Beautiful little Rich Girl

She was born rich, beautiful too, and twenty was all she was.
She needed no man to secure her, she had no cellulite, she didn't want to be Madonna. Just herself.
She didn't even follow her own horoscope. Much.
She liked to fuck a man once and walk away. Once was enough.
She didn't even lie. Very much. And certainly not for the usual reasons.
And if she had a best friend, she would fuck her friend's husband.

Being a Happy Slut

She was spoilt, beautiful and very young—and she was trying to explain her sexual needs and philosophy. Honestly.
When it came to herself and men—to put matters at their pure and simple best—all she wanted was casually and regularly to engage in sex with as many men as appealed to her. She enjoyed being simply and uncomplicatedly promiscuous.
Admittedly, she was a slut, if a slut was:
(a) a woman deemed to be promiscuous,
(b) a woman who regularly engaged in casual sex,
(c) a sexually promiscuous woman,
(d) a woman who has sexual relationships with a lot of men,
or even,
(e) a fornicatress.
In terms of any of these dictionary meanings she was a slut, pure and simple. And she was prepared to cut all the bullshit that came in between. All the lying and justifying and euphemizing.
Being a slut for her was simply being true to herself.
And above all, you needed to be true to yourself—truly. Didn't you?
She wanted to know.
He said that sluts were among his favorite women.

Faking (2)

According to him, a very wealthy inheritance man, his wife had always performed sex. And even the performance deteriorated.
Come to think of it, he said, in retrospect—and as things cooled down—she got to sound less and less convincing. And more and more like a big dog after a long, hard run.

Should he tell her?

It's like, it's like...Nature abhors permanency.
There, 'zactly what it is!
He wanted to know, Should he tell her?
Give her the old bottom line? Would this help?
Suppose he gave her the old bottom line...Told her the truth, that, know what, he could never be permanently faithful. Nature abhors permanency, but, know what, don't worry...
Like right after their Honolulu trip he felt totally fucked out with her. And who wouldn't be, considering how much they'd done! But the cute Japanese air hostess in first class appealed to him, with her cute, round, tight ass as she bent over and stretched forward to pour coffee. Damn...!
Should he have told her? Told her, tell her, Be okay, don't worry. He'd never actually have taken off with the cute Jap hostess—or anybody else, see—only fucked this anybody else. Which is not the same thing. Come right back home to her and the kids. Kisses goodnight and pats on the head for everybody.
And flowers for her too because he'd fucked somebody else.
He and she, his wife, would still be together forever. But, also see, he needed to fuck other babes too. Had this need.
Jeez, the man in him can't help it. Can't be helped, how it is.
See, suits are like women are like suits. No matter how elegant, how in fashion, how beautiful, any one suit always ended up boring a man--especially a man who loved suits. Why he has thirty two.
Nature abhors permanency...
In three little words. Nature...
Blame nature, don't blame him. Not his fault. Not hers either.
In three words.
Interesting question is, should he have told her? Should he tell her? Will this help? End the fucking nagging?