David Chilton, a Toronto writer and freelance journalist, sent us his cougar tale and we have chosen it as our winner! David will be sent a free copy of Myna Wallin’s Confessions of a Reluctant Cougar.
Thanks, David, for letting us read your hilarious story! Below is David’s tale – enjoy!
A Unique Double
I was twenty-two. She said she was thirty-eight. That meant her math was off by a decade. But so what? I’d met her daughter who was close to my own age and an exceptional example of Scandinavian-ness. She was tall and willowy, and of course she had blond hair and blue eyes.
But, back to her mother because it was through her I thought I would snag my Nordic lovely. Snag? The word seems harsh now, but when Miss Plastercaster was a rock ‘n’ roll celebrity, boys chased girls much like ferrets chase rabbits. And cougars, although they weren’t called that then, were already hunting down young men.
The first time I got caught was after yet another night in a union hall discussing our local’s forthcoming contract negotiations. These affairs always ended with us swilling beer in a West End dive that was infamous for its noon to midnight strippers and biker ownership. Leastways a dangerous looking guy or two in colours always worked the door.
A few draft in, the cougar whispered that she had a bottle of rum at home and would I care to join her after the rest of the crowd had exhausted its store of Newfie jokes, dick jokes, and screw-the-boss rhetoric and toddled off home.
When the last stripper of the night had gathered up her g-string and the meager tips she’d made, the cougar and I headed to her apartment, a dumpy walk-up that backed onto a forlorn strip mall. Her daughter was out, pulling a university all-nighter.
The cougar poured a shot of rum and then another. Then she leaned in, her eyes out of focus, and said in the unintentionally loud voice of the drunk, “You can stay here tonight. I’ve got space for us both.” She laughed. I laughed. I’d done this before but never with someone so, well, old. But emboldened by the beer and rum and acutely conscious of who my real quarry was and my chance at a unique double I decided to front it out.
But suddenly there was a hell of a banging on the door downstairs. The cougar swore. More banging. Then a voice. A man’s, slurred, but easily understood.
“It’s me. Gerry. Open the fuckin’ door. I got somethin’ for ya.”
The cougar clumped down the stairs, popped the lock and there stood Gerry, our fifty-odd year old local president. His pants were down around the tops of his work boots. He pushed his way in and with the exaggerated swinging of his hips he was able to make it halfway up the stairs where he tried but failed to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He tumbled backwards into the cougar and the pair of them fell into a middle-aged heap against the door.
I’d seen enough. I jumped past Gerry, hopped over the cougar and kept going. She’d have to catch me another day and I’d have to wait a bit longer to snag her daughter.
Vive le couguar!