Cougar Tales (NOW)

Certainly, there was a time when the cougar's prowl was taboo, which is quite different from being unheard of. But to my surprise, I witnessed a scenario not too long ago where, in the parking lot after a wedding, the bridesmaids were screaming, "He's young enough to be your son!" A new sex study suggests that about a third of unmarried American women 40 to 60 years old have taken a carnal interest in the youth.

Hardly surprising, but you don't have to look to the hills, or statisticians for that matter, to get the raw goods on cougar hunting patterns. But bear in mind, many more untagged married lasses are underground, playing Mrs. Robinson in their neighbourhood. You can see why, given how, once bitten, their intrepid young buck prey tend to scamper all over creation indiscriminately professing variations of "She doesn't care when I come and go or what I do – and she never turns it down!" What a novel concept!

***

Was doing some heavy hauling around the house and in desperate need of another hired hand. On the horn, Circuits, a physical brute, utters the open-ended "Soon come" but of course never shows.

Rolling up unannounced about a week later, decked head-to-toe in white, he'd look positively sanctified if not for his shit-eating grin. On cue, he starts singing the praises of cougars by way of explaining his no-show, which is not to be mistaken for an apology.

Apparently, Circuits was on his way and just happened upon an older dame during a pit stop at the liquor store and was subsequently dragged off to the cougar's den of cross-generational iniquity, where they've been holed up ever since, unabashedly doing the Filthy McNasty.

Age-schooled technical merits aside, the beauty of his coug' is her want of absolutely nothing but the good wood, high and hard and on demand. And never much of a gent, Circuits details the minutiae of their copulation – dialogue and sound effects included – until I implore him to ease up before he soils his crisp new duds. "Man, she'll do anything anytime, anywhere," he reluctantly concludes.

He then sheepishly asks to borrow my video camera. I fetch it. "Keep chasing that young shit you can't catch anyway, bro," he chides. "One day you'll see the light." I tell him I was once blinded by it.

***

Trapped at a book launch and getting snookered to alleviate the stuffy vibe, I'd carelessly backed into someone, but the rather attractive woman behind me fesses up to having purposely jousted me to start a conversation. Turns out nothing much need be said. She was clearly the driver of this lust bus and I the fortunate tag-along to destination cougar's lair.

On the road, it's established that she's clocking late 30s to my early 20s. Talk about factoids. Her ground rules were also set: "Don't wreck this by getting all personal, OK?"

Strangely, personal only pertained to "significant others," as she freely jawed about jobs, kids, siblings and other flings. Many blessed weeks of wine-fuelled repartee leading to improbably inspired humping ensued – until one fine day at my pad when the wheels blew off the love buggy.

I answered the phone to delight in the voice of a girl – as in around my age, and ready to give up the funk – asking, "Is it cool to drop by?" Negative! She's wondering why not. Hound in the headlights, I can't confess.

Instead, I make up some shit and resentfully ditch the call, the logic being that a cougar in the lap is better than a chick on the wire. That function-over-passion epiphany doesn't hit home until my "guest" ultimately splits, not because of my boorish behaviour but because we'd burned through our combined condom stashes. The many rounds of duelling oral had also left us both sore-jawed and somewhat apathetic.

"Too bad we can't fuck some more," were her parting words, and by no explicit arrangement we never spoke again.

Circuits digests my caveat, then pats me on the shoulder, earnestly suggesting, "You should find that woman" on his way out the door.

***

Quite some time later, Circuits shows up, camera in hand, so I immediately demand a screening. He's uncharacteristically unresponsive, hangdog and resigned. The device never left its case.

"That woman is killing me, man. She fucks me into dirt. I had to run from her the other day," he laments. I piss myself with laughter. His cell goes off and, sizing up the display digits, he starts whining, "It's her. Shit… oh no, she wants the hammer again."

I'm flabbergasted that, visibly shaken, the Great Cougar-Slayer has become the hunted.

"Imagine how I feel?" he sulks, yet clearly more dumb-ass than horn-dog, he takes the call....