The Singer

One night my girlfriend and I decided to treat ourselves to a night out on the town. We hired a personal chauffeur and booked dinner at the Chateau Marmont with bottle service at Voyeur. We were all set to pick up my latest condom flavor of the month, Matt, who dressed and sang just like Frank Sinatra but looked much hotter. Before we picked him up, I felt a strong obligation to forewarn my driver and my friend about him. His vocal chords (like his dick) had a mind of their own, and I needed to tell them that my date would more than likely be bursting into song at some point in the night. He’s an amazing singer, don’t get me wrong, but there’s a time and a place for singing and that’s the stage. I don’t care if you’re a professional singer. I’m a “professional” too but you don’t see me taking my clothes off whenever I go out (that part doesn’t come till later).

We picked the guys up and headed to dinner. Two milliseconds later, Matt broke into song. Singing is one of the most annoying things you can possibly do (when not on stage) – especially when you’re in a car with little space because your voice projects louder. My ears were literally bleeding.

My friend nudged me, as soon as he started singing, trying not to burst out laughing. My driver kept staring at me in the rear-view mirror and I know he was dying to make a smart-ass comment. I did everything I could to keep it together so as not to start laughing. You could cut the awkwardness with a tampon. I mean, who the hell did this guy think he was? It was almost as if Matt expected my vagina to instantly go weak in the clitoris by his voice. Up to that point, I had definitely been turned on by him singing on stage but not in the car.

Finally, his ballad ended and we made it to the restaurant. I silently prayed that he wouldn’t break out into song again while at the Chateau Marmont. After an uncomfortable dinner of trying to keep him talking instead of singing we got back in the car and head to the nightclub. The club didn’t open until eleven, which meant we were gonna have to do some serious drinking in order to get buzzed before last call at two.

We got to the club a little bit before eleven, so my driver suggested driving around the block to kill a few minutes. Matt, of course, had other ideas.

“Why don’t I sing a song?” he offered, as though we were all dying to hear him sing for the millionth time. Before I could intervene he broke out into another song, and we all sat there awkwardly. I stared at the floor, cursing my vadge for being so attracted to this douche bag. I wanted to chop his balls off and stuff them in his mouth. How could he not see that we were obviously NOT interested in listening to him? I thought.

“Encore!” my driver said in his British accent after Matt finished. (There’s a gay joke in that last sentence somewhere.) His voice was obviously dripping with sarcasm.

Before Matt could open his mouth and blurt out another song, I immediately leapt over the armrest. “Let’s turn on the radio!” I yelled, reaching for the dial. The only thing I wanted Matt to open up was my vagina, and I wasn’t even sure about that anymore.

Pretty soon, we got into the club. I half expected Matt to harmonize with the DJ’s music. Last call couldn’t come soon enough.


- Sienna Sinclaire® - The Single Girl®: Your Naughty Lifestyle Guide