Doug Sorito
Author’s note: The following story is a work of fiction. At least that’s what my stripper girlfriend thinks.
SAN DIEGO (TNA) – You know what grinds my ass? Fake cougars, that’s what.
Case in point: A while back, I was at a local cougar bar that I affectionately call “The Wrinkle Room,” because it attracts an older crowd. On Saturday night, this place is filled with guys with beards trimmed like Kenny Rogers’ and women who paid for their breasts to look like Dolly Parton’s.
The place is also filled with college-age students who think it’s “retro-ironic” to hang out with drunks old enough to be their grandparents. I like to go there with Prince, one of my illegitimate sons, and show him the proper way to order a martini.
I also show him the proper way to pick up older women. Thanks to me, he knows that while a line like, “You’re pretty cute for a cadaver” works perfectly at Goth coffee houses, it’s not so successful at cougar bars.
But a cougar hunter has to learn some things the hard way: like how to tell a real cougar from a “cougar lite,” my term for a middle-aged woman who wants the attention from young men that comes with the cougar rep, but without engaging in the predatory sexual athletics.
Take a recent experience that started at The Wrinkle Room: Prince got up on stage and sang a rousing version of “Anarchy In The U.K.,” the go-to song for people who can’t sing (I taught him that), and, naturally, he attracted the attention of two drunk soon-to-be divorcees who shook their ample breast implants in approval.
One of them, a frosted blonde, came up to Prince and said, “You could be on ‘American Idol.’” He responded with a line I taught him: “I do my best work lying down.”
A few minutes later, the woman was dragging him out of the bar. I wished him well with a hearty “First poke for me.”
All was well with the world: Prince would go home with a cougar, get the life fucked out of him and be kicked out before dawn. He would brag about it to his friends and, like any proud father, I would brag to the gang in anger management class about how one of my illegitimate sons was turning out to be quite the cougar hunter.
But that didn’t happen. He wasn’t home before dawn, or before noon. In fact, it wasn’t until dinner when he called me from, of all places, Bed Bath & Beyond.
“Dad, you gotta help me,” he said frantically. “I just wanted my dick sucked, but then she insisted we go to brunch, a wine tasting, and a renaissance fair. Now I’m looking at bathroom rugs. Get me out of here!”
Since he was my firstborn illegitimate son, I felt obligated in a way that didn’t involve financial support. So I told him to make a break for the Game Crazy store and hide out behind the Halo 3 display until I could pick him up.
When I got to him, Prince looked like he had just lived through the Bataan Death March (though survivors of that dark moment in U.S. history would agree my son’s situation was far worse).
“Dad, what happened? I thought I was going to get my meat stick grinded and … instead, I got some crazy lady who wanted a, a, fuckin’ boyfriend!”
“Son,” I said, preparing my words carefully. “You just ran into a ‘cougar lite,’ a breed of woman who acts like a cougar in order to lure some guy who’s ‘young, dumb and full of cum’ into her lair for a relationship.”
“That’s just wrong,” my son said, punching the car door.
“It’s not only wrong, but it’s fairly common. I had her pegged from the moment we saw her in the bar, but had to let you find out for yourself.”
“But how? How could I have known?”
“Signs, son. For instance, during karaoke, when the DJ played the Pussycat Dolls, all the other middle-aged babes started grinding like strippers, but she sat in her chair sipping her Lemon Drop. A real cougar wants a drink that’s as stiff as the cock inside her.”
“Dammit! Why didn’t I pick up on that?”
“A fake cougar is a crafty animal—more importantly, did you stick your finger in her ass?”
“Just like you taught me.”
“How did she react?”
“She said, ‘Not on the first date.’”
“Cougars don’t date, son! They just fuck! That was your sign to leave. If this cougar were legit, she would’ve either let you … or said, ‘Only if I can stick my finger in yours.’”
“I should’ve known,” he said dejectedly.
“Don’t hate yourself, son. It happens to the best of us. Now, after boning her, what did she say?”
“Uh, she said, ‘Let’s cuddle until morning and then I’ll make you breakfast.’”
“Goddamnit! Haven’t you learned anything? A card-carrying, taint-licking, deep-throating cougar would’ve kicked you out of bed by 4 a.m. and said, ‘You’ll have to leave. My divorce lawyer is coming over early.’”
“I’m such a dumb ass!”
Prince and I then had one of the father-and-son moments that every dad dreams of. He admitted that he could learn some things from his old man, then called one of his friends-with-benefits from the local junior college so we could have a threesome.
The next weekend, we went to The Wrinkle Room and I pointed my son toward the real cougars. With his sideways baseball cap and T-shirt reading “I Wish You Were A Beer,” he had no problem finding hot older women ready to give him handjobs in one of the Naugahyde-covered booths.
“How ya doin’ son?” I asked as we passed in the bathroom like ships in the night.
“Great!” he said. “I just fingered this REAL cougar while you were singing ‘Fly Like An Eagle.’ Smell it,” he said, offering the digit to my nose.
“That’s my son, in everything but surname,” I said with pride.
But hell hath no fury like a fake cougar scorned, because that Botox-abusing parasite from the previous week showed up and started in on him.
“I thought we had something,” she shouted.
“Hey,” my son shot back. “I’m too young to get into a relationship. At least not until I master ‘Guitar Hero.’”
Several minutes later, I approached her as she waited at the bar for another Lemon Drop—the preferred drink of fake cougars. And because I know women like this (mostly from dating their daughters), it was obvious a firm, gentle approach was in order.
“We have mutual acquaintances,” I said. “You fucked my illegitimate son last week.”
“Oh, yes,” she snorted. “Some son you raised. He hasn’t he called me.”
“Well, you see, he’s not going to call you,” I retorted. “My son doesn’t like women who lie about their sexual intentions. You and I both know you’re practicing a bait and switch here, and I’m here to stop it.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said wryly. “I’m just a little cougar on the prowl.”
“Uh, you’re not a cougar,” I said. “Real cougars don’t go to wine tastings or brunch. It cuts into time that could be spent draining spunk from the cocks of their son’s horny friends.”
I paused for effect, and then took a sip of my very dirty martini.
“My son doesn’t need to waste his life carting you around to Target,” I sneered. “There’s too many women to fuck, sister!”
But this fake cougar wasn’t giving up so easily.
“For your information, not every guy goes out with an older woman just for sex,” she said, before dropping the C-bomb. “Some really want companionship.”
“Fuck that shit!” I spat back. “Guys who want companionship don’t go to bars wearing shirts that say, ‘I Wish You Were A Beer.’ My son and his friends want old-fashioned hos who suck balls, lick ass and swallow loads – and then forget what they did the night before.”
Just then, my son strutted by with two women and said excitedly, “One of them said she’d give me a blowjob, but only after I fucked her friend in the ass.” Then he looked at the fake cougar and told her point blank: “I fuckin’ hate Bed Bath & Beyond,” and left with his new cougar pals.
“First poke for me!” I shouted with pride as one of the cougars grabbed his ass.
“Don’t let your meat loaf,” he responded.
The fake cougar looked at me with the same indignant look I get from all my baby mamas around the time they’re supposed to be getting my support check. But I wasn’t letting that stop me from my mission.
“Listen sweetcheeks,” I lectured. “These idiots have their whole life to go to Bed Bath & Beyond. Don’t steal their youth away from them.”
Just then, an amazing thing happened, something that restored my faith in humanity. Although the bar was more crowded than ever, an ever-widening circle was forming around the fake cougar and me, a circle of avoidance.
“What’s happening?” she asked fearfully.
“The jig is up, babe. You’ve been tagged as a fake cougar and now no one wants to be tainted by your presence. Consider it your scarlet letter,” I said. “Leave so the real middle-aged hoes can get their fill of hot young dick meat!”
She slinked off, but not before having one more sip of her Lemon Drop. The crowd cheered her exit and two sorority girls bought me drinks the rest of the night.
Life was good.
Prince ended up having the cougar threesome every man dreams of and is considering having a tattoo artist fill in the claw marks on his back so they become permanent. And me? I ended up going banging one of the sorority girls in her dorm while her R.A. boyfriend played World Of Warcraft down the hall. She recently posted on MySpace.com that she’s dropping out of State to have a child.
Good thing I gave her a fake name.