Cougar Club

Dear Dude,

I need to tell you what happened the other night at the club. I was standing in the middle of the bar, minding my own business, when your girl walked by and gave me a little smile. She stopped near me and then out of instinct I said something about her being in my dancing space (since I need a lot of space to “show off my moves”), and she laughed and asked me what my name was. Eventually she ran back to her friends and I went back to standing and staring. About an hour later, while I’m still at the bar watching my friend get sloppy with some Ohioan transplant, guess who walks up to me? She said, “I just wanted to say goodbye,” but here’s the thing: she wasn’t leaving. That was just a line.

I noticed some rather deep wrinkles around her eyes. I looked at your girl and I said, “Be honest, how old are you?” She said 31, which as you know is a lie. How old is she really? 36? I don’t call her out because the fact that she is lying means the aging process is already traumatic for her. I also noticed the huge rock you gave her, which sparkled when hit by club lights rotating on pods attached to the ceiling. It’s so nice of you to buy her such a pretty ring. You must have a good job.

I wasn’t in the mood to dance so I let her rub up next to me. I touched your girl on her shoulder, her back, her waist, the top of her ass. Not once did she pull back. Her body was a little soft but not too bad; I can tell she makes the effort to hit the gym about once a week (though remind her that to tone up that ass there is nothing better than the stairmaster). Her friends lingered around but they were extremely trashed and wouldn’t have noticed if your girl did anything with me or any other guy in the bar. What a pathetic sight you missed!—five women rapidly approaching 40 stumbling around the bar like hungry dogs, doing anything to get their face licked by a younger guy. But you know what though? For being over 35 your girl doesn’t look bad. She’s bangable, at least.

It got a little interesting because while I was talking to your future wife this other old bitch starts gawking at me. She probably thought that since I was talking to one oldie I’d get with another, as if I was a member of the cougar club or something. They didn’t know that I strongly prefer girls under 25. (There was that 32-year-old I fucked three weeks ago but her body was just so curvy yet petite that I couldn’t resist. I never called her after we smashed though.)

I take a break from your girl to talk to the new cougar, and get this, she actually brags that she dates younger guys. Like that’s going to make me want her cellulite ass even more! I get tired of her because she was trying to attract me by showing off her supreme confidence (as if I value that), and went back to your girl, whose attention I still had. The fact that I talked to another girl didn’t hurt my cause. I looked at your girl and I said, “So are we making out or what?” If I really wanted to kiss her I would never reveal my cards in such a way—I just wanted to see how she would respond.

“No we’re not, but if I were to make out with a guy in this club tonight it’d be you.” How sweet, no? I looked at her and said, “Well, it’s obvious to me that you are breakable, but…”

And then something catches my eye. It’s a much younger girl standing six feet in front of me. Nice body, so-so face. She was with a friend who was dancing with some guy, meaning she was either lonely or bored and would be pretty open if I went up to her. It was an easy decision. I walk towards her before finishing my sentence, because your girl is not worth it. Not even for a sloppy make out. And you’re going to marry her. What a stupid fuck you are.

Sincerely,

Roosh

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