My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY! @ Barnes and Noble.Com or look inside @ Amazon: Buy "My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!"
Not a sincerely perverted piece of my own nostalgic matriarch, but an elegant telling of a cultural starbursting know as Cougarism. What guys internally brainstorm about their pimped up, older ladies, lusting internally for the well-built behemoth of lazy youth, and for him, "May she be buxom, my blonde god." I just don't want to eagerly admit that this nymphonic novella is a genuine piece of nasty shit. But maybe . . .
And when does it end? When does the young guy generate cerebral mass and notice the creepy crow's feet? But young guys can handle a little wrinkle in the tinkle--especially if she puts out like a Hong Kong Whore ornamented in the smooth of cool, spiked high on tramp heels, and having a seductive skirt offering many-an-enlightening glimpse all the way to Miami. But I prefer for this "modernism" to be anthropology at its finest. And with "Cougarism" the anthropological axiom dictates: "When she gets them varicose veins, he's gone."
Nonetheless, romance furiously flows best when something scandalous is to be gallantly usurped. Or better yet--trumped in copulative (sexual) fashion. There is definite chemistry between the antiquated older woman loosely armed with a tired twat and the crafted action of a young bull; moreover, she engulfs herself in the singular idea of sex as a sport, and love as the frosting on top. Not bad. Love can be unearthed. Love can be fathomed and found. Betty White likes to eat beef jerky.
Romance is Bliss, and never should blame itself when two weird people are gregariously gelling for whatever purpose. But about the book, My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY! Brief intro:
She's not a cat, but a middle-aged woman in heat; indeed, the wicked womb webbed with decay is the fart-feeding character in quicksilverish pursuit of her sonic youth and lost libido. A pre-pubescent poet dubbed Jelly Roll and the inviolate Virgin Mary attempt to thwart the insidious pixes forging her internal COUGARISM, yet resistance is a cruel bitch clothed in the purpose of a better culture.
Here's an excerpt: Nevada loved him--hell, she ached for him, all caught up in the pelvic enchantment of sport sex and long, sloppy French kisses till southwards upon her orgasmic attention and internal desire for the euphoria of timeless youth. Verily, Randy was not her cake, but the icing on top. Nevada could take care of herself financially, could entertain her intellectual wit with a circle of well-polished girlfriends, but getting laid really, really good and the glimmering effects of having eye candy as a boyfriend made her all the rage, and she delicately devoured the jealousy aimed in her seductive direction when she would go out to dinner arm and arm with her young stud--all the middle-aged Betties ogling the awesomeness of what she had underneath the physical pleasantries of silky sheets, it making her young forever, giddy constantly, and of course, she now wore only thongs underneath the thin layers of her outer garments, like a lucky slut, yet so divine.
Alas wends the weird way of culture, like a trickster god fornicating with us from the ruthless ranks of wicked Empyrean--just like them Hellenistic Deities to denounce an angelic aspect of humanity with gloom and doom; therefore, take your VIAGRA old man; next, initiate masturbating or dreaming of creamy copulation with Betty White and the cobwebs of a broken womb.
It's a bizarre but cool read. Yes, we all make mistakes and suck bricks. But you'll like this.
Sincerely, Mark David King
