Sunday, April 17, 2011

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 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.

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