A cougar needs to hunt for young males, and the cubs are in need of some cash. (It's OK, cougars: Everyone agrees there's nothing wrong with being a sugar mama.) So, really, the natural location to find a cougar is Whole Foods. What young gent can easily afford a $15 bottle of jelly on his own? But to linger by the jellies would be uncouth for a cougar. She needs to be the lioness, royalty, even though she is wearing her yoga pants. Cougars need to be in the meat section. They sashay near the deli case. But they also need to smell good. Cougars need you to know that they do smell very good. Where the younger populace might leave it to Pantene Pro-V, the cougar goes exotic. That's what makes their prime hunting spot... the herbal soaps and shampoos area. She needs you little buckaroos to feel young, and you need your raw veggies and seeds to keep up your stamina. Rawr!

If you want to add dating and/or marrying above your income bracket to your résumé, Mizner Park is the glittery office park where you should be knocking on doors for an interview. The ostentatious nature of many of the downtown Boca visitors means it can be hard to determine who's truly loaded and who's just really good at playing — and looking — the part. Rest assured; there is gold that is ready and willing to be dug. Looking for an ice breaker? Offer to order up a bowl of San Pellegrino for the hairless dog peeking out of (and peeing into) her/his $6,000 handbag. Barring that, a bit of well-placed cleavage never seemed to hurt a candidate's prospects.

Congratulations! You snagged a date. You probably know nothing about this person. Does she like the Beatles? We won't go as far as to say that you can never trust a person who doesn't like the Beatles, but we will say you can trust a person — at least for one night — who does like the Beatles. Especially if that one night is in a bar. In a crowded Irish bar, where it would be natural for you to drink, to get that liquid courage to converse with an unfamiliar human. You can do anything to the backdrop of feel-good Beatles tunes! Ah, sounds relaxing already. At the Field, you have options: You can talk, but you don't need to constantly talk (no one likes filler). But this is better than a jukebox filled with nothing but Beatles songs: Every Tuesday at 7:30 p.m., a Lennon/McCartney Beatles tribute band called 2ofUs plays. The guys are charismatic. They smile. During Christmas, they wear Santa hats. To boot, the ambiance at the Field is homey and romantic: There's dim lighting and dark wood everywhere you look. An actual big Banyan tree out front is so downright magical that you'd think some sort of Irish elves make the Field's delicious homemade cinnamon ice cream inside of it. So what happens when the duo, George VanDyk and Bryan Hinton, throw in a sad melody like "Eleanor Rigby"? Make out?

Themed, adult parties put together by Electrolust take place once a month at Club X-it, but it was on Saturday, February 5, at "A Clockwork Orgy," that a gang of friends who had never attended a fetish party before all got whipped together (not at the same time) — and that made for one helluva night. At this annual Stanley Kubrick tribute party, men who wore bomb gear and giant, buckled boots stomped on the dance floor, moving to hard-hitting, bass-thumping techno. There were attractive people there. There was liberation. Whips hung on the back wall. One man wore a mask and kilt, another a tail. Here, people approached and asked how they could please you. Did you want to get whipped? Leather Lee, the dom and the master who's been whipping people for 25 years, was here for you. You got your foot massaged, your shoulders rubbed. You got your neck sucked on, your ear lobes too — if you wanted, of course. You wanted to leave with bite marks? You left with bite marks. There was a man waiting on the floor in the restroom — he wanted to be spit on. He was spit on. He even got pissed on — and liked it. A very old man's desire was to be pulled by the string attached to the front of his black Speedo. He was pulled. Similar parties may happen once a month, but this night didn't just have an ending — it stimulated a million different nerve endings.

The Reef Road Rum Bar, located smack in the middle of downtown West Palm Beach, is like the Cheers of the reggae scene. Out-of-town reggae bands take the stage most nights. Local band Spred the Dub and DJ Highgrad host a weekly Monday-night reggae with no cover and Red Stripe on special. The huge windows behind the stage stay open during shows, and the sound takes over Clematis Street. When the crowd builds, the staff is quick to move a few tables out of the way to make the dance floor bigger. And don't be surprised if the owners, Alex and Tarik, remember your name.

There's poker and slots, just like at every other casino in our current golden age of gambling in South Florida. But the Seminole Casino in Coconut Creek also has the so-called "Vegas-style" games available only to the Seminoles — thanks to a table full of cash and a special pact with Charlie Crist. That means blackjack and Pai Gow and roulette and all the other sucker bets that seem incomprehensible yet irresistible. And unlike all the other casinos in town, Coconut Creek offers something more, the two sweetest words a degenerate gambler can hear: free drinks. Not all the time, but it happens. And when they aren't free, there are three different bars willing to sauce you right up and several different places to snack. Here's a secret: One of the snack bars offers deep-fried Oreos that are so damned good, you might even forget about all the money you just dropped at the tables.

Only at Lips will a six-foot-tall Marilyn Monroe bring you a dirty joke along with your RuPaul Rum Punch. The stage flashes, and the music blasts; the performers ("dolls with balls") are dressed to the nines and prettified with hours' worth of makeup application. They're rude, crude, and utterly hilarious; they lip-synch and dance in tower-tall stilettos and make sure you know from the get-go that anything does, and in fact will, go. Hips will swivel. Pelvises will thrust. Lines will be crossed. Wigs will be thrown across the room. Dollar bills will be wedged into bustiers. You will go home with glitter in your hair, frozen cosmo churning in your blood, and a smile on your face.

At 4 a.m., the world's a hard place for a hot mess. You're drunk; bouncers removed you from the bar over an hour ago, and all you've done since is send hysterical text messages to your ex. In the miasma of your alcohol-fueled mind, there's a fine line between "sleeping" and "passing out," and you're inclined to neither. Fortunately, a little inebriation won't prohibit you from leafing through a massive menu full of sandwiches, Greek food, breakfast wraps, diner fare, desserts, and basically anything edible you can imagine. Peter Pan's hearty late-night food will sober you up enough to people-watch: Give yourself one point for every young woman you see passed out at a booth, five points for any potential Mafioso, and ten points for anyone doing anything illegal in the bathroom (and 25 if it's at a table).

After a long day at work, sometimes the only things you have enough energy to do are crack open a cold beer and watch a movie. But considering they don't serve beer at most movie theaters, head down to Little Munich. Not only does it boast authentic German cuisine, a huge selection of draft "bier," and a friendly atmosphere but Little Munich also shows the best free movies starting at 10 every Wednesday night. Whether it's a guilty-pleasure flick like Rush Hour or something even more politically incorrect like Repo Man, this is the one place you won't be made fun of for your taste in movies (or wiener schnitzel).

Unless you've got a few Midwestern winters under your belt — with those five months of frigid, all-consuming solitude that push you just to your breaking point and then a hair more — you're probably missing out on at least a fraction of the appeal of the Lodge. Sure, it's an affable place no matter your geographic heritage, but for ex-pats from well above the Mason-Dixon line, the Lodge is like a little piece of the motherland. Though the varnish on the "log cabin" walls is a bit shiny and the beer selection far superior to what you'll find in the average deer camp, there's comfort in the familiarity of a steel pail nailed to a picnic table and filled with peanuts in the shell. And while you wax nostalgic with your "hunting" buddies about that time you ran your four-by-four off the two-track, a visit from a perfectly tanned waitress in short-shorts and a knotted flannel top reminds you that paradise is only a few safe steps away.