The debut of my serial novel: Attack of the Cougars

I'm going to debut my serial novel in the Blogosphere entitled Attack of the Cougars.  It's an awesome coming-of-age tale about living life in the twenty-first century, and of course: those cunning predators with boobies partial to gravity and weathered chests.  I assure you that it's not just your run-of-the-mill smut story that involves the current fad of older women figuratively sinking their canines into a vulnerable young cub. If you enjoy the first part, feel free to share.  But whatever you do, you better credit my ass.  Just post a link to my blog.

Also I'll intermittently post some essays critiquing the status quo and society at large.

--B.A.D.


PART I:

My friend and I were en route to the grocery store after yet another night of failing to overcome our social anxiety.  We usually conclude each lackluster weekend night by purchasing booze in order to douse our personal disappointment.  I guess it doesn’t pay to sit in the far, darkened corner of a bar adjacent to the girl’s restroom.  It also certainly doesn’t help to have a solemn look etched on your face the entire time either—all while never acquiring the nerve to approach a lady.

Atlanta Rhythm Section’s “Spooky” blared through my car’s blown stock speakers; eerily foreshadowing what was about to happen to us on that very memorable August night.  Once we arrived at the store, I immediately ventured to the liquor aisle while my already intoxicated friend presumably went to the cookie section to absorb all the McCormick vodka he pre-drank earlier in the evening.  I walked past the checkout registers with a sulk.  My mind was immersed in yet another existential crisis: closing one more female-deprived night with Miller Light and Freddy Got Fingered.  Here I am at 25 years old, down to one friend because all the rest of my acquaintances are either married or playing house with their significant other.  Welcome to the Midwestern mentality.  Do something about it, man.  Maybe I should just go ahead and get that second part-time job.  Perhaps mom was right; I should get on Lexapro (again).  But the last time I was on it I was always nauseated and limp….down there.

And like all clichés where something happens when you least expect it, I encountered something at the liquor section so awe-inspiring, so majestic, that it immediately prompted me to question my own sanity and reality itself. 

So there it was: a hiney that didn’t just take my breath away, but unequivocally cued an unprecedented level of anxiety.  It was a particular moment where life seemed to be scripted by the most second rate, direct-to-video production; either that or the beginning scene of your typical porno.  My bones were now merely ancient fossils; my chest a red lined V8; and my loins, well, just produced a spontaneously erected obelisk that rivaled that big ass skyscraper in Dubai. 

This ass was completely bent over in front of a freezer door reaching for a case of Michelob Ultra; deviously positioned to suggest that it was eagerly waiting to be humped.  She might as well have just started to sway it back and forth for how noticeable it was in front of that freezer door.  This unnaturally firm trunk was perfectly complimented by the shortest pair of Daisy Dukes permissible by law. Personally I am a boob man, but this ass was a skillet because if you were to put butter on it, it would immediately sizzle; so rotund.  It made Kim Kardashian’s or Jennifer Lopez’s asses look like those geriatric ones that resemble an elephant’s back-end due to an increased sedentary lifestyle.   Oh anatomy!  I could only fathom what those mammaries looked like.

Now the owner of this beautiful butt’s head began to turn towards my direction.  This was where the time itself drastically slowed down.  I guess I experienced what athletes describe as being in “the moment”.  I do not remember how many seconds or even minutes passed when both our eyes met, but I’m sure it was an awkwardly prolonged moment.  Everything was in slo-mo as the permed blond head began to turn my way.  Only Gary Wright’s “Dream Weaver” was missing in this fantastical situation.  Her emerald eyes finally locked with mine as I was standing there like a catatonic with his eyebrow twitching.  Oh great.  I was waiting for a look of disgust and to be immediately followed by the nighttime security officer to the exit.  But instead I was greeted by a set of pearly whites.  I should have muttered hello or at least some kind of verbal response.  But like any individual suffering from acute social anxiety, I immediately bolted like a timid toddler searching for his parent. 

After practically sprinting several aisles away from the fateful liquor section, I began to remember what I originally came here for: a gallon of milk.  It was customary that I bring home a gallon of strictly one-percent.  I opened another refrigerator and began shuffling through the shelf of milk jugs.  While reaching for a soon-to-be expired milk jug, I heard loud munching noises.  “Come on, what’s the hold up?” my friend said. 

“Mom got pissed the last time I brought home milk that expired in a couple days or so,” I replied.

“Jesus, what is she, like Nancy Grace with menopause?” he said as he was digging into a bag of Fun Yuns.  He was also clenching a tube of cookie dough.  Now he started to mock my mom using a raspy, Joan Rivers sort of voice, “Expired milk!  Damnit, Brandon!  You don’t contribute to his house at all!”

I continued to fumble through the shelf.  I felt a long nail tapping me on my shoulder.  I looked up only to meet those set of emerald eyes and pearly white teeth again.   It happened so fast that my own anxiety couldn’t even react to it quickly enough. “Excuse me, but I believe they forgot to reshelf the one-percent.  All of it seems expired,” the blond goddess said.  A tanned and nearly flawless complexion was merely a foot or so away from me smiling.  If I didn’t take this as a sign of interest, she might as well just dropped her coochie-cutter shorts and plaster me against the refrigerator door.  I spotted a crow’s foot or two around her eyes.  She was aged like a fine wine.  I’ve been prey to a cunning cougar this entire grocery store run.

Just as I was about to begin to verbalize some words to her, my friend’s drunkenness became apparent.  “Ma’am, why do you need milk with a rack like that?” he asked.

I spontaneously became unglued.  He was not going to ruin my chances amidst all these strikes!  “Dude, I swear!  Never again!  Lay off the juice!  I told you not to go Incredible Hulk tonight!”

The mature angel stood there observing.  We both stopped and looked at her.  My friend extended a handful of Fun Yuns to her.  “I’m sorry.  Here are some earrings for you.”

She responded by giving him the most genuine “what the fuck?” look.  “Um, thanks?”

“They wouldn’t fit on my cock.” as he started to laugh like an obnoxious drunk.

“I bet they kept sliding off huh?” she said.

“That and the virgin grease.”

I had to interject.  “I’m so sorry for my friend’s outburst; he’s been at it hard.”

When I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my friend rips a loud ass fart.

 “I suggest you evacuate the premise.  My friend’s flatulence has been known to kill small birds.”

She took out a travel size bottle of Freeze out of her purse and sprayed it several times.  “Don’t worry.  I had the same problem with my ex-husband.”  And she gave me a wink.

“Boy musta have been some pretty potent gas,” my friend said with his mouth full of rings.

I thought in order to score some points for myself; I would give her the last unexpired jug I found.  “Again I’m sorry.  Here take this.  I found a fresh one.  I’ll just stop at Quik Trip on the way home.”

“Gosh, that is so sweet of you.  Thanks so much, honey.”

“Have a good night.”

She began to walk away; still eyeing me from a distance with a teeth-showing grin.  My friend and I began to head back to the liquor section.  My douchey-acting friend bit into his fist.  “Talk about a Grade A MILF!  Could you imagine being one of her kids and walking into a store with her?  I would have a new dad every week!”

“Damnit, keep your belligerent voice down,” I said.  “She could probably hear you!”

I quickly grabbed a box of Miller Light and we trotted towards the only open register.  Sure enough, the bombshell was in front of us yet again paying for her items.  Some call it divine intervention.  I now believed the libido gods were meddling in my mundane affairs that night.  She looked and noticed us.  She told the clerk that she would cover our beer.  “You sure?”  I asked.

“It’s the least I can do.”

I wasn’t going to argue with her.  She was handed her receipt, gave one big, endearing smile, and headed for the door.  I ultimately failed.  All behavior and actions indicated that she was interested.  My mind was now embedded with regrets; should-ofs.  Oh well, I learned my lesson.  I would apply it next weekend.  (Oh look, I’m being optimistic for a change!)

***

My friend and I were walking toward my ancient Honda Accord and heard a faint subwoofer booming in the distance.  With each step, the booming bass grew louder.  I looked back and noticed a black Denali headed towards us.  It stopped and the driver side window slowly rolled with contemporary rap music blaring from the inside.

“Hey again.  I was wondering where you were going to drink that beer?”  It was the MILF again.  She was relentless.  No wonder why cougars are so popular.  You don’t have to do any work!

My friend replied, “At his mom’s—“

“At my apartment,” I interrupted while giving him a scolding look.

“Well, I am having a get-together at my place if you two would like to join us.”