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.

Hookers On Ice

An actual IM conversation on Thursday between The Bitches, B and W.

B has been dating G for three months, and while she continues to see him, she's not entirely convinced if she likes him or not. A perfect summary, as told by B Friday morning: "G was super annoying last night, and I was thinking to myself how much I dislike him. But then he gets all snuggly, and I'm like, dammit, I'm a whore."

B: Okay, so I maaaaay or may not have a date with a boy who is not G tomorrow night.
(Scarlet Letter)
W: YESSSS.
B: No, I feel bad.
W: Don't feel bad. I mean, you guys haven't exactly had the "exclusive" talk right? Regardless of whatever creepy things he says to you.
B: No, but I feel like it's unsaid, and I'm a cheetah.
W: Meh, I say get yours.
B: OMG, I'm a cheating douche bag. :-( :-( EV-IL.
W: I seriously don't think so. Your heart is not with G.
B: It's with him a little bit. I do really like G. I just can't NOT explore.
W: I think you have to do this to know at the very least.
B: ALSO. This new guy wants to go ice-skating (Obviously it's a first date, and he doesn't know I have the energy of a house cat) OUTDOORS. What if there's a run-in cheaters-style? I'm scurrred.
W: Risk it, bitch!
B: Wait. To make it worse I'm staying at G's tonight so I can't even shower before the date, and I'll have my overnight bag WITH ME. Bruuuuuuuts.
W: .....
B: I know. I feel like I should cancel.
W: Hahaha, I kinda love it.
B: Really? You honestly don't think I should cancel. When I'll be all shack-ridden from the night before. I mean, let's be real. It's a little gross.
W: It's a little hilarious.
B: Ugh. I guess that's why the beauty overlords created dry shampoo…and Mexican showers.
W: How often do you stay at G's? And vice versa?
B: Sweet baby Jesus, strawberry cheesecake yogurt is delectable. Sorry, what? Oh, I stay there a couple times a week and usually a weekend night (whore).
W: Hmmm....
B: Yeah. See? We're dating.
W: Eh, I'm never all that committed, so I'm like go for it!
B: Me neither, and clearly I'm not good at it. Nasty hookers x 2.
W: JUST DO IT for fuck's sake.
B: Ugh, will the ice-skate lockers have room for my whorey overnight bag? Probably not. These are the things I think about. OMG, I have visions of like birth control falling out of my bag, and G just showing up and running onto the ice. WHY CAN'T WE JUST GET DRUNK INDOORS?
W: Suck it up and enjoy a new boy.
B: Yeah, I don't know why I'm worried. I'm basically a professional sketchball when it comes to this crap. Ever since I was a youngin.
W: That's the B I know and love.
B: I've been hookin it on the down low since I was 16. Why stop now?
W: Ex-fucking-actly.

Text message follow-up.

Friday, 8:42 pm
B: Been sitting outside waiting in the cold for half an hour. FYL.

Saturday, 10:48 am
W: iiiiiimgonna need a recap asap.

Saturday, 11:42 am
B: Haaa he finally showed up. But I’m sticking with G for now, I think.

Was new boy inordinately lame? Or do we have honest-to-God beating hearts? We'll never tell...