We've all heard the stories, the anecdotes, the not-so-secret reputation of Foxfire as the hallowed hunting grounds for the species of woman known as the cougar. On Friday and Saturday evenings, when the torch above the building is ablaze, they come, as if answering a tribal call to mate. They use the cover of night, ceremonially garbed in slinky dresses two sizes too small (but that's exactly the point), to stalk and pounce on their prey—anyone with a Y-chromosome whose inhibitions have been compromised by the cheap alcohol. A few co-workers still tell the tale of a night out years ago when they were asked to dance, then more or less propositioned by a woman twice their age whose name could easily have been a double entendre. They politely declined her advances. But when they left, they had their Foxfire story about the woman they... More >>>