The Adventures of Mrs.Hot

Page 11 of 13

Mrs.Hot August 4, 2015

“Cougar,” Part III: Make Mine a Double — Except When It Comes To Standards

Age, Feminism, Hot Sex, Inspiration, Midlife Romance, Self-actualization, Women

Store resolution Gerard Village young Cougar Madonna younger number smoking

IN WHICH I CONSIDER THE DICKTATORSHIP OF SEXIST LABELS: WORDS MATTER.

Dearest Reader: To get you into the mood, the soundtrack for this post is the beyond hot “Age Ain’t a Factor” by Jaheim — and watch the sexy video after for continued inspiration, as well.

When Madonna was on the Ellen Show speaking of dating a twenty-two year-old, Ellen De Generis pointed out that when men do that, nobody bats an eyelash. That’s because the double standard is entrenched — it’s a given, plain and simple, that older men dating younger women is absolutely acceptable. Unfortunately, through our acquiescence and hesitance to challenge the status quo, we women have been unwitting accomplices in perpetuating this myth that men dating younger women is appropriate, while women doing the same is somehow improper.

Why, so foreign, nay creepy, a concept is an older woman with a younger man, it’s attracted a vicious label: “Cougar.” Indeed, such a sense of entitlement is attached to the concept of men dating younger women, and it’s considered so normal, there isn’t even a like label for them: yet another double standard.

We allowed this “C-word” to slip, unquestioned, into mainstream acceptability and familiarity. Now it’s up to us to liberate clueless men from the delusional viewpoint that only THEY are privy to the privilege of dating younger. As noted previously, the sexist “C-word” must be banished from our vocabulary; just as the label “Man” has proven enough to describe a male who dates younger females, the label “Woman” is sufficient to describe a female who dates younger males.

Activate your activism — I do, 24/7. For example, when a young twenty-something who’s hitting on me online refers to me as a “Cougar” (that’s right, hitting on me and says that!) I say, “Nope, I’m a Woman.” Then I delete his sorry ass. You bash? Then you trash, dude.

We women must, moreover, embrace our healthy, natural inclinations. (What is hotter than a strapping young buck, rock hard and ready to rock it downtown till we scream for mercy?) Besides, young things are so tender and yummy — baby carrots, baby peas, baby back ribs, baby lamb chops — when we consider the ever-delicious hot meal of male, succulent young entrées deserve a place on that buffet!

I salute those already-liberated of our sex who choose theirs fresh-picked. But those sexy heroines who pioneered the way deserve to be honored, as well.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot July 30, 2015

“Cougar,” Part II: I Take My Juice Fresh-Squeezed

Age, Dating, Feminism, Hot Sex, Inspiration, Midlife Romance, Self-actualization, Sexuality, Women

IN WHICH I CALL FOR WOMEN TO RIDE THE NEXT HOT WAVE OF FEMINISM, SURFING THE SWELLED.

When promoting her tour this spring on the Ellen De Generis show, Madonna was asked the age of the youngest man she’s dated recently; she was fifty-six.

“Twenty-two,” Madonna replied. The response to this was a smattering of claps, then more, then many, as applause built, peaking in a full-on burst of enthusiastic, thunderous approval.

That applause crescendo illustrated the light of consciousness beginning to dawn, then taking hold, then triumphing, in the women there: in the beginning, the majority experienced a knee-jerk reaction of outrage, the familiar one from the trench dug in their subconsciousness by society’s “norms;” yet when confronted with the prospect of sex with a twenty-two-year-old, their prejudice was busted by the unavoidable truth, and their secret, primal attraction to hot, young men prevailed; the validity of Madonna’s choice could not be denied and, moreover, deserved downright celebration.

They clapped in approval, solidarity, admiration and most certainly, envy. But there’s no need for jealousy, in any instance in life: abundance in all things — material, physical, emotional, indeed, all of our needs — is our birthright; we just have to open ourselves to it, and believe we deserve it. And that abundance includes plentiful doses of whatever our heart desires, including smokin’ hot sex — and with men of any age. What could be better than a workout for EVERY aspect of your heart, including a calorie-burning cardio one!

When asked why she likes younger men, Madonna said she likes their “energy.” And I would agree, in the sense that their perpetually forward-looking state of youthfulness is a powerfully positive vibration to be around. But knowing Madonna, she’s at the very least also giving the thumbs up to their hot physical energy and drive. After all, what’s not to love about a rock-hard throbber, the ability to reload quickly for another round, and the stamina to go long and hard into whatever overtime is necessary, even an epic all-nighter.

With an Energizer Bunny like that, I’ll never need to toy with that Rabbit again.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot July 28, 2015

“Cougar,” Part I: Deconstructing, De-fanging, De-clawing, and Deep-Sixing the Label “Cougar”

Age, Dating, Feminism, Hot Sex, Inspiration, Midlife Romance, Self-actualization, Sexuality, Women

IN WHICH I TAKE ISSUE WITH SOCIETY’S ISSUE WITH OLDER WOMEN DATING YOUNGER MEN.

In this time of hyper political correctness, and at the same time, an explosion of growth in tolerance and rights for all, how archaic is it that older women who date younger men are pejoratively referred to as “Cougars?” This not only implies them to be craven predators, with their “cubs” as victims, but pretends they are a twisted subset of females as a whole — sexual perverts.

Indeed, “Cougars” have been maligned to the point where some sensitivity would actually be refreshing. But I know the prejudice would simply continue behind the mask of “age-impaired,” “estrogen-challenged,” or “growth hormone-challenged;” as such the perceived handicap of preferring young men would inevitably spawn support groups: a Cougar Anti-Defamation League, an Association For the Advancement of Cougars, a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Cougars. Naturally, telathons and walks to raise money for researching a cure for the Cougar disease would be ongoing.

But in my opinion, however, there are, in fact, just two types of women: “Cougars” and Liars. What red-blooded girl of any age doesn’t respond to the vision of a hot stud on the cover of a romance novel? What female with a pulse would repulse the thrilling advances of such a vision, in the flesh and hitting on her with all his powers of persuasion? Are we not, in all honesty, helplessly wired to see beauty in — and be attracted to — youth, as the perpetuation of the species is dependent on that fresh DNA?

I believe the state of “Cougardom,” then, is one of just plain normalcy. In that regard, I’m replacing the label “Cougar” with the more appropriate, “Woman.” The capitalization is deliberate, distinguishing Her as evolved and self-possessed — she has accessed and celebrates her Inner Goddess. A Woman not only insists on her right to Life à la Hot, but exercises that right.

Many Women have sauntered confidently and blissfully down this path, among them Joan Collins, Cher, Demi Moore, Jennifer Lopez, Denise Richards, Salma Hayek, Naomi Watts, Susan Sarandon, Gwen Stefani, Kate Beckinsale, Jada Pinkett, Elle MacPherson and Madonna.

But if you must insist on writing me a check for my “disease,” well, far be it for me, Mrs. Hot, to stop you — New York cocktails have gotten so expensive.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot July 23, 2015

Age is Abstract, So Don’t Paint Me By Numbers

Age, Inspiration, Self-actualization, Self-love, Transformation, Women

IN WHICH I CONSIDER VITALITY TO INFINITY — AND BEYOND.

It’s true that age is just a number, and it is our energy that vibrates outwards that determines a life — or non-life, for that matter. As I’ve said, I believe I’m a wise, experienced twenty, and I vibrate that same vitality — the best match for me is either someone young, or one who vibrates at an equally youthful rhythm. Because, especially now that sixty is the new forty or even thirty, we need to jettison the tyrannical limitation of a number and all the prejudices that go along with it, in favor of a better, more valid measurement: vitality.

I’ve noticed vitality and youthfulness depend upon the ability to look forward — a hopeful, optimistic outlook. Think about it — young people are forever seeing life this way, always looking into a future. When such a future is considered already spent, and no longer open to possibilities, old age, then, sets in. The mere prospect of life is shut down, so is it any wonder our bodies and minds go along for the ride? The downward spiral — with its accompanying infirmity and indignity — is an inevitable, one-way journey — and a very unhot one.

Attitude is the foundation: Expect fabulous. Expect the best. Expect health, wealth, self-fulfillment and joy. The poet Walt Whitman said of his mother, that she behaved every day as if a wonderful surprise were about to arrive — and one usually did. That is the difference between an existence, and a life.

Never stop looking forward, moving forward and embracing the new. Keep expanding yourself into the best possible version of you; this is the M.O. at the very core of my being. My ever-bright outlook for the future and interest in all things new makes me — at any age — no different than a teenager with her entire life ahead of her.

So then, every day, carpe diem and carpe hot. Expand, explore, adventure, travel, take classes, build skills, create, give, laugh and love. Welcome the new and the unknown, for that’s where the excitement lives. When we’re on our deathbeds what we’ll regret most is not what we did, but what we didn’t do. Everybody has a dream, and that is what should make you jump out of bed to greet the sun everyday! That’s why whenever I meet someone new, of any age, I ask them who they want to be when they grow up.

Let’s turn off those screens and stop watching other people living. Time to get busy…on our own fabulous reality show.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot June 23, 2015

Max, Part IV: Tongue in Cheek — Mine

Dating, Midlife Romance, Women

IN WHICH I RESIST A GERMAN TAKEOVER — AT LEAST, FOR NOW.

Max wanted to explore the East Village, so we paid the bill and strolled uptown. The fall chill forced me to zip up my black leather motorcycle jacket, which I wore over a tight black sweater, denim miniskirt, black leggings and almost five inch heeled Guess ankle boots, which Max’s height easily absorbed. He had his arm around me, like we’d been together for ages. I felt light and happy and what was that feeling? Ah, yes — young.

We visited a few bars and he drank some more; I held off — I had no interest in getting tipsy considering I was already walking on my tiptoes. A sprained ankle would be so geriatric and so not hot. By this time we were beyond chummy, our faces almost touching in our still-riveting conversation. When we ended up in a dark booth in the back of a virtually empty bar close to Last Call, we were both ready for the nuzzling, kissing and then hot makeout session that had been predicted the whole evening.

In his OKCupid profile Max had answered the question “What are you doing with your life?” with “Revolution — all day, every day.” Which, along with his vibrant personality and taste for adventure, foretold an equally exciting sexuality. But as kissers go, it turned out, he was neither the worst nor the best: serviceable, systematic, uncreative, efficient: Well, German. There was no hint of revolution — nay anarchy — here.

But what Max lacked in creativity he made up for in passion, crushing me to his chest and amusingly pleading with me to “watch a documentary or something” at my apartment. Uh huh, sure. I demurred — it was so late, and anyway I wanted to develop our relationship; we agreed to see each other again. For the time being that big, hot throbber pulsing in his now cruelly skinny jeans wouldn’t be gaining any ground — or grind.

It wouldn’t be the first time an American had the last word over a Battle of the Bulge.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot June 9, 2015

Venus Envy, Part III: Emaciation Proclamation

Beauty, Feminism, Inspiration, Sexuality, Women

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IN WHICH I CONSIDER: YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO RICH OR TOO THICK.

In America, then, the Goddess rarely gets her props — except famously from some men of color who admire larger or even jumbo women, as extolled in rap music. Regrettably, many guys continue to adhere to the unthreatening, asexual female stick figures which apparently do not challenge their fragile masculinity. A revolution shaking us to our foundations — our very brassieres — has been in order for a long time, for women here to invoke the Divine Feminine and claim their birthright of a full-on, hot female body.

But now, hallelujah, in the last few years, big busts are not only the ideal — witness the explosion in boob jobs, and the popularity of Sophia Vergara and Kate Upton — jeez, a fashion model — but the bottom line has been gaining preeminence, too, right here in the USA! Songs about big butts abound in popular music, while the capacious, natural ass of Jennifer Lopez — a Goddess par excellence — has gotten the public used to the desirability of junk in the trunk. Meanwhile, the Brazilian Butt Lift has plastic surgeons working overtime, the callipygian calculus of cultural icons like Kim Kardashian stretching not just her Spanks but our aesthetic attitudes. Why, the trend has even reached freak show levels in cheeky Nikki Minaj.

The models in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition aren’t necessarily skinny anymore, rocking rack and back like we haven’t seen since the sixties replaced our voluptuous Fifties bushes with barren Twiggies. Meanwhile, the sensation created by the sensational hourglass on Christina Hendricks decrees only Mad Men would be impervious to that fertility figure. The Divine Feminine has returned to be worshipped and revered as she deserves, as the hourglass runs out on the fascism of skinny, desiccated asexuality, and not a moment too soon.

The Goddess is not only back: Baby Got Back.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot June 7, 2015

Venus Envy, Part II: More Is More

Beauty, Feminism, Inspiration, Sexuality, Transformation, Women

IN WHICH I CONSIDER HOW MACHO MEN PREFER MUCHO WOMEN.

In the Western world, the curvaceous feminine ideal has only sporadically triumphed throughout history — for example, as seen in ancient Greek art — the Venus de Milo — and later, the seventeenth and eighteenth century works of Rubens and Boucher.

In the last hundred years or so, the Goddess has made scattered appearances in Western culture — consider the popularity of big busted and bootied, hourglass figures at the turn of the century — and in the guise of hotties Mae West, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Anita Ekberg (my beloved avatar), and more recently, Anna Nicole Smith. But for all intents and purposes, our culture’s ideal of womanly beauty has been the body of a fourteen-year-old boy, flat chested and shapeless; just pick up a fashion magazine to confirm this. (Nice as a clothes hanger, perhaps — but anyone up for banging those bones would be cruisin’ for a bruisin.’)

Look to macho and indigenous cultures closer to the equator for the feminine ideal, cultures with legacies of fertility goddesses in their museums, as well as in their DNA — the Mediterranean, Middle East, Africa, Mexico, Central and South America, the South Pacific. The Divine Feminine is celebrated in their very cells, and the men tend to gravitate toward the larger women whose hot curves indicate fertility and the ability to nurture, the ultimate biological draw.

In these places, the cultural glorification of this voluptuous version of woman is diluted only by the pervasive influence of American culture, the boyish female body ideal spread through our domination of the world’s entertainment. Because after all, when Hollywood exports a movie, it’s also exporting Angelina Jolie’s possible anorexia — as a norm for beauty. Despite our influence, however, in these cultures the ancient reverence for the Goddess holds strong.

A chocolate is always a welcome, sensual indulgence on your bedtime pillow — but a toothpick? Not so much…

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot June 3, 2015

Venus Envy, Part I: No Ifs, Ands or Butts

Beauty, Feminism, Inspiration, Sexuality, Transformation, Women

IN WHICH I CONSIDER THE CASE FOR A REFORMATION — OF THE FEMALE FORM.

Supermodel Kate Moss once noted that being thin feels better than anything tastes.

I consider that, now and then — luscious, fudgy brownie — Krispy Kreme doughnut — really hot french fries — a slice of pizza so cheesy, the hot goo strings away from the pie. I’ll go so far as to concede being thin — or in my case, at least, not fat, since I’m certainly not thin — feels as good as those fave foods of mine taste.

However, I’m happy to say, if I now had to choose between my most favorite mille feuilles pastry and a pint of raspberries, I would find them equally delectable. And this, my dear reader, is progress, and bodes well for my quest to be hot … to the grave.

But as I said, I’m not thin. I’ve got some extra, and I planned it that way. As they’re fond of saying in France, women of a certain age have to choose between their face — and their fanny. That’s because as we age and our faces get naturally drawn, if we keep the fat off our ass, thighs or belly — depending on the genetic spot we store those pesky reserves — then the price will be a wrinkled, emaciated mug. That’s why the fad for facial cheek fillers these days — to plump up apple cheeks that have gone the way of the dried apple doll.

When I set out on my weight release journey, I actually could have released more weight. (I [purposely don’t say “loss;” I’d rather not find it again, thank you very much!) I stopped at a certain point and kept it there, technically a bit “overweight,” because I knew if I went further, not only would I lose the youthful volume in my face, but my boobs and booty would vanish.

My goal is to celebrate and return to primacy the goddess, the Divine Feminine, through her physical expression as a soft, curvaceous, receptive counterpart to the hard, muscled angles of a hot, active — if you get my thrust — male.

Because the loss of this feminine mystique … has been a feminine mistake.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot May 14, 2015

Catching Fire — But Not STDs

Dating, Health, Hot Sex, Midlife Romance, Sexuality, Women

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IN WHICH I ASSURE I’LL NEVER BE PTSDED FROM AN STD.

I’d been sexually inactive for so long, some undesirable afflictions — like HPV (Human Papillomavirus) — were now so much in the public eye, young girls were advised to get vaccinated (free) against it. Now that I was getting poked again, I decided to get poked with the vaccine, even though it had not been studied in women my age: I, Mrs. Hot, was not about to get cervical cancer, to which it has been linked. I bought the very expensive vaccine myself, and my doctor gave me the series of shots.

Herpes, also, had really exploded during my dormant phase — meanwhile, HIV, though drugs were now keeping those alive who had it, was still a threat. Along with the ever-prevalent, garden variety of STDs — oldies but not goodies like chlamydia and syphilis, were still, of course, around. So not hot.

In the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll that was the Seventies, and into the Eighties, even, condoms were considered a nuisance and accepted, at least for my demographic, as an option, at best; for birth control we used other preferred methods. Changing times, however, along with the wisdom only age can give you, sent me to the condom aisle of the drug store.

As much as I expected my conquests to be packing a Trojan for that Trojan horse they were slipping into my gates, as a woman in control, I would always be prepared. I was a Girl Scout, after all, and “Be Prepared!” was our motto — now I’d be applying it to the boys across the lake.

I knew lamb skin was the best, but yikes, so expensive — more appropriate for a man with that refinement to spring for that himself, before springing it out of his Armani pants. I needed a supply of decent, yet affordable, ones. Standing at the drug store in a conundrum before the vast display of possibilities, as luck would have it, a hot late twenties guy said “Pardon me!” and reached across to grab a pack of mid-price ones, immediately flagging the brand I should pick. The universe had thrown me a bone so I could enjoy the other bones headed my way – I bought several packs.

Because sometimes AFTER you get wet is when you MOST need a raincoat.

Yours truly,

Mrs.Hot February 12, 2015

YOU are the Love of Your Life, Valentine

Inspiration, Midlife Romance, Self-actualization, Self-love, Transformation, Women

(The saga of Dave continues with the next post.)

IN WHICH I CONSIDER THE IMPORTANCE OF YOU BEING YOUR OWN BIGGEST FAN.

February 14th, Valentine’s Day — the day we celebrate love — don’t forget, dear reader, the great love of your life is, in fact, you. You simply can’t love others unless you’ve given that love first to yourself.

Consider the flight attendant’s instructions prior to takeoff: If the oxygen mask drops, first affix yours, then that of your child. This seems almost counter-intuitive to a loving parent; however, using common sense, what good are you to your loved one if you’re not, yourself, one hundred percent?

Similarly, when you have a full pitcher of water, you are able to share, and generously. When you are filled to the brim with self-love, you have an abundance of love to give abundantly to others.

Society has trained us to expect certain Hallmark hallmarks for holidays, and Valentine’s Day is no exception. The “shoulds” around Valentine’s Day involve being wined and dined, and receiving such staples as love notes, roses, chocolates, jewelry, and sexy lingerie. I, Mrs. Hot, intend to celebrate myself exactly so.

I’ll start the day with drawing a large heart on my bathroom mirror with my Chanel Pirate Red lipstick, and writing inside it, “I love you!” I’ll have the vase ready for the red roses I ordered for myself, and after lovingly arranging them, I’ll dress in a drop-dead chic ensemble and take myself to lunch at my favorite French restaurant, the most elegant and pretty in New York, La Grenouille.

I’ll have a massage, manicure and pedicure, then after, shop for chocolate truffles at Jacques Torres, buy something slinky at La Perla and treat myself to a glittery trinket — it need not be Cartier — but it must be divinely frivolous and indulgent. Then, I’ll take time to do something I love, but seldom have enough time for. In my case, that might be taking a bellydance class, then a long soak in a fragrant tub, and curling up to read a classic novel.

Others’ idea of self-love and indulgence will be totally different. But whatever that is, it’s all good. Even if the budget only allows for a Big Mac, Hershey’s bar, and a splurge at K-Mart, on this day there’s neither (unnecessary) work, nor dieting, nor deprivation of any kind.

I’m spoiling and celebrating my hot self: my uniqueness, my fabulousness, my femininity, my body, my sensuality, my worthiness to be loved. Whatever comes, then, as a Valentine salute from those Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Loves in my life, is simply the icing on the red velvet cake that is ME.

Because, whether those men come through or not, this Goddess has the hottest date ever, scheduled — a Three-Way between Me, Myself and I.

Yours truly,