I have never liked the label “Cougar”.

I despise the term. It is not a compliment for a mature woman of a certain age to be compared to a jungle animal. And yet, I am here today to share with you my “Cougar Confessions”.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I may have, ahem, appreciated the strong, muscular, sexy physiques of two semi nekkid young men passed out in my living room recently. But allow me to explain before you automatically judge me before branding as a cougar.

The first time I was called the offensive name was on the boardwalk in Coney island a few years ago.

It was a hot summer day and I was strolling past Ruby’s Bar. I was wearing a two piece swimsuit, but had covered the bikini bottom with a matching ruffled skirt. I had finally gotten to.my goal weight, but was still lacking the confidence to strutt around showing my cute butt off. But that didn’t stop the wolf whistles I heard as I walked by the popular dive bar.

I turned two see that the catcalls had come from by two barely legal teens. The “older” one, who could not have been much more than 19, shouted “Hey Mama, you can be my cougar anytime!”

I was mortified.

I didn’t even realize they were speaking to me (even though I was in my late 40’s at the time). Sure, I had lost weight and I knew I looked pretty good. The wolf whistles we’re not what surprised me. I was stunned by the term”cougar”.

I immediately called my friend, Michael to elicit sympathy.

“Well…they probably thought you were a hot chick.”

“But they said cougar! They think I’m a hot OLD chick!” I blurted out the real reason I’d been shocked.

I had gotten old.

The fact was, I’d been coasting along for years, getting away with looking like I was in my twenties long after I no longer was. It probably had something to do with the fact that I had lost a substantial amount of weight practically overnight.

Suddenly, I looked my age. At least, I looked like a “mature” woman.

A “cougar”.

I’d rejected the term then, holding on for dear life to the “twenty-something” lie I’d been telling myself (and everyone else) for years.

But now, I had joined the team; Susan Sarandon, Demi Moore, Sandra Bullock, Madna. Well, I was in good company, anyway.

But, I’ve never actually been attracted to younger guys. That is, until this week when two sexy strangers showed up at my door.

They were “verified” strangers, and I had been expecting them.

Now I know that hoteliers, real estate agents, landlords and politicians hate that billion dollar app that turned the travel industry on it’s ear, so I’m not saying that I, personally would ever rent one of my rooms out on “Blank BnB”. I would never allow strangers from other countries to message me from an app that rhymes with “Affair w/HeNHe: in order to make a few bucks on the side. Nope, not me.

Do I look like the kind of girl who would do anything for money? (Don’t answer that.)

In fact, this post is anonymous, so even if I WERE a struggling writer who did earn a few bucks hosting travelers, I would never admit it.

Anyway, when I opened the door to my “friends”, I was shocked by how fine they were. I don’t mean cute and adorable like the blond-haired, blue-eyed, boy next door type of fine.

I mean FINE.

One was tall, and had a prison build that 50 Cent would kill for. Covered in tattoos, he wore faded, tight jeans that stretched across his ass leaving nothing to the imagination. A tight, green t-shirt couldn’t hide his bulging biceps, (which reminded me of the Incredible Hulk bursting out of his clothes).

That show always made me wonder if Bill Bixby was going to end up nekkid before the half-hour ended, but alas, he never did. Loose pink and baby blue bangles caressed this big boy’s wrists, reminding me of handcuffs (only brightly colored and made from beads instead of metal), and, well, I guess they’re actually not like handcuffs at all, and I just have a dirty mind.

The other kid was shorter, but also sexy in a nerdy, hipster, cool sort of way. His frame was not as muscular, but he looked good, like he worked out daily to make sure a “skinny nerd stereotype” wouldn’t apply to him.

Glasses couldn’t hide his handsome features. The fact that he was a recent college grad and worked as a photographer made him even more appealing. (If you like that sort of thing. Which I do not.)

But still, I wanted to project a sexy persona and not appear to be a boring, chubby, older divorcee (even though I am an overweight, middle aged, divorced woman who may happen to garden as a hobby).

As I sauntered over to them in my sexy polyester housedress and slippers, I stuttered a bit and then proceeded to ramble on for 20 minutes about the museums they might find interesting.

But no, these sex gods had other plans. They were too cool for museums or the Empire State Building or other touristy attractions.

They were in town for a mega concert of the biggest pop stars in the world; Jay Z, Erykah Badu, L.L. Cool J, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, ad a bunch of other hot musicians and artists, most of whom I’d ever heard of.

Still, I was determined to not feel old.

I immediately changed into a short skirt, v-neck t-shirt, and a cute hat, and slapped on some pink lipstick (to match baby boy’s handcuff bangles, of course). Then I traded the slippers for some heels, cause that’s normally how I lounge around my place, you know.

I refused to be perceived as middle-aged.

However, I’m pretty sure my refusal to shave my legs (in support of Gloria Steinem and the Women’s Movement of the 70’s, lest you think me lazy), and the “highlights” in my hair (that are blond, I tell you; not gray), along with frown lines (NOT wrinkles; simply my permanent expression to deter people from asking to borrow money) may have given these boys a clue that I am a bit older than Miley Cyrus (or Sean Rad, the founder of Tinder, which I knew, because I am not old).

Not that I use Tinder because I cannot deal with young boys asking me out. And min you, they are not asking me out on an actual date to dinner or a movie or a Broadway play; but to “Netflix and chill”, (usually at their mother’s house). Sooo, I’ll pass on Tinder

And yea, I may be guilty of looking at these young bucks.

I admit it, I can appreciate a tall glass of water. And yes, I admit that expression has not been used to describe a fine mofo since Melvin van Peebles showed his sexy self in Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song,) but I do not lust after young men.

At least, I never did until now.

But this morning, immediately after I awoke from a very sensual slumber where I’d had an extremely pleasant dream starring James Spader, star of the very freaky, very kinky, “Secretary”, one of my favorite films.

That I find James Spader sexy should be proof that I am not a cougar in search of a Justin Bieber lookalike. (Although the James Spader in my fantasy was not the balding, “Blacklist” crazy mofo, but the panty drencher from the 80’s classic, “Pretty in Pink”). Pink seems to be a running theme with me lately) but still, Spader is sexy no matter how much (or little) hair he has left.

You may be asking if I am ashamed to have scandalous thoughts about young boys half, (ok more than half me age, damn), but doesn’t everybody always say, “Age ain’t nuttin’ but a number”? Why yes, yes, of course, I felt like a damn Catholic priest creeping into the confessional booth to pay penance this morning. And yes, I protested the loudest when our class was forced to read Lolita when I was in college.

But I couldn’t help lusting after these young men! I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that I’ve been celibate since long before Richard Simmons was slapping fat girls on the ass to do 10 more jumping jacks.

But shoot, it’s not like I’m Jared Fogle the Subway guy eyeballing babies.

These are men. Strapping, legal id toting, strong, masculine, gorgeous young men.

And there’s nothing wrong with looking.

So never again will I make fun of J. Howard Marshall for his love of Anna Nicole Smith. I can see how that may have been true love in spite of their 60 year age difference. Hey, it could happen.

Anyway, I woke up stretching and purring and looking forward to making a delicious breakfast for my young, virile, handsome house guests and walked downstairs to use the loo.

I tiptoed toward the bathroom. I opened the door gingerly, half expecting, half hoping to walk in on one unsuspecting soul taking a shower. Slowly I crept in through the bathroom door. I suddenly could not wait any longer and thrust the door open wide like Superman exiting from a phone booth. I lunged inside, barefoot, and landed in an enormous pile of vomit.

I lunged inside, barefoot, and landed in an enormous pile of shit.

At least, it appeared to be shit, and smelled even worse.

What I had landed on was a thick, chunky, brown, vile, disgusting pile of vomit.

It was everywhere; all over my custom designed bath mat with the gorgeous picture of a lady knighting a knight, splattered across the very expensive, matching fabric shower curtain, all along the edges of the tub, and covering every inch of my toilet; inside and out. But the most heartbreaking sight was when I saw that the French lace, ruffled toilet seat cover set I found in Paris was now destroyed.

But the most heartbreaking of all was the French lace, ruffled toilet seat cover set I found in Paris. It was completely destroyed.

I held my breath to avoid the putrid stench of stale liquor and God know’s what food they had consumed, praying that my beautiful wicker baskets holding my tiny, perfect perfume bottles from India, and my rose petal face cream from Morocco had been spared, but no, they, too had been violated by these boys.

My living room was even worse. Puke covered my brand new, so soft, velvet topped, Queen Influx air mattress. The very bed any other middle-aged cougar would have had fantasies of, starring several strapping young soldiers feeding her grapes as she lounged about. But now that dream had been destroyed with what looked like piles of shit.

This was my punishment.

I had had a momentary lapse in judgment. I had weakened. Just for a moment, my head had been turned by youth and beauty. I had quickly sunk into a midlife crisis cliche like a typical suburban dad who buys himself a 40th birthday red convertible.

I have learned my lesson and I am ready now for my soul mate; a 90 something-year-old, wheelchair-bound, Alzheimer’s patient with no teeth. I want an old man who will forget to chase after sexy, hot young girls and won’t throw up all over my bathroom.

As for “Snare a Baby”, the hosting app for travelers and homeowners looking to make a quick buck on the side, perhaps I should not have judged Anna Nicole so quickly. I don’t mean the gold digging Anna, but the stripper Anna. I’ll bet she never had to deal with some asshole throwing up on her as she twirled her ass around a pole.

The boys, still drunk, muttered something about a great party, but then went off to the teeny bopper concert, leaving without cleaning up. Instead, they threw my brand new, luxurious, plush white towel over the mess, saying, “Sorry, Ma’am”.

Have you ever dated someone a lot younger than you? Did it work out, or was the age difference too much?

Share your stories in the comments below (anonymously if you like)!