The Tribute Act

Ah, Friday night. What to do? Well I certainly wasn’t going to sit in watching the television or reading a book. This simply isn’t an option for a 20-something single girl, in fact, it’s social suicide. My friend Lauren had text earlier that evening inviting me down to a tribute act at the local labour club. It sounded pretty horrific, I mean, some cliche singer, a tiny venue and two choices of beverage: lager or house wine. Who was I to judge? I was going, and it was going to be a good night. I could feel it. The unexpected ones usually are and you know what, it was.

It may have been a house wine on tap, but my God, it did the job. Within the hour, I knew I would be regretting this the next day, hungover and dying in a duvet, but hey, in your twenties, that’s what weekends are for right? The night was fabulous. Drinking, dancing, laughing, joking and even singing along to the Michael Buble tribute act. I’ve got to admit, as an artist, he wouldn’t be my favourite so naturally, the tribute didn’t amaze me but he was devilishly handsome. Devilishly. Big brown eyes and a cheeky smile. Yep. Good call.

After he’d finished his set, the tribute act did the rounds in the club, introducing himself to patrons and no doubt handing out business cards for weddings, birthdays and barmitzvahs. When he arrived at our table, he winked at me. I didn’t even realise winking was still a thing, but apparently it was. I don’t know whether it was the wine, or the big brown eyes, but either way I was pretty weak at the knees at this point. He was gorgeous.

We got to chatting (whilst I tried not to slur my words) – “I’m Darren, nice to meet you”, he said. Tall, dark, handsome – I was sold. I couldn’t help but notice that although we were engaged in conversation, he was enjoying the attention he was getting from all angles. People in the club were approaching him for photos and asking him to sing certain lyrics and he was belting them out with a roguish grin on his face. “You love yourself a bit, don’t you?”, I said jokingly. Little did I know the extent to which he adored his own talent. On leaving, Darren and I exchanged numbers.

Don’t fret. He called. In fact, the first phone call was a voice mail message. He was singing, I can’t remember what now, but it was one of the songs from his act. I just took it that he was giving me a gentle reminder as to who he was, and to be honest, I was pretty grateful of that given the level of my intoxication that evening. Post-phone call, we arranged to go on a date, which we did, and it was great. We had fun. In fact, we went on 5 or 6. Each time, something different. A drink, a dinner, a film, a lunch – you name it – we nailed all the clichés.

After having been romantically attached for a few weeks, we decided to take our progressing relationship to the next level – the next level being the second floor of the house, where the bedroom was. Yeah, sex. We didn’t say it out loud, but there was no need to discuss the inevitable. It was a Saturday night I had invited him round to my house and I made sure I looked spot on for the occasion.

I heard his car pull up outside, “Yes!”, I thought. I couldn’t wait. The build up was becoming too much to bare. I invited him inside and almost instantly, we were all over each other and like two young lovestruck teenagers, we ran upstairs to the bedroom and fell onto the bed. I. Was. So. Excited.

Darren lay on top of me, and his hand made it’s way down the front of my skirt. At this point, I wasn’t thinking anything. My brain was ready to explode with excitement as his fingers moved further down… until it happened.

“I promise you kid, that I’ll give so much more than I get…. I just haven’t met you yet”

He was singing “I just haven’t met you yet” What do you mean you haven’t met me yet? You’re in me! Oh dear God, why, why do bad things happen to good people? What was I doing? I was lying on my bed looking fabulous and feeling fraught. Was this actually happening? The man I once lusted over now filled me with a sense of instant regret. He was so obsessed with himself that he had forgotten to focus on the task at hand – literally!

“Please get off me”, I uttered politely. I had considered faking a very quick orgasm and forgetting that the singing hadn’t happened, but the timing of his outburst was nothing short of predominant in this situation and I certainly wasn’t going to let it slide. Oh no.

“What’s wrong?”, he said. What’s wrong? Is this a joke? Does he realise that mid-foreplay serenading does not work as an aphrodisiac? Clearly not. The poor naive man perched himself on the end of the bed, half naked and half confused. It was apparent that the Michael Buble madness wasn’t odd at all to him. Did he think it was a good idea? I certainly hope not. Oh God. This is why Darren is single. He was a charmer at first sight, our dates were wonderful as he had proved that chivalry was very much alive yet when it came down to, well, going down, he made all the wrong moves.

For a moment, I thought “am I being ridiculous?” I mean there is a high possibility that he was trying to prove himself to be a hopeless romantic by singing a love song before making love. I quickly snapped out of it. Nope. That wasn’t it. On reflection, it occurred to me that he was so self-absorbed that he simply had to share his talent in the wrong situation. What a narcissist.

I rearranged myself, hooked my bra back on, brushed my fingers through my hair and reapplied my lipstick. “I think you should leave”, I said. The moment had gone, completely disappeared. Darren’s untimely performance had scooped up all my hopes for a night of passionate love-making and discarded them like a used tissue.

He still looked confused, but I think he chose not to put up a fight because I have the worst poker face in the world. I simply couldn’t contain my feelings of shock, horror and total bemusement to what had just happened. He too made himself look presentable again, and I showed him to the door.

He kissed me gently on the cheek, winked and said “see you later”, I thought no you bloody won’t mate, not after that ridiculous charade. The lights flashed on his car as he fell into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine and opened the window. I watched from the door as he began to drive off, singing away at the wheel. Was he for real?

I slammed the door in sheer amazement after he left and plonked myself down on the couch in the living room, my eyes wide in awe at his confidence and naivety. “I cannot believe that just happened”, I thought to myself. It seems as though first impressions are certainly the right ones sometimes. He loved himself too much to make love to me. I knew that I should’ve trusted my first instincts.

From then on, it was a new dawn, a new day and a new life for me, and I was feeling good.

love naomi

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