The Cougar Roars: I Recall Some Rumpy-Pumpy With a Younger Consort

All woman, all carnivore...

All woman, all carnivore...

Am I a cougar?

The question is weighted down with unbearable philosophical freight, like asking the weight of the moon or how many faeries fit on the head of a pin. I am 35, naturally blonde and youthful, and feel that I still am riding an initial crescendo of vigor. I am more omnivorous in my sexual tastes than a pure fetishist of age, and do not strictly stalk “cubs,” or men born after “Don’t Stop Believin’” ruled the charts.

But let me draw from the dirty well of memory and recollect a recent, sublime experience. This is a case where I indulged my curiosity, but perhaps the fantasy gained some power from its imperfection.

Cryptic? Read on.

I met “Ivan” at a poetry reading, of all places. We shared a glass of wine and talked first cordially, and then with heated interest.  I was 34, he 28; this is a narrow gulf, naturally, but carries some cultural weight, and I found myself considering the impossible calculus below:

The “half-your-age-plus-seven rule” is a rough guideline used in the some Western cultures to determine whether a representative of one age group may boink the other, at least within the bounds of community standards.  Mathematically, the rule appears as follows:


In greater detail, the concept explodes into dizzying possibilities:


Again, Ivan’s age was 28; mine, divided by 2 equaled 17. Adding 7, that got me to 24, placing me below my potential consort.

Hell, I’d be below him soon enough.

We evoked a torrent of poetic clichés in conversation: Fleeting youth, age and decay, the inexorable grind of time across the barren planet. By my second chardonnay, I suggested that we decamp to my crib, knowing partially that my most powerful sexual organ, my filthy brain, was distorting the naughtiness of our division in years.

Validated by the “half-your-age-plus-seven rule,” I was safe to play. But poor Ivan, the tender and somewhat nervous poetic soul, was quite uncomfortable with my advances, to which he eventually surrendered. Materially safe on the cultural calculus of age, we were millennia apart in carnal experience.


I stripped him bare, devoured his young tool like a lioness consuming a springbok, and then proceeded to let the cub dine at the teats of the cougar. He fumbled like a newborn ocelot, but finally found a nice rhythm as he sucked my nipples, which naturally led to his stated desire to cunni-lick my honey pot, an utterly alien experience in his 4 x 8 years. A nervous tongue in the sacred crack led, as nature prefers, to the entry of his quivering c***, which performed admirably considering its owner’s general unease. But rumpy-pumpy is rumpy-pumpy and I relished the five minutes that he subsisted until I could feel a groaning, youthful emission shudder into the Durex.

But all these quivering moments, these imperfections, these awkward endearments only heightened the experience, amplified the turn-on and gave me what the cultural rule could not, a delicious sense of transgression, of delirious filth.

He thanked me with a perfumed letter. Nerves and detachment feed chivalry, thankfully, and I was appreciative of the little gesture. I roared a little in my heart and loins…



sylvialowry1 (at)

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