Cougar Cornucopia

I have been with a trifecta of cougars in my life. The first one was when I was freshly 21, and celebrating New Year’s at my first real adult party in Chicago. I’ll let the photo do the talking:

The next was in London, where I met a Spanish coug with massive fake cans on the dance floor of a (now-defunct) club called Fabrik. The horny and predatory cougar started giving me a vial of inhalable drugs (poppers, as I would later learn they were called), which led to us making out on the dance floor. This would cause the girl that I was in London to visit to completely abandon me and leave me for dead in a city I knew nothing about.

The third I’m going to talk about here:

Several years back, I used to work at a margarita bar in Santa Monica with the dubious title of “bar security.”  Which meant nothing since we couldn’t hit anyone, unlike my Chicago bar job where I would be punching a guy’s front tooth out one minute, and the next, I’m getting shipped to the hospital at 4 AM in need of facial stitches from a guy sucker punching me while throwing his friend out for ripping the christmas decorations off the ceiling.

While my Santa Monica job was a joke, the amount of fresh, young tail walking around the area was not.  But I ignored most of it.  Yes, being the abnormal pervert I am, I wanted something more, something different; I wanted a cougar.

There was also a sea of crackheads roaming the street (including a gypsy that spit on me), so I tended to tune people out when they’d come to my post out front and try to talk to me.  But there were a few “key words” that could snap me out of my daze and garner my full attention.  One day, I heard one of those words.  That word was “divorced”.

My eyes fell on a woman standing there next to me: older, curvy, donning a pair of thick glasses, and speaking in an even thicker Bronx accent.  A living, breathing cougar, here in the flesh.  Excitedly, I extracted her phone number and we made plans to hang out.

It took nearly two months for the big date to actually happen, and during that time I was getting some really confusing text messages, like one that said, “Can’t wait to rock it with you…”  Huh?  Rock what?  Are we playing Rock Band??

Being the classy individual I am, I made our rendezvous point a special one:  Finn McCool’s, an Irish bar in downtown Santa Monica. I showed up on time, and she showed up—well, let’s just say that from the time she was supposed to be there, to the time she actually showed up, I drank three beers and ate two slices of pizza—and I’m a slow eater!

Of course, she comes strolling in and orders a cosmo and a big ass shrimp salad, and then starts eating that shit right in front of me.  All I could think was,

“She better not make me pay for that.”

SHE MADE ME PAY FOR THAT

The bar’s lighting afforded me the opportunity to study her features in greater detail.  She had some wrinkles and shit, but whatever.  It’s not like she’s a grandma or anything.  Why, that would mean she’d need kids of her own!

“Hey Cougar, do you have one of those little good-for-nothing beasts that come out from between your legs?”

“I have a son named [insert generic white person name].  He’s twenty.”

whatthefuck.com

That’s when I realized I didn’t know HER age.  I needed to find out.  But how to do it smoothly?  Luckily, I’m no stranger to these things.

“So what are you like, 40?”  I still regret saying this and think I should have gone with my other option: “So what’s menopause like?” 

She said she was “closer to 50.”  I started throwing out a bunch of numbers before I came to the realization that her 40’s were behind her.  And although she never outright confirmed it, all signs pointed to her being the ripened age of… 55 years old. She was twice my age!

Suddenly she’s talking about this time her and her husband (present tense ‘husband’) broke into a zoo in Hawaii and got chased down by an angry ostrich.  It was exhausting listening to her talk.  Plus I was bored as shit.  I was so bored I hallucinated that a giant game of Tetris was happening right there on her forehead.

It dawned on me that there is very little common ground between you and a date who is almost 30 years older than you. I was ready to get to the bread-and-bones of this date. It was time to head home and bring on the SEX.

You see, originally, I was going into this date looking to abstain from sex.  I had long term ambitions: I wanted a sugar mama.  But walking out to her car I realized that THAT would require hanging out with her again, and I was not prepared to go to there girlfraaynd (*snaps fingers*).

We got inside her car, and I got inside her face.  We started licking each other’s faces sloppily like a couple of farm animals.  I pulled back and suggested we take it to “somewhere else”, where there weren’t people standing around us taking photos.

Then she goes, “But i wanna go dancing!”  Bitch, it’s Wednesday night.  Where the fuck you wanna go dancing?  Then I realized I would have to give her her fix before I got mine, so I acquiesced and we went to a place called the Bassment.

The prior time I was there, there was a DJ, so I naturally expected the same (or something similar).  What we got was a band filled with Country-Crock degenerates playing some type of Riverdance bullshit.  I leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, not happy with the band. But then she put her buttchecks on my crotch and I just started fingerbanging her right there in front of everyone.  The plan (or lack therof) worked and we were back at my house in no time.

Walking into my place, the look on my roommate’s face was priceless.  He’s ten years older than me, so he’d be surprised if I ever brought home a chick his age.  But for me to bring someone home ten or fifteen years older than HIM??  He was amazed, horrified, and baffled all at once.

Me and the cougar got into my room where she commented, “Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been in a bachelor pad…” and that was the last thing she said while clothed.

The sex?  Well, what would you expect?  If you haven’t been with an older lady before, I want you to close your eyes and envision it. Whatever you are picturing right now is probably exactly what it was like. Her best years were behind her, sure; but what she lacked in tautness, she made up for in experience.  No frills, no bullshit.

We went at it for awhile.  Okay, maybe not “awhile” awhile, but I exceeded my previous record of four minutes and thirteen seconds, that’s for sure.  She didn’t want to let me finish, but i was like, “Yo Cougar.  I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’m going to pop this nut off real quick.”  And I did.  And then I fell over and lay there in bliss, where I planned on remaining like that for the next several minutes.  But then I heard this:

“Oh, I’m not finished with you.  Not even close.”

I looked around.  Was she addressing me?  I gave a hell of a performance out there, and she was demanding a second round??  I was not inclined to participate in these events.  I needed an out.  Should I try to sweet talk her out of it?

“God, looking at you [as I stared at her butt cellulite]… you must leave all the boys breathless…”

Her response?  “Breathless… and helpless.“

HELP

I somehow managed to make her give me a ride to the donut shop around the corner and drop me off there, where I apologized for having to call it early since, uh, I had “a meeting” early in the morning.

I worked at a bar!  What meeting!?  Luckily she bought it and I was able to escape her clutches.

And that was my last cougar experience. That’s it. Retired. Thanks for cum—erm, coming, I’ve seen enough.

…Still looking for that sugar mama though!