The Tale Of The Quincy Cougar

It’s Friday night, Backstage Pass on stage at the Varsity Club, the air is thick with the sounds of 80s rock.

It’s Quincy.

This was a show I was on the fence about attending, as it was a particularly busy Friday evening. It was already my third set of plans for the night, after North End dinner with the family and a few hours spent at a shark week party. But in a decision made partly based on the fact a buddy of mine who lives up the street was going alone and partly based on a few bourbons on the rocks, I decided to make the trip.

And it was probably for the best that I did, as I saved my buddy from being mauled by the most dangerous of predators: the Quincy cougar.

Midway through the second set, I turn and see my buddy, standing by the bar, being stalked by the Quincy cougar and her cougar friend, as anyone who is familiar with the Quincy cougar knows they often travel in packs, often parroting their mantra of “recapturing the old magic”. Fear would be a strong word to describe the look on my buddy’ face, but discomfort certainly is not. In a decision based partly on his marital status and partly based in multiple Sam Adams, I decided to step in and deflect said cougar’s advances.

As the events played out, it was obvious that my strategy was strong. Or maybe it was my musk. Before I knew it we were dancing to the band. By “dancing”, I mean my moving accordingly as she performed the Quincy cougar mating ritual of rubbing her hindquarters against me. But as it turns out that this particular specimen was more forward than the typical Quincy cougar, not generally a subtle animal to begin with.

I didn’t remember doing the test tube shots until reminded about it the following day.  Most likely it was due to the events that followed.  Shortly thereafter she must have decided that things were not moving fast enough her, as she took my hands and put them where she wanted them.

Why yes, those are your breasts.

And maybe it was the multiple drinks talking, but those buttocks felt surprisingly supple.

I figured this would be the end of the trip she was taking my hands on across her body, but no: there was one more stop.

Hello, Quincy cougar’s vagina!

Score?

Like Backstage Pass’ second set, the mating ritual ended shortly thereafter; my work of taking “one” for the proverbial “team” successfully completed. The Quincy cougar turned and walked away, giving the front of my jeans a complimentary squeeze as she walked past. And that was the last  saw of her.

I know you may have wished for a more exciting end to the story, but perhaps it was for the best as it was painful enough to type this blog with all these open sores on my hand. Perhaps I should see a doctor, but first check out my new theme song: