Kittens in a Cougar Lair

I am one of millions of women who have lived their dating years in an era where boyfriends and husbands twice my age are perfectly acceptable; possibly even considered cliché or passé. Men frequently rob the cradle on the dating scene, trading in women their own age for the newer, improved model. With degree in hand, post-college years I have spent aching for the company of a man who has moved on from his days of beer pong and graphic tees to the high life of city lounges and sports jackets. Naturally, men mature at a more relaxed pace than women, leaving me to the 30 plus crowd for potential boyfriends.

I find that older men possess a lot of qualities I find incredibly desirable. For example, with age comes a more solid career, which typically goes hand-in-hand with a loftier paycheck. Not only does the older man not hesitate to pick up the bill, but he often drives a nice car, owns his home, and understands that yes, my affection can be bought. Furthermore, he is more experienced in bed and understands women’s needs, as he has been at this game for quite some time. Though these qualities are appealing, an interesting dichotomy occurs in dating men over 30. I am forced to ask myself, why is it that this charming, handsome, successful, 35-year-old man has not been snatched up by my competition? There is no way, by any stretch of the imagination that these men have been hiding in caves until our first date. The answer is very obvious: baggage. Thirty-something’s have baggage. Whether it is an ex-wife (or three), a child, or an accident that lead to a 10-year coma, there is always something strange going on with these men. Even so, striving for any relationship that makes sense to me, I have ignored baby mama drama and ex-wives threatening me in hopes that the pay-off will be worthwhile.

Like most things in life, dating do’s and don’ts are constantly changing. A new era began with the uproar of the Cougar. This ferocious creature is a complete role reversal, daring to do what no one has done before: older women dating younger men. The idea seemed pretty absurd to me initially, but it has grown on me over time and I consider it to be an appealing novelty. I made an important decision on my 25th birthday: I needed to be a cougar.

I certainly can’t take full credit for this decision. In fact, the whole idea came to me when I realized that several of my friends had already decided to ditch their older boyfriends. Besides the obvious annoyance of baggage, somewhere in their 30’s men seem to lose their ability to sail at full mast on a regular basis. This is simply unacceptable. If they want to date a woman 10 years their junior, then they need to keep up. I actually think it should be a requirement for all men over 35 to keep a stock of Viagra if they intend to date women who are still in their child-bearing years.

Tiffany was the first to take the plunge. She exchanged her 42-year-old real estate developer and restaurant owner for a 22-year-old busboy. Extreme? Absolutely. I would expect nothing less from her. Next was Julie. She traded in her 38-year-old car dealership owner for a 23-year-old mortgage loan officer. Not only did these young bucks have stamina, but they worshipped the ground that Tiffany and Julie even debated walking on. I needed one of these ASAP. I went ahead and cut my lease short on my 36-year-old real estate developer/high-school teacher and traded in for a 23-year-old financial advisor.

I already know the thoughts going through the readers’ minds. I am only 25, so can I really call myself a cougar for dating a 23-year old? The answer is yes; I can do this because I don’t normally date men my age. In my own world, I wouldn’t have dated someone who is 23 unless I was still 16. I was dealing with a huge difference in male profiling. This guy could go at any moment; the last one was missing part of his team. I tend to like to live in extremes too.

So there we were, three sexually satisfied and dually adored women with men who would normally not have a shot in the dark at a date with any of us. It seemed to me that the dating standard was certainly dated and this new innovative thinking was the way of the future. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that I was on the forefront of a new epoch. It wouldn’t be long before I was in history books and giving seminars to desperate women in need of direction in the cruel world of singledom. Just when it seems that things in my life hit a brilliant apex, they crash down around me. This was no different.

My young buck had a problem. I’m not a gold digger by any stretch of the imagination, but chivalry is not dead. Furthermore, being frugal is completely acceptable in these economic times, but being cheap is just sinful. I have a simple rule: for the first several dates the man should pick up the bill. I thoroughly believe that my company is priceless, so taking out that credit card should not take a second thought. However, and I stress this point, I do not expect a trip on a private jet to box seats at the opera. Take me to McDonalds for all I care, but please don’t expect me to take out my wallet. Let’s just say baby was cheap.

He was beyond cheap. I understand that he was fresh out of college and not making a ton of money. I won’t hold that against him. I also won’t hold it against him that his parents were completely loaded and would have given him any money without even asking if it was for rent or beer. In fact, I thought it was admirable that he didn’t milk mommy and daddy’s money and paid his own way. This was a boy who was on his way to manhood.

My respect for not accepting checks from the parental quickly changed when I realized that he wasn’t just hiding his wallet on dates because of a cash flow issue. Turns out he had graciously accepted a brand new luxury care from mom and pops, including fully paid insurance and they threw him on the family cell phone plan for good measure. None of these things would have bothered me if he had been honest about them and if he hadn’t been so miserly with me. I didn’t even like the neighborhood he lived in and I loathed the bars he and his friends frequented. Yet, I went to these shitty post-college meathead congregations AND I paid my own cover. I put my foot down when he asked me to grab him a drink after I paid for his cover too.

I have had complete strangers buy me in on a round of shots; this guy couldn’t handle the $5 it cost to get me into the bar that I wouldn’t be caught dead in? Luckily, no one I know or anyone of importance goes to such establishments, so I was never in any real danger of being seen there. If I had seen someone I recognized I can guarantee they would have ducked for cover, not exchange acknowledgments, and the event would die with the closing of our tabs. I tried to pay cash at these places because even credit cards can be traced to prove you were there on purpose on a Saturday night. It’s embarrassing enough to know you are at these places, but for others to know? However, I was safe because by telling others in my social circle that you ran into me hobnobbing with a group of fake id’s and faker tans, you admit that you were there too. It becomes a secret both parties take to the grave.

In my determination to succeed as a cougar I needed to stick this out longer. The fresh meat was good for a few things, as long as I could avoid being seen in public with him. He was hot, had a great body, and granted my demands. It was the first time in this boy’s life that the woman he was seeing was not groveling over his chiseled bone structure and great ass, willing to forego being treated like shit in order to be his fucking prom date. Oh, sorry, frat formal date is more appropriate. Baby knew that I held the reins since I was confident and knew my value. He knew I could drop his ass in a heartbeat for an older, richer, more successful and seasoned version of himself. For the most part he held up his end, but the cheapness was killing me. It needed to stop.

The breaking point was the sheet and towel incident. Without disclosing too much detail, it is a known fact that a woman experiences a natural letting of blood about once a month. Though not as openly discussed, most couples don’t mind a little mess. Just put a towel down. In a heated moment the towel sometimes moves, flow levels change and what have you. It turned out to be a bit messier than anticipated, looking more like the aftermath of a murder movie than a romantic comedy. Quick to react I stripped the bed and saved the day, threw those threads in the wash, and problem solved. At least I thought it was solved.

Next day through some texting conversation, the youngen suggested I get him new towels. Excuse me? If I remember correctly the towels were fine. In fact, the linens and towels were probably much cleaner than they had been since mommy last visited town. This was beyond anything I could have anticipated. I didn’t see it coming at all; less predictable than the Apocalypse. My obvious irritation translated into him trying to play it off as a joke. News flash: people don’t joke about buying new towels. It’s less funny than joking about a filing cabinet. I was done.

I decided it was best to ignore him forever. Later that day I popped online and he tried to start up a chat. This is easy, I thought to myself. I told him I was not interested in seeing him anymore (though in my head booty calls didn’t count). I cut to the chase when asked why, “Because you are cheap and it’s as much a deal breaker as not believing in oral or disliking Prince.” Frankly, I don’t think any further word exchange was necessary, but he wanted to dig his grave deeper. Even looking past the fucking towels I informed him that I don’t hang out in Manayunk, I don’t like bars that resemble frat houses, I don’t want to meet anyone’s frat brothers, and I was taking my cute, refined ass back to Center City to get hammered and make mistakes at classier places to uphold the facade that I was a legitimate adult. He relented when he realized nothing he could say or do would make him seem anything less than the guy who dodges only tips 15% pre-tax for a fantastic server.

Looking back, I think the end of my cougar days began with Tiffany’s break-up. Something about the busboy’s credit going south when he tried to take her on the vacations she became accustomed to with her previous suitors. Julie really had it rough. Her man, her boy, lived with his parents in the house he grew up in. Nothing like realizing you are looking at baseball and football wallpaper while getting it doggy-style to ruin the mood and reality to smack your ass back into your gold-digging ways. Mine had to go because he never picked up the check. It just wasn’t going to work with him not paying for my cocktails, fine dining, and an occasional trip to the spa. Though he did look fantastic naked and had a full head of hair, I decided that life without baggage can be a little too dull for my taste anyway. Luckily I was able to dust off my shovel and hop back on the gold digger bar crawl without anyone noticing that I was missing for a month. My vibrator being my primary source of sexual satisfaction isn’t the worst thing in the world. I have firmly decided that this kitten will not be visiting the cougar lair for a long time. I’ll leave the young ones for the real cougars to whip into shape.