…that I’m not a cougar yet? (Not that I plan on being the kind of cougar that this link describes, it was just the funniest definition I found. I’ll pass on the plastic surgery, the Botox, the leopard prints, and the whole ‘preying on young men’ thing. I fully plan to just stay natural, wear clothes that hide more than they reveal, and then sit back and let them come to me. -snerk-)

Apparently, the cougar-coming-of-age party doesn’t happen until you turn 40. Which hardly seems fair. After all, MILFs are younger. Early 30s and up and you can be a MILF. I suppose I could go have kids, just to even the score, but by the time that happens, I’ll have passed the “no cougar” zone anyway…

And does that mean Cougar Prey has to be a certain age as well? Clearly, legally, at least 18. But what if they’re 28? Too old? 30? Way too old?

Not that I need or want to be a MILF or a Cougar, per se, but I don’t like the fact that there’s an age limit, that someone else gets — once again — to define my sexuality. You must be this tall to ride this ride. No, I don’t think so… I’ll be riding that ride long before I hit the proper age requirement, I think.

Age has never mattered to me. Not in life. Not in sex. The ages of my friends are all over the board — young kids to eighty-plus year olds — and I like it that way. My desires don’t have that broad of a range — which isn’t to say that they couldn’t, just that they don’t. I don’t have daddy fantasies (although there are some amazing writers out there who make me wish I did after reading their work), and I don’t drool over young boys as a rule — my desire seems to run strictly on a case-by-case basis, and age has very little impact on it.

I’m thinking about cougars and age and young boys lately mostly because I’m working on a cougar story for an upcoming anthology.

Here’s a bit from the draft of “Submerged”

I know that not eating and too much walking has cut down my curves some, made me leaner than I should be, my calves long and tightly sinewed, my stomach concave. I never wanted to be one of those Madonna-women, all odd muscles and tendons where there should be curves, bearing those skeletal smiles. You never wanted me to be that either.

If you were here, Sam, you would dress me up in heeled boots and the green cocktail dress you bought at Saks, pull me down to your special table at Sur, force-feed me tiny, fat morsels—gourmet cheeses, half-cooked slivers of steak from the end of your knife, bites of torte and creme fresh. You would tie me to the bed after, wrists bound in the impossible figure eight of your favorite leather belt, bringing me to near-orgasm again and again while you left me there, immobile but for the rise and fall of my hips and breath. You would have said something perfect and laughable, like, “I can see the curves of your ass growing. They’re beautiful,” even as you fingered the tight clench between the globes of my skin, slid in to the knuckle, farther. And I would have come, finally, mouth clenched over the pillow, those curves you loved pushing upward off the sheets into the swat of your fine hand.

If you were here, Sam, oh the things you’d do to me to make me well. But you’re not here, are you? And so I stretch my too-tight, too long legs out on the side of the boat and I watch the boy work the motor through my big dark sunglasses.


Old enough to know better, young enough to do it anyway, s.



Gratuitous MILF photo, because it made me laugh. In case you can’t see it, their truck says, “MILF Realtors. We’ll sell your house, or we will give you free blowjobs for a month!” Of course, I love the fact that there’s a guy in the photo too.


“The age of a woman doesn’t mean a thing. The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles.”  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson