A lesson in unpacking the impacts of social labels
The Year of the Cougar
Tick. Tock. Goes the clock. And roar goes the whore.
It’s a label that makes me cringe. One I’ve hated to my very core, an affront to the women I try to be. Youth in itself is not impressive. Nor am I flattered by the attention of a youngin’.
A cub hunts a cougar for the sex that comes with experience and hoping for drama-less encounters. And I am considered easy prey, an old cougar who should be fawning over abs, happy to take advantage of a young one’s boundless energy and constantly hard c*ck. But quite frankly, the concept grosses me out. This “cougar” simply has too much pride.
No doubt having been a teen mom who now has a son in his early thirties has deterred me from sexualizing younger men. Admittedly, that’s a large part of my consistent anti-cougar stance.
But at fifty years old, the clock is ticking louder than ever.
Love yourself. Tick.
Enjoy your moments. Tock.
Gain the sexual empowerment you’ve never had. TICK.
Live out your wildest fantasies while you can. TOCK.
The battle of learning to love every new wrinkle and sprouted gray hair is a real one. The pressure to use it or lose it mounts with every new moon.
I am neither a sinner nor a saint. Ok, I lie; I’m definitely more of a sinner than a saint.
I love men. And, for the most part, the feeling seems mutual. But as much as I’ve always loved my body when it’s dressed just right, stomach sucked in, heels and lipstick on, I’ve always been incredibly shy when it comes to exposing myself to men.
The flabby lower belly I’ve had since the birth of my first son. The cellulite that has riddled my thighs since the days I refused to roll up my Catholic school kilt like the cool girls. The boobs that look fabulous when supported but droop like an empty water balloon when not paid enough attention to — these are the things I keep in the literal dark, hidden behind robes and towels.
And yet, I have always been in love with the smallness of my waist and the roundness of my hips. I thank my lucky stars for the size of my breasts, the shoulders I’ve always found sexy, the ass I know how to shake. I have been blessed enough to be complimented regularly throughout my life. Strangers have stopped in their tracks to tell me I’m beautiful. I have a face and a smile that has granted me access to people’s hearts and, often, their deepest secrets and desires.
I am human and therefore complex, both riddled with insecurities and supremely confident. Both a sinner and a saint, having had periods of my life where I was a dedicated wife and others where I was a one-night-stand-loving whore.
I am happy to be fifty, finally solid in who I am, but also saddened by the years behind me, struggling to let go of the looks that have, in big part, defined me.
Midlife is a bitch.
And I, my friends, am going down fighting. Labels be darned. There is sex to be had, empowerment to be gained, fantasies to be turned into reality, memories to be made, and life to be lived.
Love and romance will find me when they’re ready. I have done my internal work. I am at peace with who I am and what I have to offer. I have spent my post-divorce years making my wildest dreams come true. I left my career, became a writer, traveled to places I never imagined I would see, made new friends, held on tightly to old ones, and experienced some unforgettable soul-changing moments.
But sex. Now, that’s a world I have yet to fully explore.
So call me a cougar if you must. You can even call me a whore.
But this woman’s ready to pounce. And trust, they’re going to hear me roar.
XO,
VLF
Although I like to share my story from a first-person perspective because I think the details are often where people see themselves reflected, my point is this;
Humans are complex, ever-changing creatures impacted by our experiences and environments, in ways that take us years to fully comprehend and unearth. We are not the labels our friends and society at large are so quick to place upon us. Nor are we our bad decisions or our mistakes.
I use terms such as whore and slut loosely because I give them little credence. These are terms beloved by society for their impact and ability to so easily cast shame upon others, more specifically, women — terms that, if I had my choice, would be considered as passé as the N or the R word. Instead, I enjoy their use and give them little respect, hoping to help diminish their meaning.
At fifty, with my children now mostly grown and two marriages behind me, I am re-writing my personal rule book. I have lived enough years bound by the unwritten requirements and regulations that come with being a mother, wife, employee, and daughter. Life is now lived on my own terms and guided by my own values. At least, that’s the goal. However, it’s taking me some time to unpack what’s behind some long-held stances.
We often hold ourselves to beliefs we think put us on a moral high ground. Ethical flag waving has become a pandemic, one fueled by social media, feeding not only our sense of self but our coolness factor and popularity rating, once intangible, now measured by our number of followers, spotlighted on our profiles for the world to see.
I was not a cougar because, although I wouldn’t have ever wanted to admit it, I considered myself better than. But at the core, my decision was fear-based, my insecurities hard at work, fighting to keep me “safe,” far from judgment, ridicule or dislike. As I’ve recently written about, I love men. Another embarrassing secret? I absolutely hate to disappoint them, a fact uncovered when I found tears welling at the thought of it.
We are constrained by our fears only as much as we allow ourselves to be. It’s a lesson I learned on my first solo trip and one I‘m careful to not forget. But as a friend long ago pointed out, I am brave in every area of my life, except for when it comes to men.
So, this is me, on my growth path, braving my fears and finally ready to join the pack, labels be damned.
#hearmeroar
