Lickety Split Sex Column: Jaguar In A Silk Robe

Story by John Herman 

| Published Sep 8, 2009

I greet most mornings with a hot cup of French roast and a mean hard-on that my robe can’t seem to smother, gazing out the kitchen’s sliding glass door until it subsides. If I time it right, I see a group of tender co-eds approaching the StarTran stop on the corner, hustling their buns aboard a bus to campus. Instinct tells me to give chase, but I know better.

Oft times, a jaguar will stalk out its prey for more than two weeks, months even, closely observing the intricacies of its victims’ routines and quirks before slaughter. It is the jaguar from whom I draw my killer instinct, attention to detail, and, most importantly, shiftless patience.

“Mmmm,” I groan to myself, choking down another mouthful of rich brew, a jaguar in a silk robe.

School is here, gentlemen, and we can feel it in our loins: that pesky itch to pounce, to conquer snatch with our goatees. But remember the jaguar: know your prey before you pick its bones clean, or fuck it. Start small, lurking silently through the dense buffalo grass pastures of our Student Union. Zero in on your savory target, usually bearing the shapeliest set of thighs you can spot, unless you’re more of an upper body person, in which case you should scan the perimeter for the choicest of chests. Now armed with a rigid focus, you must pacify your target with chatter and haikus, lulling them into your crafty palms with talk of the health care debate or why most women find your lower-abdomen so alluring. Become the jaguar. Stroke her face.

Keep in mind that it is the gluttonous, overzealous jaguar that starves, wandering thorny pastures in search of whatever looks like it’s made of meat or a woman. Sometimes, just a snack will scratch the itch, and sometimes, a classic HJ (hand-job) is the easier sell, depending on how you pitch it. Success isn’t measured by how full your belly may get, but by how great it is to lick your paws on the way home.

I didn’t return to school after a 12-year lay-off to stare longingly down the block at my new classmates, loafing around my kitchen with an erection that knows nothing but prodding bills off of countertops. No; I left college a jaguar, and I return a jaguar, arguably a more sexually adept jaguar than I was in 1997. So I smile, a twinkle in my eye, letting what’s left in my coffee cup trickle down my throat, a jaguar in a silk robe.