The other night, my wife and I had sex.
Now, this isn't an altogether rare occurrence. The odds are against us (we've been together more than 10 years; we work multiple jobs; two profoundly talented 4-year-old cockblockers patrol the house endlessly like goddamn sex sniffing dogs), but we're still good for no less than once but no more than three times a week.
BTW, if you're married with two kids under five and you have sex four times a week, well, God bless you. I don't know if there's such a thing as a Nobel Sex Prize, but if there is, you deserve one.
At any rate, sex. We had it. Normally, it's done so with zero music playing in the background because I am a traditionally uncreative lover. This time, though, the radio was on. The Wife had turned it on while I was in the shower. In my head, she did this to set a mood. In reality, she probably did it because the fan in our bedroom makes a tink, tink, tink while it whirls and the music helps muzzle it some.
BTW, taking a shower immediately before you plan on trying to coerce your wife into coitus increases the probability of receiving oral sex by a considerable percentage; tips for a healthy marriage, yo.
At any rate, the radio. It was on. During foreplay, I paid zero attention to it. Zero. It could've been playing audio clips from Happy Feet or an NPR interview where they were discussing Nazi death camps for all I know. I don't know. I was locked in, I guess, just focused on not screwing anything up too badly. Once I'd navigated that mine field though, once things were moving, the goddamn radio was all I could focus on.
I remember realizing it was on, thinking, “Hmmm. This could potentially be cool.” Then I remember thinking, “I wonder how hard it is to be a late night radio DJ. It can't be that hard. I mean, play some records, say some words, call it a night. I need to remember to investigate this further tomorrow.” Then I remember thinking, “Oh, right: boobs.”
But then, panic.
Ideally, the DJ — that bastard — would've played a set of songs that was one of three things:
(1) Classy, maybe something like Miguel's “Sure Thing” nine times in a row. That'd have gotten the job done, for certain.
(2) Interesting. D'Angelo's Voodoo would've been stellar, but only if the DJ would've been clever enough to omit the ones that made you say, “What the fuck is happening right now?”
or, best of all,
(3) Raunchy. R. Kelly's 12 Play album in its entirety would've been aces. Visceral music gives the allusion of visceral action, even if it's thoroughly timid. Have you ever gone grocery shopping while listening to “Your Body's Calling”? It's way more fun than normal grocery shopping. You feel all sexy and shit walking around. The only real drawback is that you end up buying all kinds of obliquely sex-related foodstuffs you didn't need. And trust, you look like a total weirdo standing there while the cashier keeps ringing up cucumbers that were packaged individually and cans of whip cream.
This particular DJ, however, did none of the above. There was no obvious sex continuity to his mix. At one point, it was like he was actively trying to spite our act with his selections.
He played Waka Flocka's “Round Of Applause,” which I enjoy but my wife passionately dislikes. When it came waddling on, that wobbly digital whine seeping into our bedroom, I thought for certain that was it. I was like the fat kid on Stand By Me when he's halfway across the railroad track bridge and realizes the train is coming up behind him. I didn't literally lay down and start crying, but I might as well have. There was nary a peep from her though. She was either ignoring it or she'd fallen asleep. Either way seemed good enough for me.
He followed that with Drake's “HYFR,” following it with Wayne and Drake's “She Will.” I don't know if you've ever accidentally listened to Drake while having sex, but it's almost existential. The lilac fury harnessed within his cadence is calming and semi-motivational. He's like a sensitivity coach. It's like he's in the room with you, whispering, “Great job, great job. Keep at it. Hey, I bet she'd like it if you told her how much you loved her. No, no, no. Not with your mouth, silly goose. Use your eyes and your soul.” I've not met Drake, nor have I ever interviewed him, but I'm about 70 percent he says shit like that.
From there, it was a regional hit called “Hammer” by a guy called Beatking. In the song, he shouts, “HAMMER, HAMMER, HIT HER WITH THE HAMMER,” with the phrase “hammer” serving as a euphemism for “penis.” I guess that made it appropriate, but it didn't make it less weird. Also, I kept thinking that it'd be a way funnier song if nobody had ever invented euphemisms and Beatking had been forced to say, “PENIS, PENIS, HIT HER WITH THE PENIS.”
He played Mary J. Blige's “Mr. Wrong” and I was happy to hear from Drake again and then he played Tyga's “Rack City” and I was happy America didn't abandon Tyga after “Coconut Juice” and then he played Snoop, Wiz and Bruno's “Young, Wild and Free” and I was mad that God had allowed me to be born with ears.
I won't tell you what song was on during the conclusion (some things are to be kept between husband and wife, bros), but I will tell you that it was not Flo Rida's “Good Feeling,” which is what I was rooting for solely because I wanted to mention it to people afterwards, and for that I was disappointed.