I remember it like it was yesterday. We were gathered on the front porch, huddled around a case of Coors Light, consuming its contents and barely making a sound. To any passerby, it would have looked like we were waiting for it to say something, as if to dictate how to conduct our lives on such an uneventful Friday night. Then out of the warm, stale summer air came the words that would dramatically change the direction of the evening (and for some of us, our entire lives): COUGAR BAR.
Not a single follow up word was uttered. We dispersed, each going to our rooms to rustle up and frantically iron any articles of clothing that would make us look unlike the scumbags we were, but like presentable, functioning members of high society. Within 20 minutes, we were suited up and getting in the car.
The destination had been long rumored to be what one would call a “cougar den” — a bar where lonely, bored, thrill-seeking mature women would gather to get liquored up, find a boy-toy for the evening, and give him the ride of his life. So often were we the ones doing the hunting that it only felt right that the tables should turn and members of the opposite sex should vie for our attention.
The car came to a halt, so I pulled out a fifth of Jack Daniels and took a long pull from the bottle, as if trying to drown the uncertainty/excitement of what the night had in store. Ol’ J.D. made his way through the group, giving us the liquid courage we would need to bare with the sins that were about to be committed.
The inside was exactly what you would imagine. A guitarist on stage looked not a day under 60, was playing an awful rendition of “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” and was backed by an equally geriatric-looking group of musicians. The customers, on the other hand, were of a kind that I had never seen before. Need a visual? Imagine the girls at your last formal, add 30 years of age, slut ’em up a little, cake on some more makeup, give them some “fuck me” eyes and you’ll have what 90% of the women in the room looked like.
A surge of confidence overcame our group — it was time to do what we do best: drink, charm, party, and pull. This was it.
The Uncle Rico-looking bartender had a heavy pour and just like that, our inhibitions, good judgment, and most of all, morals, went out the window. We were posted up at the bar in a Lloyd Christmas fashion, setting up the vibe, and within minutes, our four-man group was approached by four silver vixens (the math couldn’t have been more perfect). The leader of the pack got within inches of my face, pushed her heavily supported chest against me, pinned me against the bar and uttered:
“You boys look a little lost.”
She smelled like something in a glass bowl in my grandparents’ living room and had skin like the wallet in my back pocket. All I could think about was Grandma’s Boy and Nick Swardson’s “That pussy smelled like the Great Depression” line from the movie. I looked around and saw that my brothers had already been individually neutralized in an almost Navy SEAL-like manner. These women knew what they were doing and frankly, they were really good at it.
The night progressed, they pumped drinks into us like diesel in to a semi-truck, and before long, we were in a cab (before the days of Uber and Lyft) following a black Mercedes S-class through Orange County. Within minutes, the Benz pulled in to a long driveway that led to a house that reeked of divorce and alimony. We drunkenly tried scraping together the $17.85 cab fare but were interrupted by one of the women at the passenger window, handing the driver a $50.
We made the trek up the long driveway, stumbling behind Margot (the hotter of the four) and I desperately tried to comprehend what was happening. We walked in through the tall doors and into the living room, where the other GILFs (as they came to be known) had made themselves comfortable on the plush leather couches, heels off and wine glasses in hand. Margot disappeared for a second and came back with a bottle of Patron Silver.
“Are you guys thirsty?”
Thirty minutes and a few shots later, I found myself on a lounge chair in the backyard, pants at my knees, dad-bod exposed through my open shirt and a 90-lb. woman that tasted like merlot and Pall Mall menthols straddling me. I composed myself, got in the zone and tried to give her the 12-minute performance I had given a ZTA pledge a few nights before.
She made it painfully clear that this wasn’t my show. She was in charge and my job was to stay still and stand at attention (pun intended). I did as instructed and she let loose. Without getting into a poor attempt at a 50 Shades of Grey excerpt, I’ll just say this: I’ll take middle-aged with three failed marriages and two 30-something-year-old kids over young with blonde hair, big tits and daddy issues ANY DAY OF THE WEEK.
After a night of dicking the cast of Golden Girls, we picked up the scraps of our dignity and made it back to our house around 9:00 a.m. We walked in the house without saying a word, walked up the stairs and stopped in the hallway next to where our Greek Week trophy case was. We all thought it, but nobody dared say it — we officially met our match last night.
A guy we called Tiny Balls walked out of his room with a basket of laundry, looked at us and said something to which we laughed and parted ways.
“You guys look fucked up, What’d you do last night?”.