Cougar Time

The idea of dating or at least playing "grab ass" with a younger guy has been something I have been toying around with for some time.  Now, having recently entered my third decade of life and therefore my (pre) cougar years, the time seems right. 

            I find my target at the least likely of events: a Republican debate for the upcoming presidential election.  I'm a registered Democrat, but I volunteer to work the debate because I am curious as to what life is like on the red side of things.  Plus, they're paying me which is music to my impoverished student ears.  This turns out to be quite fortuitous, as I meet a pretty little young thing that I immediately decide I am going to corrupt...horribly.  After working with my PYT (yes, that is a Michael Jackson reference) and flirting shamelessly for three days, we exchange information.

            I am pleased to hear from PYT a couple of weeks later when he invites me to join him and his friends for drinks later in the week.  Being the multitasker that I am I also agree to attend a launch party for a new liquor company earlier that night.  I figure I will be brimming with all sorts of liquid confidence by the time I meet PYT and his buddies.  Besides, if I'm already drunk it will make me feel much less creepy and child molester-ish for pursuing someone seven years my junior.

            That night, I meet my friends Sandy and Mark for a little pre-gaming.  Even though there will be free booze at the launch party, somehow it still feels necessary to drink copious amounts of alcohol before we head over.  As soon as I hop into Sandy's car, Mark hands me a half-empty (or half-full, depending on your outlook) bottle of champagne.

            "Finish that," he orders. 

            I, of course, gladly oblige as we head to the club where the party is being held.  We arrive at the club and Mark reveals a second bottle of champagne, which we take turns chugging from as we wait on the line to get inside.  Now, I should mention that this is not Cristal or Dom Perrione we're drinking.  Oh no, no!  We are passing around a bottle of Andre that Sandy bought on sale at CVS for $3.50. 

            We're such classy broads!

            Sandy hiccups and continues gulping down champagne.

            The party is fun and we get some cool free stuff from the liquor company, but once the open bar is over, we decide there is no longer any need to hang around.  After a stop at the supermarket for more cheap champagne and forties (what night would be complete without a little Old-E), we head back to Sandy's apartment.  Somehow, we end up lying around Sandy's living room watching The Lion King, which is way more thought-provoking as an intoxicated adult. 

            Finally, I get a text from PYT informing me that he and his friends are on their way to a bar.  I say goodnight to my friends and head off, with fantasies of young penis dancing around in my head.  Unfortunately, shortly after I arrive, PYT's friend's girlfriend having overdone it on the pre-gaming has to be taken home.  They invite me to go out with them again two nights later and we head our separate ways.  I am disappointed, but I know with patience and due diligence I will get my "Mrs. Robinson" on.

            I meet up with PYT and his friends again two nights later at a trendy club where they somehow have a hookup for free admission.  Of course, before we actually go into the club, we have a few drinks in the parking lot in hopes we will be buzzed enough that our bar tab is not too ridiculous.  This is Vegas after all and drinks are not cheap.  Our group which is comprised of me, PYT, his roommate Doug, and their friend, Serena happily passes around magnums of Seagram's 7 and Jack Daniel's.  Being the only two females, Serena and I bond instantly; chatting about shoes and other inane female topics. 

            "So what's up with you and PYT," she whispers, smiling slyly.

            "We're friends," I reply, not really sure of a better explanation.  Plus, it sounds better than admitting I plan to ride his face like Seabuscuit.

            Serena takes a long swig of Jack Daniel's and leans in closer to me.  "He's hot.  So, you should go after that because if you don't, I will."

            This girl and I are definitely going to be friends!

            I take the bottle of whiskey from her hand and take a few sips.  "That's the plan.  And Mr. Daniels is going to be my wingman."

            After drinking ourselves to a "happy place," we go into the club.  Of course, per usual, the venue is unnecessarily loud and dangerously overcrowded.  The flagrant disregard to fire-code regulations displayed by these places in nothing short of remarkable.  But, since I have a nice Tennessee whiskey-induced buzz, this does not annoy me as much as it normally would.  Our group somehow manages to find space on the dance floor close to the deejay's stage and everyone begins happily dancing around.  And by dancing, I mean thrashing their arms wildly about with no rhyme, reason, or for that matter rhythm.

            Admittedly, I am not the best dancer.  I have zero sense of rhythm which is sad considering I am black and the ability to dance is one of my people's supposed talents.  Consider it a genetic defect.  Not that I care.  I still get out there and do my thing, which always looks like I'm having a seizure and a heart attack, while being electrocuted.  In this crowd, however, I do not think it matters.  I'd venture a guess that about eighty-five percent of those in attendance are either drunk or hopped up on any number of illicit substances.

            Ahh!  Gotta love Vegas.

            I spend the majority of the night dancing with PYT and Serena.  Once 3am rolls around though, we are all a bit tired and far more sober than any of us want to be.  Leaving the club, the group splits; Serena and Doug head home while PYT and I head back to my apartment.  Not quite ready to call it a night, PYT and I crack open a bottle of wine and settle in on my couch to watch some light-night/early morning television.

            After a few too many glasses of wine and infomercials, I decide the time has finally come to lure PYT into my cougar den.  Now, throughout the entire night, (probably in due to a combination of intoxication and extreme delusions of grandeur) I have envisioned myself as a sophisticated, sultry older woman seducing the younger man who is of course powerless to resist my charms.  It is odd how different perception and reality really are.

            "Hey, do you want to go to bed now" I ask, tracing his shirt collar with my finger and smiling.  PYT squirms awkwardly.  I must really be intimidating him with all of my sexiness; maybe I should dial it down a notch.  Sometimes I do not realize my own power.  "Or we can just watch some more television."

            "Let's just hang out for a little while longer," he replies.

            "No problem."  I pour myself another glass of wine and settle back into the couch.  We watch a reality show about some restaurant where all of the employees are either fighting with or sleeping with each other.  And really isn't that every restaurant?  Well, at least in my experience it is.  Finally, I try to move the action (or lack thereof) into the bedroom again.

            "I'm getting tried.  We should go to sleep."

            "Yeah.  That's a good idea," he replies.

            Yes! At last!  In my head, this is a done deal.  It will be as easy as taking candy from a baby; a very good-looking twenty-three year old baby.

            We enter my bedroom and I quickly slip out of my club gear and hop into bed.  PYT slides in next to me...fully clothed.  Hmm, okay, this is interesting.  Well, maybe he is just being polite and waiting for me to take the lead.  "Would you like to borrow a tee shirt to sleep in," I ask, knowing I have zero intention of giving him a stitch of clothing.

            "No, I'm fine like this."

            WTF?! 

            "Don't you think you would be much more comfortable in a tee shirt, or your boxers, or your birthday suit?"

            PYT shakes his head.  "No thanks.  Goodnight, Nikki." With that, he rolls over and settles in to sleep.

            Wait, what just happened?  Did I miss something?  At first, I am confused by this unforeseen turn of events.  Soon, however, I begin to get angry.  I bought him drinks!  I have to drive his barely legal ass home eventually!  That definitely warrants at least a little second-base action.

            After stewing for several minutes, I decide that I should stop pouting and be proactive.  I climb out of bed and head back into to living room, where I turn the thermostat up to ninety degrees.  He doesn't want to take off his clothes, that's fine.  I'll sweat him out of them.  I am so smart sometimes.  Returning to the bed, I slide in as if nothing happened and wait for the heat to kick in.  After about fifteen minutes, the apartment has become noticeably warmer.  I poke PYT, who is now asleep, to wake him up.  "Are you hot?"

            No response.

            So I do what any rational, mature (and sexually frustrated) person would do.  I shove him off the bed.  This wakes him up.  "What happened," he asks.

            "I thought you were dead," I lie.  "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."  For some reason he believes this and climbs back into bed.  "Are you hot," I ask again.

            "A little."

            "You should take your clothes off then.  You'll feel much better."  He pats me on the head, smiles and goes back to sleep. What the fuck?! Maybe he's afraid of me.  I did growl at him and ask him to refer to me as a "predatory creature" on the drive to my apartment, but that was just the booze talking.  I decide he must be intimidated by my age and extreme sophistication.  Giving up, I roll over onto my side and close my eyes.  The only person getting lucky tonight is whoever runs the gas company because my heating bill is going to be ridiculous!

            The next morning I drive PYT home.  He kisses me on the cheek and says he'll call me to hang out again.  I grunt at him and drive off.  A few nights later, I decide to give PYT another shot.  Or rather, the considerable amounts of Jameson I have been drinking make the decision.  I shoot him a text asking if he wants "to come over and watch a movie in my vagina."  I figure this way there can be no confusion of my intentions.

            PYT responds a few minutes later.  "Hey, I'm going to see Twilight so I can't hang out tonight."  Wait a minute.  Did I seriously just get turned down in favor of "Breaking Dawn?"  Vagina should always win out over vampires, especially sparkly ones.  Ugh! Team Edward-1 Team Nikki-0.

            A few days later, the unthinkable happens.  I finally manage to hook up with PYT.  Considering the effort it took to accomplish this goal, I was slightly disappointed by the experience.  It was like preparing to climb Mount Everest only to find out that Mount Everest is really just a molehill.  Either way, mission accomplished.

            I'm still patting myself on the back for my "cougar skills" two weeks later when I run into PYT at a local nightclub.  We chat briefly and go off with our respective groups.  As the night wears on and my blood alcohol level increases, I decide that PYT should come home with me.  I, of course, decide this without consulting him.  I locate him on the dance floor with his friends.  I strut up to him, grab him by the necktie he's wearing, and demand that he leave with me.  In my mind, I imagine that I am quite the femme fatale.  Ah, gotta love Ketel One-induced delusions.

            To his credit, PYT politely removes my hands from his clothing and explains that he is staying at a friend's house.  He gives me a friendly hug which in my inebriated state, I perceive as an egregious act of disrespect.  "Your loss," I sneer and storm away.  I am (unreasonably) furious with him.  How dare he turn me down!  The nerve!  Stupid little boy!

            As a reach the end of the dance floor, I turn around.  I am not sure why, but something inside told me to look behind me. When I do, I see PYT still dancing a few feet away, but then I notice something else.  Standing directly in front of him and grinding his ass into PYT's crotch is another dude.  The two of them are having a fabulous time groping and rubbing each other.  My jaw drops.

            Oh my god!  He's gay!

            A million thoughts swirl around in my head.  Why did he sleep with me if he likes guys?  Was he experimenting like drunken sorority girls do in college?  Was he pretending I was a man when he was with me? It is all way too much for my brain to process.  I slink back to the table where my friends are still hanging out and pour myself another drink.  Eventually, one of my friends drives me home.  As I pour myself into bed, I decide it's time for this cougar to go into hibernation for a while.