Urban Dictionary: A 35+ year old female who is on the “hunt” for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male. The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against a swanky bar in San Francisco (or other cities)waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young and strapping buck who happens to cross her path. “Man is cougar’s number one prey”

Question: Women do you pursue younger men or do they pursue you?

Perhaps you’re recently divorced, and think a younger guy will boost your morale – and be a bit of fun.  And perhaps it will be. But stepping back onto the dating scene requires courage – particularly with a younger man. Some people will tell you the best way to recover from your past relationship is to put yourself right back out there, but unless you have taken the time to evaluate what caused the break-up of your past relationship, and have learnt the lessons that resulted from it, you’re probably better to go gently and find yourself someone with whom you share much in common to ease back in to the dating game – that person may be someone closer to your own age. Emotional baggage is a sure-fire turn-off for most men, especially for younger guys who lack the life experience to be able to relate to and empathise with the ghosts of your past.

For the rest of the article go to http://beyondcougar.wordpress.com

The effort of listing my summer failures is becoming too much for my brain,  I escape to the garden with gin and ‘The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy’ , a book I can identify with so well.    Very soon my failures are but a distant memory as the book, the sun and the gin, take over.

The next day I have been invited to yet another lunch party.   Out of politeness I always accept the invitations even though I know that after an hour I will be planning my escape.    I join a group discussing gardens and greenfly, sip warm white wine and feel decidedly off balance as my heels sink into the manicured lawn.    One of the group, a body double for Billy Bunter,  leers at me and comments in a loud voice,  ‘So, you’re a Cougar now I hear’.    I resist the temptation to reply  ’And you’ve always been an arsehole I hear’,  instead I smile and ask him to define the word Cougar.   He tells me that a Cougar is an older woman who hunts down young men purely for the purpose of sex.   I nod and reply that he is spot on and on my hunting nights I dress appropriately in a leather mini skirt, low cut top and six inch heels, carrying with me a whip and dog collar in case my prey are less than willing and that I then use the whip and dog collar in the bedroom.   His jaw drops onto his three chins and my wave of revulsion is replaced by sympathy at the prospect of his wife having to live with and endure sex with such a very unpleasant mountain of lard.   

A friend in the group bursts into laughter at my description of the ‘Cougar’ clothes and Billy Bunter realises he is being duped.    Taking pity on his ignorance I explain that the term Cougar originates from Canadian and American TV programmes and while I do have sex with younger men, much preferring them to men of my own age, I hve never yet needed to hunt for sex or dress in a manner I could consider inappropriate.    I am tempted to regale him with some of my exploits but feel no desire to stimulate his overactive sexual imaginaton, deciding instead to swig the last of the warm wine, pull my heels out of the lawn and leave the party to discuss my sex life in my absence.

On the way out a friends’s husband asks if I have realised my car tax run out two weeks previously.   I am horrified at this and cannot recall receiving a reminder.   Back home out comes the French Connection filing system and, looking through the paperwork  realise I never sent off the new keeper slip when I bought the car earlier in the year!   So now driving an untaxed car is added to my parking misdemeanours.

Chaos reigns!

My Ms Naughty

I realise that at some point during the week I will have to clean the house as a girlfriend is coming to stay for the weekend.   Whatever happened to the domestic goddess who at some time in the distant past took pride in spending every Friday evening hoovering, dusting, washing;   looking with smug satisfaction at the result of her labours.   Now the hoover comes out of the cupboard only when absolutely necessary, any surface in need of dusting is given a cursory flick and the kitchen floor is washed when I stick to it with both feet.    As usual I put off the cleaning until the last possible moment.   

Mr N messages to ask when we can see each other and enquires as to whether the purchase I made for him is still tucked in my bra.  I tell him that no I have it stored safely and at that moment the realisation hits me that I have no idea where I stored it.    I try to think  what I might have done with it,  and reason that as it was in my bra, it should be somewhere in the bedroom which seems a good place to start looking.    A search of my special underwear drawer, which has strong links to my visits to Mr N, proves fruitless.   I brave the dust and detritus under my bed and although I don’t find what I’m looking for I do find my Rabbit.    The underwear drawer had revealed a pack of batteries that fit the rabbit so the search has at least proved semi successful.   My ability to store items safely without them ever reappearing is well known.   I recall things in the past which have been stored never to be found;  a memory card reader for the camera, several pieces of jewellery, driving licence, spare car keys, the list is endless and I wonder if it would be worthwhile writing a note to myself everytime I put something in a safe place and pinning the list to the fridge. 

My search continues in the bathroom, under the increasing pile of unironed clothes and eventually downstairs.   I find my new credit card, two unpaid parking fines and a final reminder for the TV licence but still not what I was looking for.   Exhausted I decide to sit in the garden with a gin and tonic, confident that the packet will reappear.   I wonder if I should worry about living my life in such a chaotic bubble but once again think of Janet Street Porter’s words.   If I was into wearing tee-shirts with slogans I would definitely have one with ‘Life’s Too Fucking Short’ emblazoned across the front but the only printed tee-shirt I allow myself is my treasured Springsteen one with ‘Tramps Like Us’ across the chest.

Back in the house I open a kitchen cupboard to find a bottle of mineral water and out falls a small tupperware box.   As I throw the box back in amongst all the other jumble of tupperware and realise, with a sense of relief  it contains the elusive packet.   I decide to put it into my special overnight  bag straight away, after all that is something I always take with me when I see Mr N and it will surely be safe there.  

Having spent one evening searching the house and two trying half heartedly to tidy the garden, Thursday has to be spent making an effort to make the house acceptable for C’s visit and by the time I pick her up from the station the house is marginally presentable.   I remember that I have to make desserts for a party the following day but there is no time as C and I are meeting a girlfriend of mine for dinner.    I drive to the restaurant but it takes little persuasion for me to join the others in hitting the wine and leaving my car until the morning.

As usual the next morning my best intentions don’t materialise.   I ring for a cab to take me back to the restaurant, a 15 minute journey.   The cab driver begins by discussing local restaurants and seamlessly moves to why we should not be in Europe, bemoaning the nanny state in between.   I realise that we have missed the turning to the restaurant and would have pointed out the mistake if I had been able to break into his conversation.   By the time he realises his mistake the 15 minute journey has become 45 minutes and the time for C and I to depart for Surry is fast approaching.   C rings with a list of shopping she needs me to pick up from Waitrose and I abandon all thoughts of making desserts, opting instead for a selection from the freezer cabinet.  

We eventually leave at the time we should have been arriving in Surrey after I realise I have no oil in my car and have to call on a neighbour to unscew the oil cap.   I loathe being a helpless female but am cheered when even the neighbour has a struggle to dislodge the cap.    We fly down the A12 at 110mph and I pretend not to notice C clutching the door handle but the 10 miles of M25 to the Dartford Crossing is solid with traffic.   I take the opportunity to change C’s taste in music;  she is rather fond of Lionel Ritchie but instead educate her in  Faithless, Springsteen and Kings of Leon.  

We finally arrive in Surrey and at 3pm I have my first gin.   Eight hours later and having swapped gin for a lethal punch, Bollinger and 9 shots of tequila I drift into a blissful sleep or pass out as has been suggested, on the sofa, the last thing I remember is asking a friend to find my phone so I can ring Mr N.

By Ms Naughty

I give the cooking my full concentration and four hours later have a cool box filled with home made Scotch eggs,  crudites with my own mayonnaise and a lemon cake with lemon curd and marscapone filling.  

Food prepared I now have to face the much more important issue of what to wear and how much preparation is needed.   Dinner with G would required detailed attention to all access areas, something which would be unnecessary for a family dinner.   The beige linen dress would fit both occasions but the Coco de Mer lingerie and stockings would definitely be out of place in Camden.

Having spent far too long in dithering indecision I finally set off for London.   As usual I’m running late, a heavy cool box and overnight bag slow my progress and sitting on an overcrowded train I entertain the other passengers with my make up routine.    I don’t think anyone on the train has ever seen Touche Eclat before and they look suitably impressed as the dark shadows under my eyes disappear with deft brushwork.   Balancing the contents of a full make up bag, nail varnish and a coffee on my knee requires concentration but by the time I reach Liverpool Street my face no longer resembles something that would scare horses.   The weather forecast is not promising so I decide to buy an umbrella in Accesorize and am lucky enough to find one that matches my dress.  God forbid I should be seen with an unmatched outfit!    Whether I spend the evening on my knees on G’s Persian rug, drinking champagne or in Camden, listening to my cousin whose voice is a cross between Joyce Grenfell and sandpaper being rubbed on a cheese grater, I have no intention of being seen with frizzy hair so the umbrella is a must.

I finally arrive at Lancaster Gate 45 minutes late but my patient girlfriends have waited for me.   Stopping to buy wine for the picnic I am having difficulty balancing cool box, overnight bag, handbag and now a carrier bag filled with bottles of wine and struggle into Hyde Park.   The picnic is a great success spoiled eventually by the weather which sends us first to the shelter of a tree.   When the rain eventually finds its way through the leaves and pours into the remains of the picnic we decide the time has come to find the nearest pub.     Two pubs, several glasses of red wine later and with damp clothing the time comes for me to move on and I accept a friend’s kind offer to use her hotel room to change so off I go.  

Half an hour later, changed and with make up repaired I exit the hotel and ask the doorman to find me a cab.    The cab pulls up and in I get.   I give the driver the address but am I on my way to night of fun in Blackheath or a night of doing my family duty in Camden ………………………..

By Ms Naughty

I realise that it must appear that my life revolves around waiting for the next call from Mr N.   This is not the case, I have lots of other things going on in my life  and I am looking forward to the week ahead but still have not resolved the problem of the dinner invitation from G.   I have a habit of putting difficult decisions to the back of my mind and dealing with them at the last possible moment and this is what I do.

Wednesday is lunch with a girlfriend and a girl neither of us have met but are looking forward to meeting tremendously to discuss various ideas for the site.   The meeting is great fun and we entertain the other diners in a pub garden somewhere in the depths of Buckinghamshire with our combined tales and much laughter.   J proves to be just as funny in real life as she is in print but her ability to drive and talk are perhaps not her greatest asset and I feel we have been fortunate to arrive back at the station without being squashed underneath the wheels of a white van.  

Back home I settle down for an evening of writing.  I need to check on some dates and scroll through my texts, coming across the photo Mr N sent the previous week.   Looking at the message details I am a little surprised to find I was not the only recipient of the photo.    Just at that moment Mr N texts to say what a fantastic night Sunday was.    I text back agreeing but can’t help commenting on the fact that others have been lucky enough to receive his pic.   He texts back to say I know that he chats to people and asks if I still talk to other people!   Hmmmm difficult one to answer that, especially as a few minutes later G rings to say how much he is looking forward to us having dinner on Saturday.   My reply to Mr N is that yes, I talk to anyone but don’t send pics.   I realise this is being a little economical with the truth but it has been a while since anyone has been lucky enough to have one of my special pics!

I am now in a complete quandry.   Is Mr N merely talking to other people;  just a couple of weeks previously he had said, categorically that he does not see anyone else.   Should I have dinner with G and if I do, would it just be dinner?   I know myself too well.   Once again I put the decision to the back of my mind, it’s only Wednesday after all and I have at least two days to make up my mind.

Thursday I spend the day in Brighton with my children.   Now they live away from home I always look forward to seeing them even though I know my bank balance will suffer.   My daughter meets me from the train and we find a pub and wait for her brother.   The boy has obviously inherited my inability to be on time and 45 minutes later he turns up with his girlfriend, girlfriend’s friend and his flatmate in tow.   I realise lunch is going to be expensive and wonder if the fact we are going to Jamie Oliver’s restaurant has persuaded the waifs and strays to tag along!  

As I sit being entertained by my completely mad offspring I am glad they are free spirits and that I let them choose the direction they wanted to follow  in life instead of insisting they follow the conventional route.   We’ve come through  difficult times together, had some very tough years but that is all behind us now and the three of us couldn;t be closer.   It does seem though that I have brought them up to have expensive tastes and I wonder where my son developed such a taste for highly priced cocktails!    Usually I am unimpressed by celebrity chef restaurants but this one is superb and I pay the £200 bill with just a small intake of breath!

I have a little business to do with my son, for Mr N and I am slightly nervous on the journey home to have a cling filmed packet stuffed into my bra, having visions of sniffer dogs following me around Liverpool Street.   The journey home is uneventful however although busy with texts and phone calls.   My decision about Saturday is made more complicated by a dinner invitation from a cousin in Camden.   She wants me to make a Christening cake for her son and daughter in law and as they are visiting for the weekend thinks it will be a good opportunity to see talk about the cake.   I realise that turning down the invitation will incur the wrath of my mother, not a pleasant prospect so I now have to choose between a dull family evening with dreadful food, discussing a cake, or what could be a very interesting dinner in another part of London! 

I know that part of my indecision is to do with Mr N but am I being foolish?   Am I really, as he insists, the only person he sees?   Should I really be turning down an invitation from G who is so keen to see me.   Should I spend the evening with family in Camden?

Saturday arrives and I know the decision has to be made but what is it going to be……………….

By Mis Naughty

Mr N immediately begins to chat telling me they lost and he and the boys are having a post mortem.   Lost?  Post mortem?  I wonder if I have somehow fallen asleep and missed part of the conversation and have a vision of a body lying on the ironing board in Mr N’s flat and being dissected with a No 5 iron.   I enquire as to what has been lost and suggest that he tells the boys he has a headache, a backache, a friend in need; anything which will bring the post mortem to a swift conclusion and encourage the boys to leave.  

Leave they do and within the hour I’m flying down the A12 with a smile on my face.   I get the usual texts throughout the journey and as usual reply, realising that texting and driving at 30mph over the speed limit is not the most sensible of  ideas.    But   when have I ever shown any sense over Mr N?   Three days of silence and I give in without hesitation when he wants to see me!   Why don’t I say no?   Simple, because I don’t want to say no; I want to see him and spend the night,  not only having amazing sex but just being with him.   Why pretend?  As Janet Street Porter says, Life’s too fucking short!   

The minute he opens the door I know I was right to give in.   He is eager to tell me about the lost match and the post mortem, apologising every so often for boring me with the details.   I’m not bored; curled up in a chair with him stroking my hair and feeding me red wine I could listen to him for hours.   The point arrives when the talking stops, we look at each other and know instinctively it’s time to move to the bedroom.   There are times when the sex is very gentle, this time that isn’t what we want, this time it’s raw and steamy and just as perfect.    As I fall asleep I notice it’s 4.30am and accept that I’m going to be late for work yet again.

I drag myself out of bed at 8.30am and go through the flat collecting my clothes when were left in a heap on the floor the previous night.   I wonder if anyone will notice the crumpled state of my dress, too bad if they do, I haveno time to call at home and change.     I glance in the bathroom mirror and immediately regret doing that;  if no one notices the state of my clothing one look at my face, even with make up will tell them why I’m late for work.   Mr N is still fast asleep, I nudge him awake and an rewarded with a mumbled ‘Bye darling, text me when you get to work’.    Oh where has the previous night’s passion gone?

I race back up the A12 determined not to be more than an hour and a half late for work.    I’m surprised to see police cars in the car park and am greeted by a colleague telling me that the offices have been broken into overnight, the police are not  allowing anyone into the building and there was no point in me coming to work.    I thank him for not ringing to tell me and silently curse him for depriving me of the opportunity to stay in bed with Mr N and carry on where we had left off at 4.30am!

By Ms Naughty

Wednesday:  Home from a busy day at work I try to avoid comparing my neighbour’s immaculate garden to my weed ridden mess and push aside the voice telling me to spend the evening gardening.   A girlfriend rings and by the time we have gossiped our way through my first drink of the evening, gardening is not an option.   She asks if I still annoyed with Mr N and, spookily, just as she asks the question, a text comes through from him.   I finish the conversation with my girlfriend and, cursing the annoying man for not staying in his box, reply to the text.   Almost immediately I receive another, this time from G, home from his travels, he is looking forward to seeing me and suggests we meet for dinner.    The next hour is shared between texts from G and Mr N at the end of which I have agreed to see Mr N the following evening and have dinner with G on a date when I’m next in London.   I tell myself that there is plenty of time to cancel dinner and of course I will do it very gently.  

Thursday morning I feel in a positive frame of mind and decide to tackle some jobs around the house.   Text from Mr N, followed by a multimedia message.   Nothing naughty, just showing his newly toned physique, after all  this time it would seem a little pointless sending pics of a part of his anatomy with which I am extremely familar.   

By 10pm it is obvious that the pic is the only thing I am going to see of Mr N, I am not amused.   I know exactly what the scenario will have been – sport – bar – obvilion!  but am not trying to make excuses.

Friday evening having dinner with a girlfriend I tell her that Mr N has now dropped into the relegation zone  and I will certainly not be cancelling dinner with G planned for a future weekend.   Still no word from Mr N and I decide that I am worth more than being ignored by someone so pathetically useless.   Saturday is an extremely busy day helping a friend cater for a lunch party she is giving on Sunday so I concentrate on my cooking.

By Sunday morning Mr N is a distant memory as I tell my friends at the lunch party.    For some reason they are decidedly sceptical saying they’ve heard it all before.  I assure them I mean it this time.   I enjoy the party but because I am driving drink only mineral water and watch the rest of the party become increasingly animated and sort out all the worlds problems over large amounts of red wine.

Back home I pour my first drink of the day, settle down for an evening of  TV and then get the inevitable text ……….

By Ms Naughty

If it wasn’t for the fact that I was going into town to meet two of my favourite girlfriends for lunch, the weekend would definitely be casting a cloud over my day.   But I love meeting up with the girls so I go off to catch the train feeling very upbeat and looking to a boozy, gossipy lunch.   On the station I buy a new book,  I finished the neew Anita Shreve at the weekend, such a beautifully written story but very bleak which probably did nothing to lift the wekeend blues.  I choose ‘One Morning Like a Bird’ by Andrew Miller and, once on the train am immediately immersed in the wonderfully descriptive writing and enchanting story.

For once I am almost on time, arriving in Hanover Square, minutes, not hours late.  The three of us have a lot of catching up to do and spend the next two hours talking non-stop, pausing only to consume large quanties of white wine and small amounts of food to absorb the wine.    The conversation covers many topics but men feature largely.   It is inevitable that my conversation on that subject revolves largely round the elusive Mr N, his weekend preference for his sport instead of sex and the conclusion that some situations will never change.   

After lunch I meet up with another girlfriend who is coming into town for an early evening date.   We trawl the shops in Oxford Street, trying on clothes and shoes , all the time keeping up a constant stream of chatter.  We finally collapse into comfortable seats on the patio of  a bar and drink Long Island Iced Tea.   For once we find another topic of conversation and discuss our children, how we adore them, their reaction to our internet dating, their futures.  S  goes to freshen up before her date and emerges looking stunning.   We part company, S heading for Piccadilly and her date and me towards Liverpoool Street.

I sit on the train thinking how important it is to have close girlfriends to keep one sane and how it really isn’t necessary for sex to rear it’s head to have fun!   Damn why did that word creep in, I pick up my book and close the box with a resounding bang!

By Ms Naughty