Don’t call me a cougar!

I don’t like being called a cougar. I don’t know when it became such a dirty word. In recent years, I was even guilty of judging cougars myself, vehemently correcting people that I was a puma (ergo, under 40). I wasn’t fond of being a puma either, because pumas are just lesser cougars and my fragile ego didn’t need to be an inferior jungle cat. I would like a new title: jaguar. Because jaguars are the classiest of the jungle cat family. That’s why the cars have such sleek lines and were the vehicle of choice of refined Englishmen. Old money cars. I’m too classy to be a predator. I should be sought out by collectors, like fine wine and Picassos.

I already compromised once by settling for a relationship with no sexual chemistry.  I’m making up for lost time.  I know an older guy would be more mature and not inclined to be an amateur MMA fighter.  They are probably more financially secure, and a sugar daddy is quite tempting. I could sit home watching the Hallmark Channel and tennis all day in between bursts of creative writing inspiration. It is really tempting to not have to bust my ass stoking the ovens in hell every day from 8-5. And I’ve tried, I really have. But when I’m on Match.com, and I click on guys my age or older . . . they just look OLD. I don’t look that old. (At least I don’t think I do. Which is shocking giving the amount of alcohol I consume.) I don’t want to be reminded that I’m getting older. I want the last 15 years back. And the best chicken soup for the soul that I can recommend is a hot stud with abs of steel. Dating younger men is the perfect way to recapture the years your ex took from you, especially since his latest blog photo looks a little like Jabba the Hutt.

The other day I was in Newport, RI for my annual tennis pilgrimage. Sitting in the window of my favorite drinking establishment, the streets were suddenly crowded with young Navy men in uniform. They streamed into the restaurant, like a massive swarm of men the likes of which I’ve only seen in my stripper fantasies. Or a Village People video, if they were straight. My friend was disgusted by the fact I immediately went into heat. At 41, it is surprising that still happens. But damn! They were everywhere I turned. I thought it was a sign, like a warning of the apocalypse and my rapidly approaching AARP membership.

In my mind I’m still 32. I think that was the perfect age, and I would have had an awesome time had I not been trapped in a sexless marriage in godforsaken Rochester.  [Motto: The place where time stands still–probably because of all the chemicals in the air.] When I look in the mirror I know I’m not 32 anymore. It’s intimidating to have some jiggle when a young stud slaps your ass. But there are many guys who just don’t care about that. If you are confident and feel sexy, they just don’t care. And if they do, use them and kick them to the curb for the next guy.

It also helps to get rid of all the mirrors in the house.

Coo coo cachoo…

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