There are few things in this life that young Rocks Off loves more than a gang of cougars on the town spilling wine on the ground and trying to light the wrong end of a borrowed cigarette whilst slurring in our direction that she likes our tattoos before drunkenly pawing at us. We think it's a mental throwback to all those peculiar crushes we had on our teachers growing up. Plus if you play your cards right, they will buy you stuff, like cab fare. In the past decade or so, the term "cougar" has come into the social lexicon. One could trace it back to the 1999 film American Pie, where Jennifer Coolidge played the original modern MILF, a sort of Mrs. Robinson for Generation Y with a devastating sexual hunger, hefty alimony checks, children away at college and an SUV with a big back seat. Don't get started on the new "puma" subculture, made up of unmarried girls 27 to 35 stalking the bars for young men who have just reached legal drinking age. Blame the slow and steady decline of marriage in modern America for putting all these old-enough-to-know-better vixens decked out in Bebe and Banana Republic onto the bar scene to live out their Whitesnake video fantasies on some young bucks who look like extras from the Twilight movies. Bonus points if you look like the exact opposite of their dopey weekend-warrior hunter ex-husband who left her for a waitress at Joe's Crab Shack. Let's just say that if you aren't wearing a Magellan shirt, you will win. Houston is awash in cougar dens, populated by women and their gal-pals who come into the city to forage for young things in tight boxer briefs with a sexual appetite that will sate their own. It's science. These guys' exuberance matches the cougars' ample libido, creating a perfect storm of guilt, Liz Phair songs and embarrassing explanations that the divorce isn't finalized, but you are more than welcome to the bathroom. Just not the one on the right, that's the kids'. So where does a cougar go in Houston to get her single-man fix? Rocks Off has seen quite a few packs roaming the streets, especially in Midtown, Washington Avenue, near the Galleria, and at almost every Mexican restaurant that serves margaritas. If the cougars ever rose up to create their own republic, it's a fact that the flag would be pink, with a pair of big sunglasses and a frozen margarita all covered in rhinestones in the middle.Howl at the Moon:
We visited this place with some buddies in December and drank a bucket of Long Island Iced Tea in under five minutes, so our memories of Howl at the Moon are clouded in Sweet & Sour Mix and well swill. But we do remember seeing tons of rhinestone shirts, new fake boobies and purses that cost as much as two of our rent payments. Here, the coogs can sing along to their favorite Poison and Billy Joel songs from an age when they could get away with poofy hair, white leather fringe and not shaving stuff.Arena Theatre:
During shows at the Arena Theatre, you can find the older gals hugging the walls spilling their plastic cups of chardonnay while trying to find their seats in the audience. Most of them continually "whoo-hoo" during every concert and take pictures incessantly of everything around them. Afterwards, you can find them in the parking garage pushing the panic buttons on their keychains because they are too drunk to find their Accord.Pretty Much Any Wine Bar In Town (Block 7, various Tasting Rooms, Max's Wine Dive, etc.):
Coogs be loving them some wine. Red or white, it doesn't matter. Wherever they can walk around holding that full lipstick-stained glass while wearing their best party dress from Bebe, you will find someone with a Caesarian scar and an ex-husband at the deer lease. Most of the time, you can find three in various parts of the wine bar trying to get the stains out of their dress before they have to pick up the kids from the babysitter.Pearl Bar:
Not all coogs are haggard smokers hunched over a bottle of Coppola or nursing a margarita at the end of the bar at Cyclone Anaya's. Some of the younger ones can be found off Washington flashing newly ringless fingers on the dance floor, rubbing up against a guy who just graduated dental school. Most get new blonde dye jobs, and some are lucky to have not gotten any tiny teething souvenirs from their marriages, meaning you either get to crash at their new apartment in the Heights or a condominium in Clear Lake. Either way, OHMYGODILOVETHISSONGYOUGUYS!Numbers (yeah, really):
If you are lucky enough, you can find yourself a cougar on the dance floor at Numbers on a Friday night bumping and grinding to New Order and Tones on Tail. They are decked out in black from head to toe, usually dance very filthily and go right for your crotch without fail. Once when Rocks Off was 19 or so, he fell in love with a goth cougar for two hours. She bought us drinks and everything, then when the lights came on, she left.
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