Cougar At Twenty-three

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As the delicacy of just baked young male flesh seemed to be the hormone-driven cougar women’s main nutrient intake, I was led to think that they held the secret of pleasure’s longevity, of tight thighs and happy bouncy breasts for the years ahead when other couples might desperately wonder what show to watch that night.

Looking forward to enjoying the pleasures of youngsters at a later age, does it seem normal to say that I first spent some time exploring intimacy with father figures? Well, what can I say? If their mental age was about mine, which meant just around nine, we were then a perfect fit! After touching more and more wrinkled skin, the day came when I thought to myself: “Oh! How do I crave young fresh flesh!”

What was the problem with me? Why was I finding it so hard to be attracted physically or mentally (let alone both at once) by guys around my real age? Maybe I didn’t know how to live in the now and lived my future to distract myself from my fear of it. Maybe I had met those people in past lives, forgot why we broke apart and was foolishly happy that we might be united again. Maybe I just wasn’t confident enough with myself to realize that I could get a guy my age if I wasn’t losing time dating deadbeat dreamers who were ready to craft a new world between their bare bloody hands for ungrateful me.

Well, it had to happen. Seeking to attain balance, doesn’t one often go from one extreme to another? I fell in love with the freshest flesh on the meat market: a not yet legal virgin with no facial hair but the softest duvet! My encounter with this young fella happened two seasons after I told the last could-be-my-father type “ta-tah” and started re-flowering myself to have it just like a virgin with someone I would, for once, truly go crazy for, would truly get moist for, that I would get to know bit by bit until one day, one lovely day, naturally and without any questions, we would start to… ah, I do not dare to spell that delightful and censored rite! I have shivers down my spine evoking the sensual pleasures I have once known that are no longer familiar to my body.

I did not think about this new guy too much at first, but as my interest and desire grew into a constant stream of fantasy that my body made half-real, I faced my emotional self and realized how much I was delusional in my relationships. I tried to rationalize to keep the friendship going, in a platonic way of course.

His cute attempts to get closer to me made me smile at first since we were not of the same league. Slowly, the honesty and intensity he deployed in his innocent courtship grew on me. I became more and more vulnerable to it.

As he crashed at my place when he was in town, I did really good at appointing him a bed that wasn’t mine. The dreaded day came when, out of my control, the situation called upon bed sharing.  “Oh Divine, please help me!” I cried as I sealed myself up with clothes and took place next to him (oh his fresh scent) in bed, not ready to give up on the vow I took a few months earlier. The first night went okay, I do not recall sexual dreams leading to an orgasmic awakening, although I did get drenched in sweat, being used to sleep naked.

The second night was painful. All day I had been delighted by the sight of his strong and tanned body, wet with salt water, shining in the August sun. Not being in the city nor surrounded by society, the social age conventions were evaporating out of my mind. Again, we went to bed and the following morning, it was not the sunshine that awoke me, nor heat, but my inflamed ovaries yelling at me: “woman!! Will you get us or not to work and reproduce? Come on, we’re ready for a little sport!”

I understood why my cat (my friend pet and not my own pussy) would meow and rub herself onto anything, painfully, before being fixed. I had myself never accumulated such sexual energy, since I would normally do like lots of other people do: get drunk and get low with whoever was cute enough for a blurred late-night vision. Frantically, I got out of bed and took on whatever tasks I could find to use up that energy and to hold myself from acting like my cat. But really, it was too late: I was hardly remaining focused in his presence, imagining intensely caliente scenarios.

We did get closer and closer. We slept holding each other’s hands, then bodies. One day we had our first kiss (how soft was a duvet-covered lip against my feminine mouse-stache). I was experiencing stages of intimacy I skipped with previous partners. Stepping back a little and living these moments enabled me to grow. I was letting him lead, forgetting my seducing patterns, even becoming clumsy as we touched. We went on like this for a moment until one day…

… to be continued!

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Nessa, back in Montreal, was shocked when someone made her realize that all she ever speaks with, writes with, shares ideas or shoots interrogations at the world with are the same 26 letters arranged or not in assembles. Alas, that realization didn’t help her scatterbrained intellect to find center.

Photo: Madonna and Jesus Luz for W Magazine, photographed by Steven Klein

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Why I Wish I Was Still A Virgin

jill and me at 15 I wish I were still a virgin. The more I date, the more I think this. When I was younger I was a naïve fool who wanted to wait until I fell madly in love with a man to give it all away. Though I did date men, none of them were my loves and by age 22, my hormones couldn’t take it any longer and I lost my one and only v-card to a guy who didn’t even know how inexperienced I was. We were barley dating and whenever we saw it each other it was only behind closed doors. I liked him, he liked my bed, and when I finally threw up my arms and sighed, “Fine, let’s get this over with,” he delivered the most awkward five minutes of my life. Thankfully all my sexual conquests since him have been much much better and he and I no longer talk. Even though I have seen the light, I know how great it can be and I have had some fantastic moments between the sheets, I do still wish it never happened. I’ve never been in love and I’ve never been in a relationship. Being in my mid twenties, I can’t help but feel like a complete freak and as if I’m missing out on something. The past three years I have been on a downward spiral, my bitter bone has been gaining strength and I’m starting to see how living a full life, as a spinster might not be the worse thing ever. At the same time, I wouldn’t mind trying out this love business and see if it’s as great as everyone says it is, and if all those romantic comedies aren’t totally full of shit.  With this in mind, I have, once again, opened myself to the great world of dating, though not completely. Actually, if I’m being honest, I have barley opened the door to even whisper “Hello world of men, it’s Shelby!” I have been taking baby steps, each more terrifying than the last and with each step I lose more and more hope that everything and everyone isn’t awful. The main reason for this is that I can’t help that most men just expect sex, immediately. I know we all get horny every now and then, but a bit of respect and courting will never go out of style. Also, it’s terrifying to sleep with someone new. Part of the reason why I stopped dating was because I wanted to stop hating myself. Getting turned down just because I wouldn’t have sex on the first date or sleeping with a man only to get the cold shoulder afterwards and eventually never hear from him again. A person can only take so many beatings before they cave in, have enough and curl into a ball, cutting off the world. This is why, lately I can’t help but think if I never had that awful first time with some guy who wasn’t even worth my time to begin with, then how much bullshit would I have saved myself from? If today I were still a virgin, still waiting to be in love, then I wouldn’t be hurt by the guys who never called after we were “together,” I might not even have been hurt by the guys who turned me down when I turned down sex. If I said I were a virgin they might have just left without getting mad. Then again so many people tell me that the pain is part of the process and we’ve all been there. All I know if this lady is getting worn down by the process and sick of the expectations. Though no virgin today will believe me when I say this, but the world was a lot less complicated before I gave it all a way. Shelby Monita is a freelance writer living in Toronto. Her writing mainly focuses on music, more specifically underground and punk rock. She welcomes the travel bug with open arms and loves to share her stories. You can read more of her work on her site casamonita.com.