Cougars and Chaos
The rest of the summer is filled with visits to my children, parties and an attempt to sort out the chaotic muddle into which my life seems to have slipped. On a gloriously sunny afternoon I decide to make a list of my failures. The parking tickets remain unpaid, I feel that the local councils in my own town and a town in Essex will probably surive without my £70 contributions towards their financial stability. I have no doubt they will pursue me at some point but as usual I will cross that bridge only when necessary so the tickets remain in my French Connection carrier bag which doubles as a filing cabinet. I still have not made the duty visit to my mother pleading an excessive workload as the excuse. The planned holiday with my daughter never materialised, not my fault this time, she still has not found her passport. I wonder if perhaps I am in some way to blame, she has obviously inherited my chaotic genes. She decides that we should have the holiday next Easter, suggesting that we also take her girlfriend, my son and his girlfriend and as an afterthought tells me I may take a friend, specifying ‘female’ friend. The prospect of having rampant sex with someone, while on holiday with my offspring is highly unlikely but I feel my daughter would not appreciate that comment, instead I agree that Portugal next Easter is an excellent idea.
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
