At thirty-seven, she had lived at least four lives. She had a cat who had outlasted two husbands, four states, three jobs, and a college degree. She had lived through heartbreak and rebuilt a life for her son and herself.
She had everything she needed, and she was the best she had ever been. She was convinced her life was going to be filled with friends and fun and cats, but no men. She was designing her house to look like a perfect Pinterest board, on her own terms.
One night she recreated herself in a black dress from a dear friend and makeup that said, “Look at me – no really – look at my eyes, they are beautiful!” She went to a party, smiled at a boy, surrounded him with accidental touches, looked him in the eye, and told him stories that intentionally featured her ass in tight jeans.
When she got home that evening, she fished with dynamite by posting a sexy picture showing off all her best assets where she knew he’d see it.
She hadn’t planned to date a younger man, but she decided the 22-year-old was someone she needed to have.
Oh, yes. Twenty-two.
Is this what they call a “cougar?” As a strong, independent woman, does she even like that term?
Three days and several hundreds of texts and emails later, she knew he could at least make a reasonable attempt at keeping up with him in her mind. And if he could keep up with her mind, then surely that body of his could keep up.
He came over for a faux date (the kind where he comes over after the kid is asleep), and at the 44 minute mark of the movie they were watching, she hit the pause on the remote and hit the play on him and he did not disappoint.
She felt strong and powerful and beautiful.
After years of men who were on the upward side of 30, men who were old at heart, he felt like heaven under her hands. For him, every move was new; every touch unselfish and patient.
The days lingered on, the texts exchanged numbered the thousands, the nights got later, and the mornings more coffee-fueled. She knew this was more than hormones; she adored this man and he adored her right back. There was an agreement to “take the scenic route;” no rush to hit the bed because they had nothing but time.
Then one night, after a steamy couch session, “My barbell got caught on my zipper.”
His what got caught on his what? Where? What? It would not be the last time he taught her that age and experience did not mean the same thing.
Night after night of almost but not quite, she looked him in the eye, shrugged one naked shoulder, and raised her eyebrows in challenge. In an instant he picked her up and carried her to bed where she got a lot of time with that unseen barbell.
She doesn’t know if she’d call herself a cougar, but at 30 something, she’s finally realizing what it’s like to feel sexy, strong and confident.
After spending the past nine years in two different relationships, CGG Contributor Dawn, is now going the single mom route and learning that she can install a dryer hose, put down hardwood floor, and actually be pretty frickin’ joyful on her own. She does, however, miss great sex. You can also find Dawn on her blogs, Kaiser Mommy and My Smaller Home.