Men in glasses. Specifically: men over fifty in reading glasses. Hot fucking damn.
That feeling when a desire shows up for the first time, or when I recognize it for the first time. Like – how could this thing that makes me willing to trade a hundred sunsets for it and pulls my body into lust have JUST SHOWED UP? Now, decades into my sexual explorations? Wouldn’t I have noticed it before?
Sometimes, no, maybe not. Maybe I had to be of an age where being around men over fifty regularly was a thing. The other more generic triggers of maleness that get me (belts, razors, suits – to name a few) work at any age.
Or maybe sometimes desire does just get born. Kinks are born. Kinks die.
Philosophy aside, omg men in glasses. Men who have never worn glasses before. Men who have never had to deal with that vulnerability that I have had had to deal with since I was six years old until they are over the age of fifty. That is fucking hot.
Yes, I have worn glasses since I was six. I’m wearing glasses right now. I have special computer glasses with blue blocker and a homeopathic prism. I’m not kidding.
Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Except of course they do, and I could write a piece just on the ways a man has removed my glasses to kiss me. To fuck me. To pull my head to his cock as I close my eyes and open my mouth.
So this men in glasses fetish doesn’t show up really until the second time I recognize it. The first time, well, it’s my Favorite Lover and there’s just too many things I find hot about him. Plus one of his many personas is professorial and the reading glasses look just works on him so well that it isn’t until I see it on The Plant Whisperer that I realize that I have a thing for the lewk in general.
I am telling this story of my men in glasses urges in reverse order.
The Plant Whisperer is in denial that he needs reading glasses up and until the point at which he can no longer read anything at the length of his arms. The decline is swift for him, and I see him do what he can with natural medicines, herbs and superfoods.
I don’t see him for three months. Thereafter three weeks into a month stay together in New York, one night, when trying to read the instructions on some laundry detergent, he slyly pulls out some tortoise shell print reading glasses and looks down through them at the box in his hands.
And this sweet moment of surrender, dear reader, is when I note the universality of my heat for men in glasses. The Plant Whisperer is an elemental, not an intellectual. He has slices of intellect but he is of the green and has a different wisdom. He doesn’t fit that teacher/professor fetish at all.
But the sight of him in reading glasses that he was too ashamed to buy sends me slick and panting and fuck hungry for him. The sight of him in glasses he apparently picked up from the drawer of the hotel he stayed in to isolate while he had SARS-CoV-2 hits the very same notes played by Favorite Lover in the glasses I bought for him (which I will tell you all about below).
The Plant Whisperer glances sideways to catch me drooling at him and grins. He plays it up. Pulls them down and gives me a stern look over them.
Men in glasses. It’s a thing.
And it’s not just men in glasses, no, it is specifically that vulnerability that comes with age. Vulnerable, honest, wounded men in glasses. Men over fifty in off-prescription reading glasses. Men that can’t quite get it together to get themselves a scrip, let alone a homeopathic prism, yet still they’re going to visually condescend. They’re going to look down at me over the glasses they are ashamed to wear.
Men are different about their bodies. They’re male about them.
And Favorite Lover:
He’s holding the phone in front of his face looking down at me over the rims of one of the three pairs of reading glasses I bought him.
He goes through them. Can’t run a lifestyle that protects much. Chafes at me and my wallet, yet somehow that and most of his many other flaws show up as idiosyncratic features that rub my clit just right with rare and delicious chemistry.
Looking down at me. The audacity.
He’s wearing the glasses to read the cybersex we have been having for over an hour now. The way it accentuates his maleness in that his eyes may be fading but his libido and his dick still going strong is just so desperately hot.
At the sight of him in the cheap, round, black plastic frames perched over the bridge of his nose, one eye squinted shut, tongue to the same side between his teeth which is what I know he does when he is close to coming…
At just the sight of him, the initial burst of image through the screen into my retina, I soak.
Me, not visual, always so snarkily jealous of men for that specific ability, me, I have found a new trigger. Before even any time to process all the narratives that come with cheap Chinese reading glasses, my hand races to my clit and I feel my cunt lengthen and I sigh the way I only do for him.
Everything in the image turns me on. His hair, unkempt. The week of beard he’s grown by ignoring shaving. His face in the thralls of some self-pleasuring binge he thinks might be brought to one of its peaks by peering at my own face while I come. Peering at my face through those reading glasses.
He’s looking down at me. There is something so fundamentally hot in being intellectually shamed by him specifically and less so but with really anyone and I have somehow missed the signifier for this in a pair of cheap reading glasses of possibly the wrong prescription all of my life until this moment.
My gut clenches and my cunt widens, he’s not here, and it’s so much harder to come for him when I don’t have his cock inside me to bear down on. I struggle and flush, and lose sight of anything but his face with those cheap fucking glasses awkwardly in front of it, not in front of his eyes, no, he doesn’t need that to see my face on the screen, but he hasn’t taken them off. He just keeps them there as a prop, peering over them, ignoring them.
They are doing nothing for him but everything for me.