"You were always running away from girls like us." She paused for a moment, thinking, and then continued "Or was it that you were running to something else." Thinking again,”Or maybe someone else?"

We were cruising Main Street. Just like we would have years ago when we were teenagers. Looking for action; seeing who else is out. It's something the only thing to do in this town. Fuck, it's the only thing to do in any desolate northern Minnesota town.

"I guess I was into the 'alternateens' and punker chicks from other towns." I replied with a smile,"But I wanted the cheerleader when I was at home. That is the ‘someone’ you were referring to right, the cheerleader?"  I smiled some more. "Give me a break, I was the basketball player."

She laughed. And turned up the Slade on the stereo.

Her hair was blonde now with a few streaks of black. It used to be all black back when she wore a 7 Seconds sweatshirt and read Spin Magazine in study hall. She was still somewhat hip. Hip for this town anyway. If 'hip' is even the proper word. By the looks of things, she didn't know that girls don't wear flair-leg jeans anymore. Or at least they shouldn't. I didn't say anything because my penis was pretending she had skinny jeans on. Her collarless faded CBGB shirt hung off one shoulder to reveal a red bra strap. I wondered if she had ever been to CBGB.

"In the early 00's I went on tour with a boyfriend's band. In New York they played CBGB and this other place-the Continental, I think? That was the first time I ever messed around with a younger guy."

"First time?" I asked. "Does that mean there have been other times?"

She laughed. And turned up the Slade on the stereo a little more.

We drove around some more. The continuous loop up and down Main Street, occasionally heading out of town in one direction or the other. Each time we'd get beyond the city limits my penis hoped she would turn down one of those old logging trails or maybe go out the gravel pit. Her back seat was big enough, my penis thought. And welcoming with its old Mexican blanket and stuffed duffel bag. Just like we would have in high school. Like with the cheerleader. But each time she'd turn around at the beach or somewhere and head back towards town. I wondered what was in the duffel bag.

"Clothes mostly. A towel, condoms, some weed; things I need if I don't go home."

"Does that mean you don't want to go home tonight?" I asked, perhaps a bit too suggestively.

She laughed. And turned off the Slade on the stereo.

"I know it's late." She said. "But I don't want to go home."

My penis was excited about this.

"But here's the deal." She continued, "I'm not the cheerleader and you're not the basketball player."

"NO!" I screamed. "I am the basketball player!"

"No, you were the basketball player." She continued.

My penis was not excited about this.

I interrupted, "But I don't want the cheerleader."

She continued "And you were always running away from girls like me, anyway."

The basketball player she was talking about was only a year out of high school.  Stayed in town to help out his father's logging business. Built like a brick shithouse. He was sneaking out of his parent's place, where he still lived. She was meeting him in ten minutes. They were going to drive down an old logging trail or maybe out to the gravel pit and use the backseat of her car. Like they do many nights.

She dropped me off at my car and gave me a punch on the arm. I could hear her laughing as she pulled away. And she turned up the Slade on the stereo.

My penis was sad.

And that was the first time I realized that I totally missed the boat on cougars.


  1. holly fucking shit! you finally did it.

  2. You killed it my friend. Well done.

  3. Very entertaining, I must admit. I had to think about it for a few minutes but I got it. You win this time, old nemisis.

  4. Former "Fling"December 2, 2009 at 3:59 PM

    lolz your penis tels u 2 do a lot of htings did i tells u 2 right this?? ps id ont get it. ;)

  5. Rightous post indeed.

  6. So if I start a lot of sentences with "and" and I get a catch phrase that I repeat over and over can I be a writer too?

  7. Don't anybody go thinking to hard on this one. It's not a clever as he would like it to appear. The thinking man's piece, I think not!