Cougar is a Canadian slang term for a woman, typically in her very late thirties, or forties or fifties who prefer to go out with men a decade or so younger than them. It’s supposedly derived from the fact that they tend to wear animal print clothing, especially leopard (although you’d think they’d be called leopards as a result). For more information, here’s a Nerve.com article, Cougar’s Night Out and this Toronto Sun article, She’s a Cougar, Hear Her Roar!
Actual conversation from last night at the Velvet Underground:
Cougar 1: Sorry about borrowing your hat, but I thought it might be a good way to get you on the dance floor.
Charming accordion player: No problem.
Cougar 2 (attempting, but failing, to say it discreetly to Cougar 1) I think you should take the kid with accordion home. He could be the man of your dreams.
Cougar 1: My friend says I should hook up with you…
Charming accordion player: So I heard.
Cougar 1: but I’m too drunk to do anything right now. Maybe later. Can I have your phone number?
Charming accordion player: Waaaaait a minute. Hold on. What say we step back a little. My name’s Joey. Yours is…?
A few of her personal anecdotes later, my instinct to flee had crystallized into a watertight rational argument to run away screaming. I excused myself, saying I had to go and do some busking and went to my usual roost outside Amato’s Pizza.
My friend Sean [he’s the one on the left] was hanging around when I got there.
Sean: I thought you’d be here sooner.
Me: Uh, yeah. Had an…interesting time at the Velvet.
Sean: It sounds like there’s more to it than that, judging by the tone of your voice.
Me: Little misadventure. Somebody hitting on me and giving me a heavy dose of the TMI. Older women…
Sean: One blonde, one brunette, black tank tops and tight jeans?
Me: Yeah, how’d you…?
Sean: They were grabbin’ me and my buddy’s asses last week at the pool tables.
The Velvet isn’t typically cougar hunting grounds. I blame global warming.
A little while later, cougars 1 and 2 walked by. Cougar 1 walked up to me, apparently to give me a peck on the cheek but changed directions for the mouth at the last moment. For some reason, I did a mental calculation and figured that she’s probably the oldest woman who’s ever kissed me (as my friend John Henson would say in a tiny, high-pitched voice, “I’m different now…”). She walked off saying, “Nice meeting you, Joey.”
Sean: Perhaps you want some Lysol for your lips.
Napoleon (the Zen Lounge door guy, and yes, that’s his real name): Ladies loooooove the musicians.
Sean’s friend: Accordion Guy gettin’ his freaky-freak with the divorcees.
Me: I feel soiled.