Mr. Personality

My vagina is like a metal detector. Instead of finding loose change, it’s constantly turning up annoying habits of all the ball-sacs trolls I date. Sometimes they’re hard to find, like the penis of my first sex partner, but most of the time my dates’ irritating habits are staring me right in the face (like the cock of every guy who begs me to blow him).

While I appreciate the effort, if a man has the personality of a brick wall… I’d rather you just shut up and nut up. Otherwise, I’ve got a dildo back home that can get the job done. Unfortunately, those with the worst qualities almost always think they’re God’s gift to vaginas.

I met this guy out at a bar one night. He seemed harmless on the outside, definitely fuckable but nothing my lady parts and I couldn’t resist. But the second I discovered my date was on a first name basis with our bartender and everyone else at the bar that immediately threw up a red flag for me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I hate friendly people I just don’t like overly friendly ones. I could barely remember his first name and I didn’t care about learning his last name. The more he talked, however, the more I realized I needed an alcohol-IV pumping in my arm, before I could handle this guy and all his charisma.

It’s a mistake to think that charmers can easily sway my vagina and me. Sure, I may laugh at your retarded jokes. I’ll smile and nod when you pretend like you’re the greatest thing since a six-inch vibrator. That’s only because I want to fuck you. You’re not actually funny. I just want to get in your pants and introduce you to my meat cleaver. One-eyed willies have a much better shot to impress me than the giant hole in a guy’s face that he can’t ever seem to fuckin’ close.

The date proceeded to get more annoying with Mr. Personality when he started using my name in almost every sentence.

“Sienna, what do you do today?”

“How’s your drink, Sienna?”

“Don’t you love this bar, Sienna?”

Listen, I’m not about to blow you because you remembered my name. I can barely remember yours, Einstein. My hair may be blonde, but I know my own goddamn name. You’re not earning yourself any points by reminding me that you know who I am. The only time I want to hear you say my name is in the bedroom. (Cause let’s face it, you totally will.)

For some reason (I blame my vagina) because I let him take me out to West Hollywood a few days later. Every pore on this guy’s body was dripping with charm. He seriously needed to put a cork in it.

When we got to the restaurant, the hostess greeted us. My date smiled and told her the name of our reservation. By this point, I wasn’t really paying attention to their conversation. I knew I was going to have to listen to him for the rest of the night, might as well enjoy the few seconds of reprieve.

All of a sudden, I heard something that didn’t sound quite right. My date and the hostess laughed. She looked super uncomfortable. I thought maybe I had heard wrong. After all, I wasn’t really paying attention maybe I had missed something. Good lord, I hope I missed something. Surely he can’t be that lame…

“What did you just say?” I asked.

“I told her my name for the reservation, but then I said how funny would that be if I said we were here for a spa appointment?” he said, cackling like he had just come up with the best joke ever.

What the fuck? I thought. Here I thought I had missed something, but I hadn’t. That was his joke and he was serious as birth control.

I flashed him by famous “are you fucking kidding me” look. I didn’t laugh or smile. I just turned the poor hostess and said, “Didn’t there use to be a nightclub next door? What happened to it?”

I changed the subject as quickly as I could, but I couldn’t avoid the damage his lame-ass personality had already caused. How embarrassing! For the rest of the night he tried to entertain me with his wise cracks, but I wasn’t amused. I wanted to skip to the part of the night that was actually pleasurable, getting fucked by his huge cock.

After that date, I only invited him over to my house to bang. Cut the small talk. I had to get him to close one hole, so he could open another.


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