How W is Coug-ing Her Way Out of a Cooter Sabbatical

Last week I turned 27. Little did I know that would be the year I lost my dignity.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am now officially a coug.

Apparently my body told my brain it's been dried up for too damn long, and out of nowhere, like fucking Teen Wolf or something, I spontaneously sprouted a velour track suit and freckled tits. Which is the literary metaphor for inappropriately touching a 22-year-old in a bathroom. Basically.

So let's back up here a bit. As a rule, I like older dudes. I've been dating guys in their 30s since I was 21. I practically draw the line at a decade age difference. You have to be this old to ride. Clearly this is working out REALLY well for me, as I've had a long list of serious, healthy, nurturing, responsible relationships come out of that...ahem.

Alright, so in reality, I haven't had sex in a year. AN ACTUAL FUCKING YEAR. (Or should I say, non-fucking year.) And I can't believe I'm admitting this in public, or even in public anonymity. Because that hurts your pubes just to think about it. But yeah. In January of 2010 I found out my ex (who remained my best friend) was fucking a functionally retarded mutual acquaintance, while on the side telling me he still loved me. If that's not enough to throw you into a suicidally slutty rage fest, then I don't know what will. Therefore, I dove vag first into online dating, otherwise known as legal prostitution. For the better part of February, March and April, I was pulling ass like a boss. Latin ass. African ass. Rich ass. Freaky ass. Trust me, I was cleaning up.

But even I knew I was about to reach slut overload. So sometime around early May when I met this lovely, polite, kind college professor, I thought I could maybe slow things down a bit and enjoy going to movies and museums and ya know, normal date-y shit. Thennnnn came the sex. How could such a seemingly attractive guy have so much hair on his back? Or have generated enough sweat in 30 seconds to sufficiently shower my face? We awkwardly fumbled around for a good 20 minutes or so before bursting into laughter at how horrifically incompatible we were.

And that was the last time I had sex. Your genitals are crying for me, I know.

Fast forward 12 months, 15 pounds and approximately 65 AAA batteries later...

I walk into my friend's going-away party in my finest skeleton t-shirt and thick black glasses (my standard dick-repellant uniform these days). A few whiskeys in, this incredibly cute (read: dumb) guy starts chatting me up at the bar. He wants to be a rock star (duhhhhhhh) but is mowing lawns and getting his community college associate's degree in the meantime. Hot. He's also the younger brother of my friend's best friend. Hmmm...

The more we all drink, the more we all dance. And the more we dance, the less I care about the consequences of fucking my friend's little brother. The party heads back to my friend's house, and when you're about seven whiskeys down and someone tells you you're pretty...you pull them in a bathroom. It happens.

I have no idea how much we really did in there... or how I managed to get home at 5 am... or just how much of my bank account I parted with for that car from Brooklyn... But I do know I woke up projectile vomiting and getting texts from friends recounting the sounds heard from the living room. I believe one actually used the words "Animal Planet shit." Oops.

But despite my initial mortification, I can't think of a better way for my cooter to get her groove back. Maybe I'll look good in velour.

Bitches Get Stuff Done

Oldie but goodie.

Ummm. Hi. Remember us?

It's okay. We wouldn't either.

Well, it's been nearly a year. Fuck. We've clearly gotten lazier -- even for us. And fatter. Although you can't really tell that part via the blogosphere. But trust us. W's doctor and B's latest bridesmaid dress confirm such facts. The anxiety-induced anorexia appears to have transformed into full-blown macaroni-and-cheese-inflicted depression. Whatever, cellulite is hot for '11.

Other than that... Looking back... Nothing else has really changed.

W still has awkwardly inappropriate run-ins with HOBG at the fridge. B still gets regularly harassed by / infuriated with G (although they haven't dated in...oh yeah...a year). W is still a coffee-lugging, copy-wenching assistant... Oh! Here's something new -- B has a new job! She markets things that keep you from shitting your pants! No really, she must say the word "diarrhea" approximately 47 times a day. And you think we make these things up. B also may or may not have experienced slight penetration from a recent bikini wax...which is the most action either of us have received in months. Real talk.

So what spawned the bitch resurrection? Need we repeat the coffee-lugging and pants-shitting part? We needed some creative outlet. And by creative we mean whining. But that's why we started this thing in the first place. And you're obviously still reading it. So eat our macaroni asses.

Now. Where to start? Given that we have a year of aggression pent up in us, we'll just start listing things in life that have been annoying us lately and see where the next few posts take us...

1. Dear Open Letters in Twitter: You are not clever anymore. Once fashion publicists and illiterate teenagers catch on, your once witty phrasing is retired. Sincerely, Us.

2. Messages on dating sites are just as much a first impression as meeting someone in public. You cannot compare us to a Spice Girl and expect a reply...no matter how many times you've read I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.

3. If you are several years younger than us with better jobs than us, you are never allowed to comment on pop culture. Ever. Say for instance, you're utterly perplexed to why Reese Witherspoon is posing with elephants for Vogue May. Keep it to yourself. You'll just end up embarrassing yourself and pissing us off.

4. The deafening crescendo of our neighbor's new girlfriend's orgasms went from being once a weekend...to once an hour. Have we sufficiently touched upon W's cooter sabbatical?

5. Words of wisdom: Dirty hippie college boyfriends can (and do) eventually clean their shit up. Give them a chance before you toss them aside and they turn out to suddenly have Ph.D.s and rolled-up dress shirts and horn-rim glasses and, ya know, haircuts...and you're the psychotic, sweaty loser with a dead-end job. It happens.

Glad to be back, guys. We promise to keep it up this time, and (god help us) we hope it gets funnier for all our sakes.