The Heart of a Tart

As I picked up the drinks, I saw the man approach. He had obviously been enjoying the free bar at my wife's uncle's wake. She very rarely sees her parents or returns to her home town, but when we do, we invariably run into some chap like this one.

"Are you Helen's husband? Your wife is the best shag I ever had." He laughed then.

I just smiled and agreed. He seemed shocked that I didn't defend her honour, but I took it as a compliment. Helen is amazing in bed. Well, she has had a lot of practice.

I looked him in the eye and said, "Just imagine how good it is when she loves you. Your best isn't even my normal; my normal is so good you couldn't even begin to imagine it?"

I walked off then, leaving him open-mouthed.

Helen was a tart, a slut or whore. It is strange how the names of women who liked sex and had a high libido are so insulting. Men were studs, womanisers or lady-killers. Men were patted on the back, nudged and, winked at, congratulated on sowing their wild oats. Women were derided and shunned for having loose morals and derided for even having sexual urges. The source of male pride was a source of shame for females. The same men who were happy to bed a willing woman with a high libido were only keen to marry the 'good girl' with a low body count. They often then wondered why this inexperienced wife was not as keen as they had hoped to set the marriage bed aflame.

Helen had seen all this in her own family. Her brother Jeff had been quite the stud, a different girl every week and every night at some point. He was a hero amongst his mates, the handsome womaniser who was happy to give them his leavings when he moved on. On more than one occasion, he even acted as best man when an ex-bed partner married one of his pals. There were mutters and giggles amongst the bridesmaids that Jeff was the best man in every way you could think of.

Jeff and Helen were similar in that way. She had a high libido, too. The only difference was that she was a girl, and there was that awful double standard. Jeff would not have been happy if he found that she had happily been passed around all his mates. On occasions, two at a time.

Helen loved being desired and being found attractive by men. She felt the power she felt when faced with an aroused man. "I did this," she thought. "It's all for me. I made them hard." Of course, not being male, Helen didn't realise that for some of the older teen boys she went with, a gust of wind could make them hard; the mere vibration of the bus was almost enough to make them cum in their pants. The older men, starved of affection from their middle-aged, miserable wives, would get hard at the mere suggestion of any sex with any willing female, especially a young, attractive one.

That was part of the problem; Helen had never felt attractive growing up. Her parents had always favoured Jeff, their golden boy. Jeff was good at things; he was handsome, clever, bright, and excelled at sports. Helen was just average and ordinary, with mousy hair and sticky-out teeth. When she hit seventeen, Helen discovered that the best thing about mousy hair was how easily it could be transformed into blonde hair. When she was eighteen, her braces were finally removed. Instead of teeth that stuck out, she had other parts that stuck out. Her large breasts stuck out, and these were the parts that boys noticed first; the ugly duckling was now a swan, a very sexy swan.

Helen had a lot of time to make up for, and she made up in earnest. She wasn't fussy about their looks; it was all about their desire for her. She was theirs as long as they were clean, smelled nice, and looked at her in that special way.

Of course, it didn't take long to get a reputation. Jeff called her a slag but couldn't see that she was just a female version of him. He couldn't see that his sister was like the girls he enjoyed regularly. Of course, their parents sided with Jeff and tried to make Helen feel bad about herself and ashamed.

Jeff wouldn't have been happy if he knew that she regularly had sex with old Mr Preston, her boss at the paper shop. He might have been in his early sixties, but other parts of him still worked as if he was a teenager. The first time he risked rubbing his large erection against Helen behind the counter, he had been amazed at her enthusiastic reaction to it. She couldn't get enough of him, and he was pleased that he still possessed the fantastic powers of recovery he'd had as a youth. Mrs Preston had not been interested for a while, and consequently, he had never looked forward to going to work more.

She left home soon after to work in a hotel. Mr Preston cried when she handed in her notice at the paper shop. He actually cried. She made it up to him by doing something Mrs Preston had never done for him in almost 40 years of marriage. He was much happier after that, mainly when Helen said he could come and visit her at the hotel when he felt the urge, and she would get him a discount on his room. Mr Preston did this for a couple of years until he died suddenly one day. She never knew if Mrs. Preston ever wondered why her husband was found in a hotel in a different town to the one that he'd told her he was visiting to select new stock. It was lucky that the coroner never mentioned the fact that Mr Preston was also covered in a remarkable amount of baby oil when he was found. He was also smiling -- a lot.

It was the perfect job for Helen. She had good people skills and was very efficient. She also had a wide range of visiting salesmen, businessmen and a large, eager staff, all keen to share the bed of the busty blonde in reception. Her manager, Carlos, looked the other way as he was also keen to enjoy Helen's charms. More importantly, Carlos had a bit of a cuckold kink that he had never been able to fulfil in a real relationship. Consequently, he loved nothing better than hearing Helen's tales of debauchery. He could pretend that 'his girl' had cuckolded him, and he could reclaim her. He got off on hearing about how big other men were; the bigger, the better for Carlos. Helen sometimes wondered if Carlos would have liked to experience them himself.

All of Helen's adventures ended when she met me. I'm her husband, Alex. Do her prior adventures bother me? Does her enormous body count make me feel insecure? No, not at all. Do I get hard as she recounts her various adventures? No, I bloody well don't. It doesn't excite me, but it doesn't bother me either. It's in the past -- her past. I've been a Jack-the-lad myself at college.

I may not possess the most enormous cock she's ever experienced: I seem to recall her telling me that it belonged to a South African exchange student who stayed at the hotel. Huge, apparently, so big he could only put half in. I may not even be the best sex she has ever had -- her eyes do go misty when she talks about the Welsh rugby team who celebrated their victory with her. I'm good, but I can't compete with a whole team. What man could?

However, I am the only man to make love to her. That makes me the most important and the best in her eyes. "It was only sex," isn't that what all the cheating wives say when they are found out? Well, in Helen's case, it is true; it was just sex. It made her feel good, but I was the first man to really love her. I'm the first person she felt loved her unconditionally before the children came along to love her, too.

Do I ever worry that she will stray? No. We are both devoted to each other and completely monogamous. People get itchy feet because they wonder if the grass is greener. We both know that it isn't. Why would we risk everything we've got for a quick tumble with someone else? Why would I hurt my best friend, and why would she hurt me?

So, that's why I'm going to encourage both my sons to avoid virgins when they are looking for a bride. Retired sluts are a much safer and enjoyable bet in my eyes.