Blame Canada.

There’s something about NYC that just gives me that itch sometimes. The nightlife is bustling, there’s an exciting rhythm that makes me want to stay out and be a part of it—EVERY night, ALL night long. As you can imagine, this sometimes leads to crazy, fun, wild, bad decisions.  

I went out to dinner with a male friend of mine. I had a stressful day so I enjoyed a strong, fancy pre-dinner tequila cocktail while I waited for him at the bar. We sat down to eat and shared a bottle of wine. We went to a nearby outdoor bar afterwards. It was a beautiful summer night with a great buzz in the air. We had a few more drinks…well I should say…I had a few more drinks. And then shots. I really hate doing shots alone but he’s one of those friends who just don’t take one for the team. Anyhoo….a little while later we called it a night and by WE, I mean HE. We said our goodbyes and I jumped in a cab. A few blocks from home I started to hear little voices in my head. I was having a conversation with myself in the back of the cab, something like—bad girl “I don’t really want to go home”  good girl “But no one’s around, it’s a bad idea” bad girl “I’m a big girl, I can just go to my local watering hole alone for one or two” good girl “ We’ve been down this road before, it’s a bad, bad, bad move, turn around right now and go to bed—you might even still be able to go to the gym tomorrow” bad girl  “That’s all you care about, is the gym. They know me there, it will be fine, nothing weird will happen, I will just take a peek inside” good girl “Haha, yea OK crazy, you’re on your own.”  Driver re-routes to bar.

I walk in the bar, everyone yells “Norm,” ok maybe they really didn’t…but you get the picture. I made the rounds saying hello to all the regulars and popped a squat at the end of the bar. I’m pretty drunk. I have no business being there, but what else am I going to do on a Tuesday night? A guy sits down a few stools next to me and I see him checking me out through the corner of my eye.  At this point I can’t be bothered because I am too preoccupied trying to catch the objects (ice cubes, lemons, cherries, etc) that the bartender is trying to throw down my shirt from across the bar (did I mention I go there a lot?). Somehow this guy at the end of the bar gets caught in the cross-fire and seizes the opportunity. Bingo, game on.  We chatted for a while. If I remembered what we talked about I would tell you—but I don’t, so I can’t, so I won’t. He walks me home—what a gentleman. Enter the black out.

Fast forward to the next morning. My bedroom looks like a crime scene. My clothes and pillows are thrown all over, there’s an open condom wrapper on the floor (safety first—NO MATTER WHAT!). Awesome. My head is pounding but at least I’m up on time for work. I go to get a glass of water. There’s a bottle of wine, a half drunken beer and a napkin on my counter. The napkin has a name and phone number on it. I’m amused. I google the area code. Canada. Blame Canada. Somehow, I get through work. The bartender bbm’s me “at least one of us got lucky last night”. “Thanks for the shots, go f**k yourself,” I reply.

I ran home after work because I had plans to go out again. Busy girl. SO HUNGOVER. There’s the napkin…still on my counter.  I text “what a hot mess last night, huh?” He replies, “yea pretty messy but at least you remember.” Me “whoa, whoa, whoa, who said anything about remembering?” Skip to later that night. By now I have gathered that this guy is visiting from Canada (sorry I am not always that quick, thought maybe he lived here now) and was leaving tomorrow. The curiosity, the temptation, I couldn’t resist. I had to see just how good OR bad my beer goggles were. He came over at about midnight. We had both been out drinking but not nearly as sloppy as the night before. As soon as I see his face the flashbacks start hitting. He’s cute. SHORT. Says he’s 5’7 but not joke, he’s barely 5’4. Tatoos—lots  of them. Longish hair. Turns out he’s half Italian and half Chinese. Pretty interesting mix, and incidentally my first Asian. I ask him how old he is, he says “26”. I ask if he knows how old I am, he replies “what 27 or 28”? I say yea, let’s go with that.  Cougar, cub—here we go again. He recaps the night before for me. A little more detail than I was looking for but nevertheless sounds like it was a real good time. Apparently we gave my doorman a great show if he was watching the camera on the roof. Then we moved to the bedroom.  I will save the details for my X-Rated novel that will be coming out in the fall. According to my new Canadian sweetheart, I started losing my patience with him in the bedroom about a few things so he decided to leave before it got too crazy. Ok now we are caught up—and back to the present day.  I thanked him for the wonderful bedtime story and told him I was too tired to mess around, and that we will only be cuddling until morning wood. I haven’t cuddled in a while. I forgot how annoying it can be when you REALLY need sleep and there’s a guy grunting and breathing all over you.

Like clockwork he’s ready for me to deliver on my morning promise. Once again, I will spare you with all the visuals except one that I still can’t get over. As I mentioned, this fella has tattoos. Well, one of his tattoos is on the inner underside of his arm. It’s of his Chinese grandparents. A portrait.  He’s on top of me and literally—THERE THEY ARE—I’m making eye contact with this kids CHINESE GRANDPARENTS. They are STARING at me!  I’m trying to enjoy myself but this is just creepy.  I say “dude you gotta do something about this—you’re grandparents are WATCHING US—they are looking right at me, I can’t do this”. We change positions.  He laughs and says “he never really considered the placement when he got it”.  Damn straight kid, and no joke you really should do something about that. I take a quick shower. I walk into my living room and there he is—standing in the middle of the room NAKED peering around my apartment. “You gonna put some clothes on or what,” I say. “Not yet ,” he says “I’m really comfortable naked”. “That’s great,” I say.  I sit on the couch to check the TV. This mofo slowly sits his naked, hairy, BARE ass right next to me on my nice COUCH. Are we supposed to be having a moment here?? Because really I can’t even look in his direction—I stare straight at the TV. All I can think is—ARE YOU FOR REAL?!  I got dressed as fast as I could in hopes that he would follow my lead. He tells me he loves NYC and even went to inquire about joining the NYPD but he would need a green card. I say, “well don’t get any ideas Canada, cuz I ain’t marrying ya…but I hear you can find someone for that online.” I walked him back to his hotel because it was on my way to work. I have manners. “I’ll add you on facebook,” he says. Great, another one—just what I need.

On a side note: I got lucky because this guy was a total gentleman and sweetheart but let’s be real…bad decisions sometimes lead to bad things so please be safe out there.  

Cougar or pedophile?

Two very distinct…and seemingly unrelated words—yet is it possible the line between them is blurring?

First let’s do a definition check…what exactly is a ‘Cougar’? It is almost universally defined as a slang term for a woman in her 30s or 40s (although it used to be just 40 and up) who seeks out, preys on and actively pursues casual sexual relationships (that’s what it says!) with young men (typically at least 10 years younger).

Now let’s compare that with the definition of a pedophile......An adult who is sexually attracted to young children.  

Do you see why there might be some confusion on the interpretation of these two terms?  This question came to mind when I met a friend out for a few drinks after work. From the outside, it was a seemingly regular happy hour spot but as soon as we walked in—we felt OLD. Now, I have to admit…we both look pretty young for our age and can easily hang in any circle—but looking around at this sea of underage boys, I felt like just even smiling at one of them would be committing some perverted crime. I mean, just HOW young could they really be because they all looked around 19 years old—and well, that could be a problem. Are we supposed to start proofing guys now before even making eye contact?

You may be surprised to hear this but we fled that bar like two cougars being hunted down and hope to never return! Yet a few nights later I was faced with the very same question at a swanky spot in the neighborhood. I walked up to the bar to order a few drinks for my friends and met a cute guy sitting next to me. He just got off his shift bartending somewhere else and stopped in to have a night cap—a scotch on the rocks.  We quickly immersed into a great conversation and before you know it two hours had gone by.  As we were profoundly debating the big bang theory—joking—but whatever it is that we were talking about it—it was pretty deep, not your typical first introduction conversation. Then...I’m not really sure how it came up but he made a reference to just getting out of school and I nearly spit out my drink. Just how old are you, I coolly ask? He replies –22--! Ok, not to be an ageist here...but do you know any 22 year old guys who would go out ALONE on a Saturday night and sit at a crowded bar drinking scotch on the rocks? There were just no warning signs about this one!  And by the way…didn’t he just legally start drinking last year (mental note: he would have a lot of catching up to do).

So in my head now, I’m wondering…what exactly is my cut off age—18, 20, 22? This was getting ridiculous. I was skeptical but I convinced myself that since we spoke for more than two hours upon meeting that he MUST be special and to just go with it. (Side note: This might explain why friends keep calling me a cougar).  I gave him my number and left.  He sent me a really sweet, perfectly worded ‘nice meeting you’ type of text the following day. However, if I had paid closer attention to my own rules…I would have been forewarned by his usage of ‘Miss <your first name goes here>’ in his very first text—as I previously outlined in my 5 sure signs that you are dealing with a douchebag post.

I have to admit, I felt a little dirty telling my friends that I was going out with such a youngin…and knew there would be no end in sight to the jokes that were about to come my way for this one. Nevertheless, we went on two really long, romantic dates. There was something really sweet about this lil fella as he tried to impress me with thoughtful plans and took me to hip and trendy spots. The problem, for me, was that he also tried just a little too hard to get me back to his place every time. With each failed attempt at getting in my pants his persistence finally wore off and alas, he was phased out—sparing me from crossing my newly defined personal pedophilia grey line (I may have to copyright this phrase).

In my opinion, the term cougar has become so mainstream and liberally used nowadays that it seems to simply refer to a woman dating a younger guy, regardless of age. It’s amusing that the general public subscribes to the notion that ‘cougars’ are out there hunting rather than being hunted.  In my experience, I have seen the opposite...so maybe everyone is just more open-minded about age when choosing dates, lovers and partners nowadays.  While age disparity tolerance levels are personal, that fine line does exist out there—it’s just different for everyone.  My lesson in this one is that while this cub was surprisingly mature, well versed and a GREAT conversationist…I’m trying to narrow my age gap just a little to something that works better for me. So while I’m still open to dating younger guys, I might not go quite so young (into the early 20’s) like some of the more certified cougars out there.

You can definitely bet on more postings on cougar topics to come…