprised than me.
And it didn’t stop there. Over and over, long past the point of comprehension, of counting, of being in any kind of control. I think I even used the words magic and I hate magic. Hate not being able to understand those card tricks and disappearing acts. There were no secret trap doors here though. No sexual voodoo dolls. Just a man who seemed real and genuine and his cock fucking me like the tortoise from the children’s story, oh so fucking slowly.
He ignored all my pleas to increase the speed or pressure. Like the tortoise, he took his time, making me wait, making me ache, until I was quivering from the smallest exchange in energy. He was ruthless in his execution and I was completely submissive to his wishes.
We fucked on and off for hours, finally collapsing into bed at 3am after a date that started at 1pm the day before. I was his mad rooter, but what’s so bad about that?
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