Tag Archives: cougar

And Here’s to Me — Mrs. Robinson

Boys, boys, boys:  Mmm-hmm.

This early morn’, I took a drive through LA-LA.  Did you know it can be a pretty mofo — if you go against its traffic?  Oh, yes, it can, my kittens!

And this kitten — yours truly — somehow ended up in someone else’s cot last night.  It wasn’t planned, I swear; because in my feline fashion, no matter where my paws wander off during sunlight, they always lead me back home at the end of each day.  But when I saw the one from last night — in a tight T, which was barely holding onto its seams at his Apollonian pecs and drenched in sweat from a late night jog — I think I suffered a temporary amnesia.

Now, don’t be “yelous”, papis!  ‘Cause no matter where I rest my paws, I always report back to you, via this here rant blog.

“Last night didn’t mean anything, I swear!  You — are the only ones I truly love!”

So, here I am:  Scratching at your door.  Hellow.

I did leave him sleeping in his bed looking very pretty though, slightly disheveled and tired.  (What?!  We just played a coupla rounds of patty cake, that’s all — and I won!)  But before I left, I got sidetracked by his sleepy face:  He was frowning a little.  He must’ve been slaying dragons in his dreams.  From where I stood, his ripped back looked like that of a man.  But underneath the stubbly morning whiskers, I somehow managed to notice a little boy.

Damn my ovaries!  I swear:  Every single time I’ve fallen for a boy, they are at fault They forget, you see, the boundaries between my lovers and sons; and as if to make-up for the fact that I’ve never put ‘em to work for the sake of my own procreation, they confuse the hell outta me — and I adopt the men I love.  (Just last night, when rubbing his head on my naked breasts, I didn’t even think to remember that man’s function in my life:  He was it all, in that moment, across every category.  My son.  My baby.  My little boy — and man.  My love and my lovely.)

This maternal overcompensation must be the very reason for my recent basking in the attention of significantly younger men.  No matter where their phone numbers are collected — at some artificially manufactured playground of LA-LA or a late night dance floor packed with plenty of other specimen — when they reveal their age (24 to 26!), I have to summon the best nonchalant face I can, to not scare them off right away with my skeptical chuckle.  And considering they are always a lil’ bit defensive about those numbers, I suspect they are aware of the possible age difference.  Yet, still, they proceed.

(I am actually quite fascinated by this generation of younger American men:  They aren’t easily intimidated by older women.  

“A woman — is not a girl,” one them was trying to break it down for me the other day while nearly drooling.  (No shit, kitten!)  “She knows what she wants and how to get it.”  (Hmm.  Papi, may I?)

More over, these youngsters seem at ease when it comes to gender roles.  All of the ones to enter my own speed dial this last month make no fuss about picking up the tab or opening my doors; but are still quite comfortable when a woman turns out to be more sexually aggressive.  They all kinda smile a lil’, boyishly, while quietly answering my questions; until the tables are turned — and it’s their time to step up and be the men they so painfully desire to be.  Hmm.  A coinkydink?  Perhaps.)

This morn’, somewhere in West LA-LA, I passed a young couple hugging at a car.  I couldn’t see the boy’s face, just the back of his UCLA-gold hoody.  But I did see his girl’s face:  quite pretty and seemingly still asleep, she had her eyes closed as she rested her cheekbone against his ear.  Her strawberry blonde hair swooped down, until the boy reached over to gather it into a messy ponytail by which he gently but knowingly guided her face to his lips.  Got skills, mister?  Mmm.  Mazel tov!

And then there was the pretty creature jogging sleepily through the cozy streets of the Melrose District.  The way his joints moved was the exact reason I never mind a packed beach:  For there is something so calculated, strong and graceful in the way a man can throw a ball, or carry a surfboard (or a girl) over his shoulder.  Despite the slightly baggy clothes on the young athlete, I could see the fit body underneath.  But it was really his face — the face that reminded me of the sleeping son I left behind — that nearly brought me to tears:  There was determination in it.  Determination and clarity that hasn’t overcrowded his innocence yet.  I could tell he still knew how to dream, and his world was oh so full of possibilities.  This boy was not running from or to yet:  He was still taking his life, a sleepy leap at a time.

Somewhere closer to home, in Hollyweird’s zip code, a young hippie caught my attention.  His dirty blond hair was unbrushed, spilling out from a small ponytail in the back of his head.  Looking very Johnny Depp in Chocolat (or pre-Jolie Brad Pitt), with no bag to burden his strut, he walked along a perpetually depressing, long white wall of a local studio set.  I bet he worked in production, in a clan of gypsies — stagehands and craftsmen — who are always ever so cooler than any celebrity actor on set.  I bet my hippie had a few stories to tell:  about his personal Milky Way that led him to this Weird Land of Holly; and about the way life fell into its place, as it does in this town — but only for those with courage and discipline enough to chase it.

With his and my own reflections in my rearview mirror, I thought:  What am I to do with this new collection of young dreamers?  with all my sons?

Then, I realized there was nothing to do — but to be kind:  To cause them the least amount of disappointment and heartache.  Some would eventually act their age, get scared and return to the sandboxes better suitable for their courage.  Others would continue to demand my company as they grew into their manhood.  But I should never be the source of their suffering; because their lives — and other women, other mothers — would have enough of that in store. 

Instead, I should remain a fan of their yet unmarred beauty and youth; let them rest and leave them dreaming their morning dreams of slain dragons and new Milky Ways.  And the ones that would insist on following — well, then:  We should play another round:

When I Grow Up…

“Wheey-it a minute, wheey-it a minute!  That would make you a cougar!”–the other night a very “old” comrade of mine tried to get the facts straight when he learned of the 4-year difference between my lover and I.  “Baryshnikoff!”–(he tags me by the name of his own invention)–“You.  Are.  A cradle-stealer!”  Funny, comrade.  Real funny.

My records will speak for themselves:  Prior to my current boo, I’ve always had a preference for the older gentlemen.  Well…  Except for this one time…  and then, that other time, that happened just once…  Regardless:  Either due to my former youthful arrogance toward the opposite gender or my daddy issues, at least a five-year gap in my man’s favor was always must.  But, as I am claiming these days–with dignity and pride in my man’s age (and appearance)–the tables have turned.  Or the clocks have stopped.  Or the patterns of revenge on my own absentee papa have been reversed.  I shall leave it up to my fabulously aged shrink to dig up the reasons for this change; but I must hurry to admit:  I LIKE it.

But the question on today’s agenda–is not my lover’s age.  It is my own.  For the very first time in my life, I feel that I have become the woman I’ve wanted to be.  Although I’ve owned a vagina for now THIRTY TWO YEARS (!), and although I’ve never really been the type of a broad to be in denial about its functions or consequences, only in the last half a decade have I been fully thrilled to carry its license.  As for my curvatures, I have accepted my handful-sized breasts and the apple-shaped behind (which still earns compliments from prepubescent boys and men-children alike); for I have learned:  The secret is not in the baggage–but in how you carry it. I am perfectly alright with never achieving the measurements of Ms. Monica Bellucci (although I doubt that my mouth–and lips–will ever stop watering at the mere thought of her); because I’ve been granted exactly what a woman of my size and ambition is supposed to handle.  I’ve been given just enough.  So:  I’m the petite brown yogini type that travels light and runs away from the ways–and men–of her past.  ‘S cool.

Yet, now that I have finally started liking my own refection, my mirrors have begun to bend.  Those fuckin’ wankers!  A wrinkle here and there has yet to make me freak out.  But my body’s sudden obedience to gravity–that has been somewhat disheartening.  Just the other day, a friend’s photograph has captured my breasts’ misbehavior:  while refusing to salute via the erect nipples, the actual white meat was in the midst of some sideways shift that left V puzzled at first–then horrified.

So, what IS a woman to do when the signs of aging are no longer possible to ignore?  Cover up the mirrors?  Hire a surgeon in 90210?  Drop all girlfriends with honest tongues–and get a membership to the Real Housewives club?

Well, the lovely, gorgeous, soft-skinned compatriots of my own gender:  As the British government propaganda has once eloquently proposed, the answer is–“To keep calm and carry on.”  I have yet to discover motherhood or house ownership or retirement–or whatever else older age delivers into a woman’s capable hands.  Yet, already I’m beginning to adore my reign in the kitchen which would have been not only impossible but offensive to the young feminist I once was.  I dwell in my maternal tendencies toward my comrades and lovers; and those too have flooded my heart primarily with age.  The strut with which I have learned to carry my petite frame, the sway of my apple-shaped ass, my perpetually un-styled, disobedient hair–there is a degree of self-acceptance in all of it that I would not trade for any goddess-like endowment of Monica.  Besides, my 20’s were such hell hole–I’d rather lick a Hollyweird tranny’s taint for breakfast every morning than miss–or go back–to my “youth.”

So, I shall “keep calm and carry on” while bending my limbs and curvatures into pretzel shapes of my yoga classes.  I shall tend to my health and accept the way it looks on me.  I shall continue my weight management that consists of mostly chasing my dreams and keeping up with my young lover, and pray that the esteem of self-awareness and a life well-lived will make me find myself still sufficient–and beautiful!–in a few more years. As for my men:  I DO hope that the vain or the delusional ones depart for the younger types–and the sooner, the better.  And something tells, me that only the ones I actually want to be with will stick around for a woman well-aged into her skin–who reigns in the kitchen and fucks with the lights on–the woman I am continuously becoming.

P.S.:  “All fine and dandy for her, that biatch!” you might say, my dear ladies.  If you must freak out and disagree with your mirrors, at least follow the ways of the French:  http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/15/fashion/15French.html.