If You're Getting Down, Baby...

There is no reason that you wouldn't  automatically associate
these young men with sex-bloggery

So if you missed it, and I don't know how you could, this post's title was a clear invocation of the lyrical genius of 90s fringe boy band 5ive (though I will admit, I think I corrected the song's title spelling - that's probably why you missed the reference, don't worry...). What is the relevance of this reference to this post? Well I have been sitting on and mulling over a topic which deviates from my typical structure. That's right, I have considered branching out from my strict merciless mocking of one women's magazine's sex guide. Gasp. It started as a collabo-brainstorm session with a compadre, whose sexual predilections are admittedly more optimistic and romanticized than my own; what would be the worst music to have sex to? We came to fairly different conclusions - for every suggested genre one or the other found an exception - so I never bothered to realize the list. Until I stumbled across this brilliant article by, surprise surprise, Men's Health Magazine.

The article - should you be an individual who refuses to invest time into reading multiple social media "news" providers - looks at the sexy lyrics of current pop songs and explains, scientifically no less, why they are total bullshit. And while the article suggests that the likes of Lil' Wayne and LMFAO are not likely to be spreading orgasms as much as they are infections should they live according to their lyrics, the question of what role music should be playing in the bedrooms of every day people begs address by this blog.

I'm not a big "sexy music" person. I have never thought, while wooing, "oh shit, I should probably put on some mood music." One time I got invited up to a guy's dorm and he put on music and suggested we dance, and for those of you who have seen me dance, you will know I started throwing bows and within 3 minutes sprinted for the door. Move-fail. I don't really take myself that seriously. Or sex for that matter. Or rather, sex as love making. If I am going to make love - and I deliberately use italics because they best convey the desired gag reflex I experience when using that phrase - I am of the opinion that that moment should be as sincere as possible. All sincerity is lost when you have to resort to the articulation of a song writer.

Not making love? Me neither! Then what could you possibly be trying to achieve by playing music? Courteously drowning out the sounds of your avid humping for the sake of your roommates? Well, if they're bright young things they'll probably catch on pretty quick when they hear music blaring from your locked room. In the past I've taken the stance that if they hear me, they may as well be happy for me, and thankful that I haven't subjected them to hours (ha - I kid) of subwoofer blasts of Enrique or whatever else I deem appropriate "getting down music." Maybe you just don't really want to hear the grunts, sighs, heavy breathing, or apologies of your companion - well, sorry prince[ss], you signed up for that, and no ballad or synth beat can save you.

I have been irrevocably shaped by the story of my first friend to have lost her virginity - who, incidentally, has two children and is married to a Walmart manager now. This was back in the day of Compact Discs - I know, I'm so aged - and the burnt one she and her inaugural lover chose to pop her cherry to was on repeat. And she related to me the experience of laying there, not entirely enraptured, a bit in pain, hearing this same song, which repeated three times on the CD, over. And over. And over. And how he would match the beat. And how much she never EVER wanted to hear that song again.

Kinda sad story? Maybe, but I didn't mean to bring you down players: my point is simply that, if you're going to associate a sexual experience with a song, be very prepared to never listen to that song again. I'm pretty sure that the positive association with the beloved ballad won't have the inverse effect of making the sex better, so if you've bagged yourself a profusely sweating jack rabbit or a malodorous starfish don't risk reminding yourself of that while listening to your car radio - that's a fucking traffic hazard! Some places have distracted driving laws - try explaining that one to the cop who has pulled you over for trying to remove your car speakers/ears while at a red.

I do think, however, that I have a pretty good sense of humour when it comes to sex, so here, for your perusal, are songs which I would listen to while getting down.

The Sexual Cynic's Sexy Sex Playlist:

Let's Get it On - Marvin Gaye
          Because being old school and to the point would make me chuckle, and scornless laughter is supposed to be the best aphrodisiac - for the same reason, the less classic "I Wanna Know" by Joe would also suffice.
(You Want to) Make a Memory - Bon Jovi
          What I like about this song is that it makes no promise of love, or celestial connection - it says, if you stay here, we will have memorable sex, and I like that. Though admittedly, watching Jon ghost-stalk this girl around her pottery barn show room in the music video has considerably diminished my lady boner for this particular carol.
Faded - Soul Decision
           If you played me this song while we were in bed, I would like you so very much more. Because, again, laughter, but second, classic Canadian 90s pop reference.
Besame Mucho - Diana Krall
          Ok, this may push my limits as far as romantic music goes, but my philosophy is that if I don't know what is being said, it can fly.
Another One Bites the Dust - Queen
          What? You wouldn't appreciate that?? Freddie Mercury doesn't turn you on?
The Violet Hour - Sea Wolf
          Ok, I am a sucker for the nonsensical beauty metaphors: "You're thighs are thistles and hot house grapes." What? I don't care, kiss me.
You're the Best Around - Joe Esposito
          Seriously? This is still going on? Here's your final 3 minute closer - particularly appropriate because it's what I will probably be uttering by the time I want you to finish up so I can nap. And also, Karate Kid - come on now.

Am I being entirely sincere? I guess you'll never know, so if you're going to insist on soundtracking your carnal exploration, proceed with caution...

Flamingos Aren't Just for Bedroom Decor Anymore

My first post on the new blog. I'm so excited. So, for the sake of the occasion, I thought I would let this celebratory mood linger; that is to say, when I was customizing my settings, I went in with some optimism! So what carnal delight does Women's Health suggest for a woman who can brag a bit of flexibility (true story: after drinking most of a bottle of rum I became known as "that girl who can do the splits" at a recent gathering - and mortifyingly, this was not a unique occurrence)?

Ballet Dancer

Get it? Because dancers are flexible! Ah har har har. I do love the densely literal minds at Women's Health. I guess a Black Swan pun would be sinking to their level, but just know that a same-sex/bulimic/psychopathic spin on this position and the myriad of jokes I could make did go through my mind. Share yours, please. And speaking of swans, let's find out how to have sex on one foot.

Standing on one foot, face your guy and wrap your other leg around his waist while he helps support you.

Doesn't that paint a sexy picture for you? I think the swan reference is actually perfect, just so long as you don't imagine yourself gracefully skimming through the water and instead invision those beasts awkwardly squatting on land. Apology to swan enthusiasts - I was attacked as a child, and the ill-will runs deep. 

Ok ok, let me set the most obvious love-making scene that comes rushing to mind with this position: you've dimmed the lights and put on some mood music. You bat and peer up through voluminous lashes, giving your most sultry bedroom eyes. Stand up and shed your silk robe/nightgown/oversized Yankees T. Curl a finger, beckoning to your man. It's. On. Now stand on one foot. That's the sign! He shall rush to your side to "support you" and love-making shall commence. 

How sexy and romantic. Man, wish I was gettin' some these days because this seems like all kinds of appealing. Or, alternatively, if we shall shatter my illusion, like the sex you have in a public washrooms/alleyways/Milestone's. Whichever.

Ok, so lest lying space is scarce (coughbathroomstallcough), why would you want to stagger around like a drunken pirate with one limber leg?

Allows for quality face time and connecting.

Oh. So... the exact same benefits as basic missionary? Ok. Just checking. Same benefits as missionary, but with the added bonus of no leverage and the endorphin rush from that constant risk of falling. Ok, ok - that's not the real bonus...

If you’re a Flexi Lexie, try putting the raised leg on his shoulder for even deeper penetration.

You're flexible? Then you're a Flexie Lexie. Because we're all the same!Much better than being being a Stiff Tiff or an Inflexible Hexadecimal. Ok, so that may just be the name of a villain from Reboot, but it's catchy, right? Let's neglect the fact that flexibility manifests itself in different ways, and that being flexible does not make you able to balance worth a damn. I would still like to know why we are standing. This can be done on one's back with far less risk of injury. And also, how awkward is the prep talk to warm up into this? "Hey sexy, help me stretch my hammys?" That's my go to pick-up line (see earlier rum/splits story - and it totally worked, fyi). 

I just imagine some ambitious young woman thinking "I want to blow his mind with this sexy feat of flexibility" and then realizing mid leg-lift "oh wait...maybe I'm not that flexib - falling! Falling!"

A bruised tailbone is no laughing matter kids. Play safe.

Emancipate The Sexual Cynic in You!

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