'I fucked your wife'
The speaker was a big guy, thin face, weaselly eyes when he glanced across at me from a few feet away along the bar, and swaying slightly. He'd been drinking obviously, but hadn't we all. Anyway, it's not how strangers usually introduce themselves, so it got my attention right away.
'Really?'
What do you say? What can you say. So many people had that I stopped bothering to keep track of them all.
But how did he know I was the husband of the woman he'd had up against the wall outside a club, or bent over a car bonnet in Soho Square, or wherever else he'd taken advantage of her slutty generosity?
Unless he was one of the restaurant ones. She sometimes used to slip into the Ladies with a man in tow, and get a quickie from him while I and the rest of the group were complimenting the chef and helping ourselves to a touch more gravy, don't mind if I do.
He'd been helping himself to my wife, and giving her a large helping in the process. If he was one of the restaurant ones. He'd have seen where she sat, anyway and noticed which of the stupid guys at the table was her even dumber husband.
I waited for him to explain, but he just looked at me. I couldn't decide if he wanted to sympathise, shake my hand or punch me out.
'And how do you know that', I asked finally, because you have to know even when you don't want to know. Like cancer, it's a diagnosis you have to hear even when you're dreading it.
'She was flat on her back with her legs wide apart and I had my cock in her pussy. I'd call that pretty conclusive.'
He grinned, evil but not dangerous. So no punches then, Just a bit of gloating.
'Just the once then, was it? Forgive me for not recognising you. There were bloody hundreds of you.'
Gloat over that. Ponce.
There were thousands, actually, if I'm being literal, but I didn't need to make her sound more of a slut than I had to. I don't care about her reputation, but it makes me look stupid. But I was. She was doing it every day of our married life: ten years of infidelity, a new guy every weekday, a star in her diary for the first -timers and the occasional tick for repeat performances on a different day. No names, times or places, but I knew what the hand-written asterisks meant. Sometimes there were two, or three, or even five Nine once, on a weekend away. That wasn't one guy doing her several times, by the way. That was her getting spitroasted and gangbanged. To say she'd been fucked by two thousand other guys while she was married to this one -- me -- is a conservative estimate. It still amazed me that she could be that busy, fucking all those men, and it was what, just short of ten years before I began to suspect.
She wasn't a sex addict or any of that nonsense. She just liked cheating. Really, really liked cheating. And the closer I was when she did it, the better she liked it. So restaurant quickies, like grinning bloke next to me now, but also in dark corners in clubs when I was drunk, dancing or distracted by her friends. They used to keep me busy talking so I wouldn't see her slope off with some guy. Usually outside, but often up against the wall in the corner, especially if it was raining. I was bound to notice wet clothes and frizzy hair when she came back inside. Wet knickers and thighs, and a dribbly pussy -- not so much.
'Only the once, yes.'
I'd forgotten I was waiting for his answer.
'But I think she'll remember me.' His gloaty grin was back again.
He was one of the underlined ones then.
Asterisk for a fuck, a tick for a second encounter, or a third or fourth or whatever, and an underscore for the guys with big knobs. She liked big knobs. She always joked that she could see them coming as the walked down the street, and later she'd see them cumming. All girls cock-watch. Most don't do much more than admire the package, no matter how big and tempting it may seem. She always followed up. Or just plain followed them sometimes, waited till they were in a bar, and then dazzled them with her smile. They never stood a chance.
'She doesn't usually.'
Cool, that's what I was. Play it down. 'What can I tell her to prompt her memory?'
Fool. It's like asking the surgeon how long you've got left if the op doesn't work. But you just can't stop yourself, can you? I can't anyway.
He considered his response, like he was trying to work out how to tell me it was just a few weeks but make it sound better, soften the blow.
'Tell her the biggest is still the best.'
He leaned back from me, trying to gauge the impact of his words.
