Barbie DavenporteWest Coast Sound posted a stellar article yesterday discussing musical tastes and whether or not they affect interpersonal relationships. A study showed that men appeared less attractive when admitting their love for classical or heavy metal music, while ladies glittered more when they revealed they enjoy classical, but lost their luster after their collection of Dolly Parton and Garth Brooks CDs were discovered.
Now most of you know I'm a bit of a slut with a lot of knowledge and an unabashed method of sharing it. But if you happen to follow my Twitter feed, you'll also notice that when I'm not tweeting about blowjobs and lube – or playing backhanded compliment tennis with AV “endangered species eater” Flox – there's music on my brain.
Not only is music an important factor when deciding whether or not dude of the moment might someday be more than just a good lay, it also has a dramatic effect on my brain. Like many audiophiles, my entire demeanor (and motivation level) is altered by certain sound combinations.
A steady backbeat with a kickdrum and electronic “wiggly” sounds (ex. Radiohead, Hot Chip, Imogen Heap) can get me running for miles or writing up a storm.
And instrumental combinations – especially featuring strings – matched with vocal harmonies with lingering notes not only put me at ease but can either send me into euphoria (ex. Local Natives, Vampire Weekend, Arcade Fire) or into a sullen contemplative state (ex. Ani DiFranco, Sufjan Stevens, Jose Gonzales.)
But when it comes to sex, music takes on a totally different role. A, more often than not, destructive one.
DISCLAIMER: This is NOT to say I don't like to listen to Flying Lotus while I fuck, or have the occasional titillating Tool session (don't judge me.)
As we know, many women are cerebral in the bedroom and it takes concentration to “get to the top,” especially with a new partner. When there's stress involved, or a lofty to-do list, or the sound of the cat knocking something over in the other room, it's not rare to be taken out of the “zone” by an irritating distraction.
I find that having music on, especially music with lyrics with which I'm familiar, triggers some kind of carnal ADD, drawing me out of the mental fantasy I'm crafting and into Pandora's box.
Music not only has the power to deter a possible match made in audible purgatory, it also can ruin orgasms faster than your mom walking into the room. (Don't ask me how I know that.)
The Plumber came by Sunday night to install a Blu-ray player, upload the most recent episode of “Top Gear” on my desktop, and then download some serious oral choreography onto my hard drive.
Pandora was on. Not too loud, just enough to let the occasional Bassnectar (random, but effective), Prefuse 73 or other ambient lyric-less sounds set the stage. He picked me up off the couch and pushed me into the bedroom with a seriously hard ass slap, where an hour of over-the-bureau/in-the-mirror went down.
Then I was tossed onto the bed with my legs forced open to commence my Plumber's favorite pastime.
Now until the end finale, I'm a pretty quiet gal. Just lots of breathing and the occasional “Oh my god.” This not only allows me to fall into my sexy thoughts, but also hear every bump, peep or tweet going on outside the door. That's when Pandora took a turn for the unsexy.
From Flying Lotus “Dancing Tea Leaves” suddenly came Evanescence “Bring Me To Life.”
The fantastical blond giving her cab driver a roadside blowjob with passing-by hikers watching suddenly looked up, softening cock in hand, confused but still salivating. I urged her to go on.
OK, back into gear.
One of the voyeur hikers, hand in pants, decided to approach the couple, who were now fucking missionary on the hood of the cab.
Physically, I was approaching the tallest point on the rollercoaster, preparing for the free-fall feeling of orgasmic ecstasy. And then it happened.
Guster.
My fantasy couple barely had time to get the leaves out of their hair off before the cops showed up, sending the hikers running and the poor blond scrambling for her underwear.
Guster. Just not that sexy.
And as the imaginary duo was arrested for indecent exposure, two fat policemen hummed, “Fa, fa fa fa fa fa fa faaaaaaa” with a grin.
Guster joins the list of bands with such boner-shrinking power as the Osmonds, Coheed and Cambria and Christmas carols. The cunnilingus session was sabotaged.
The Plumber and I simply changed courses and ended up finagling a seriously strong O-face with an accompanying squirt (a rarity), so no harm done.
But my point?
If you're going to let music play the role of pseudo sex toy, plan ahead. One colleague crafts specialized song mixes for whatever style of sex on which she's about to embark and doesn't stray. Another has learned to silence all cell phones and electronic devices that may or may not repeat the 30-second refrain from that Rihanna song every time his mom calls.
But unless your ears don't pick up every note, tone and lyric they hear, leave the radio off and do not let an asexual algorithm and/or computer gremlin decide your playlist.
Your sense of sound has more sexual power than you might think.
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