Age is Just a Number

Posted on 15. Feb, 2007 by Rocky McGuillicutty in Conquests

I always thought that obtaining my first pelt would be a cause for celebration.  A toast of the finest scotch at a local watering hole with all my fellow hunter friends, high fives, lots of smiles, and endless stories all night long.  But that couldn’t be further from the truth.  This memory is going deep, deep into the vault, only coming out to warn others or give someone a good laugh.

I took a walk to the bar on my corner, a bar known for its older crowd to meet an old friend—a cougar friend, but so far just a friend.  She had a reputation for her deadly looks and an even deadlier bite.  That and her craziness.  But I decided to give it a shot, threw back some Budweiser, and headed out.

At the bar there were lots of Cougars, Badgers trying to dance, a dense cloud of smoke, and a band that was jamming out classic bar tunes  (foreshadowing: the band was the highlight of my night).

The young coug (35) I was meeting looked great.  But alcohol was in her system.  She wasn’t sloppy, but her mind wouldn’t stay on one thought for very long.  One minute she was hot, the next she was cold.  One minute she wanted to dance, the next she was telling me to leave her alone.  She wanted a drink, she didn’t want a drink…on and on and on.

My head was telling me to run, run and never look back, somebody else can deal with her, she would be someone else’s problem tonight.  But by this point, I had enough beer in me to block the warnings, and let my other parts do the thinking.

After a strange night of mixed signals, I was taking her back to my place.  I was undecided if we were still just friends or if “I want to hump” meant “I want to hump,” but I couldn’t allow a friend to do 60 on the highway.  It took time to convince her to walk rather than drive the cold, 25 yards back to my apartment and when we got back to my place she wanted to go back out into the cold to have a cigarette.  I was too exhausted to follow.  Verdict: Rabid Cougar.  Enough was enough.

I was ready to cut my losses, go to bed and let her take the ‘friend’ couch when she came back into the room.  She had a strange look of focus in her eye.  My heart began to race and in that moment of clarity I realized why they call them cougars.  Thoughts raced through my dome: Had I been played all night? I thought I was the hunter, but now I was about to be mauled!  Is it too late to get Carrrrne Asada taquitos from Taco Bell?

It was too late for taquitos and my time was due to get mauled, but not in a good way.  Mauled by a rabid, crazy cougar who couldn’t concentrate and then like a big cat staking its territory would not leave.

I’m usually fine with a lady enjoying the warmth of my comforter for the night, maybe even making her breakfast in the morning.  But after the mauling I knew I had to get this hellcat out of my domicile. Like a rookie, I turned my back for a second and she was out cold taking the whole queen size bed for herself.  She was still almost fully dressed with 12 layers of sweat drenched clothes on and I couldn’t budge her even though she weighed no more than a buck 10.  And the cherry on top?  She snored loud enough to wake the dead.

I was never happier to wake up at the crack of dawn and get her on her way before she came back for more.  It was my first cougar, and I’m sure not my last, but I can clearly say, “When you see the warning signs of a rabid cougar early on, heed my advice fellas, and run.”

Tags: alcohol, badger, bar, conquest, first, taco bell