I Wanna Make it Wit’chu!

This is not a conservative post, though it will seem that way at first. 

A few days ago (or perhaps a few weeks ago, I can’t be sure) my brother, normally a fan of horrendous death metal (horrendous to me, at least), started singing the praises of Lil’ Wayne.  I wasn’t totally surprised, as he’s been partial to hip-hop before.  His description of the music?  

“It’s jokes.”

Being too lazy to download Pop Bottles myself, I listened to it on his computer.  It’s not an exceptional song, but it contains an outstanding line(s).

 “Okay, start with straight shots and then pop bottles,
Pour it on the models,
Shut up bitch, swallow,
If you can’t swallow,
Shut up bitch, gargle.”

The visual of someone gargling anything (and in this case, Mr. Wayne may be referring to semen) is off-putting in and of itself.  Gargling isn’t a particularly sexy act, for it neither looks nor sounds pleasant.  It’s usually done to rid one’s mouth of unwanted bacteria.

However, hearing that line got me thinking about other unpleasant – and by “unpleasant” I mean “decidedly unsexy” – lyrics in hip-hop and pop songs. 

Look, here, at this erotic collection of steamy words penned by Oscar winning musical geniuses 3-6 Mafia:

“Slob on my knob Like corn on the cob,
Check in with me and do your job,

 Lay on the bed and give me head,
Don’t have to ask don’t have to beg

 Juicy is my name, sex is my game
Let’s call the boys, let’s run a train

 Squeeze on my nuts, lick on my
butt.”

I don’t think a eating corn on the cob – an activity done during casual dinners and my family’s annual Father’s Day BBQ – is an adequate comparison to a blowjob.  Mainly because most civilized people don’t “slob” on their corn, but rather bite it with vigor and enthusiasm (something that shouldn’t be done during oral sex). 

The rest of the chorus compliments the crass and laughably bad first line.  Run a train?  Isn’t that illegal in most instances?  Is this a consensual train-running?  Or a Showgirl’s style train-running? Regardless, it’s not “hot.”

Hearing that line reminded me of a popular Lil’ John (the rapper who always screams YEEEEEAHHHH) song that contained the line:

“Til’ the sweat drops down my balls.”

Sweaty balls.  Nice.

It would seem that some sexually suggestive lyrics fail at being both sexy and suggestive.  They instead opt to be crass, overt, and – as my brother said – “jokes.”  Perhaps this is done purposely, but regardless, it seems unnecessary. 

I enjoy a sexually-charged song, and I don’t shy away from explicit content.  In fact, I often embrace it.  Sex can be reduced to something raw and animalistic in a musical context.  It need not be constantly presented as something elegant and softly romantic.  However, it doesn’t have to be made into something inherently dirty, either.  The lyrics don’t have to allude to spit and sweat, nor do they need to include lewd metaphors that only vaguely apply to the acts being discussed.

Artists have the freedom to be explicit, but some can’t – and don’t – pull it off well.  When did subtlety become overrated?  When did creativity fall to the wayside?  When did songs about sex turn into songs about gargling and eating corn? 

A sexy song is, I believe, only sexy if you can imagine yourself having sex to it.  Corn on the cob has never been an aphrodisiac for me, nor has the word “slob.”  “Slob” is something that comes out a dog’s mouth when he’s chewing a dentabone.  Ball sweat has never whipped me into a sensual frenzy.  To be fair, I’m sure the term “pussy sweat” would make most men recoil in disgust.  You don’t need to be flowery in your descriptions of natural bodily functions, but you can try to be tasteful. 

People have lost touch with sexiness.  Justin Timberlake, I fear, has not brought it back (though he’s right in claiming that it left). 

People took the ball of openness and artistic freedom and ran too far out of bounds with it.  They didn’t appreciate the power and privilege, and infused their lyrical creations with juvenile and obscene descriptions of generally desirable erotic activities. 

In layman’s terms:  Some of these contemporary boundary-pushing “poets” have ruined sex for me (and others, I’d imagine).  Nothing quashes desire faster than a overt referral to gurgling or slobbering.

Now, to be fair and gender-inclusive, male rappers aren’t solely responsible for destroying and defacing human sexuality.

Kia asked men to lick:

“My neck,

My back,

My pussy,

and my crack.”

She lost at me at, “crack.”  An unsexy word, to be sure.  It kind of, I don’t know, takes the mystique out of things.

A few short years ago, songs by Genuwine and LL Cool J were considered relatively raunchy.  They were overtly suggestive, yes, but raunchy?  Not really – at least, not by today’s disgraceful standards.

“Pony” and “Doin’ It” are probably still on people’s Sex Songs playlists.  They have a certain thrust-friendly rhythm to them, and the lyrics serve to compliment the beat.  Granted, “Pony” contains some giggle-worthy lyrics.  However, because it makes an effort to be edgy and raw (not repulsive), it can get away with silly lines like:

“You’re hor-nay, lets doooo it.”

And:

“My saddle, is waiting,

Come and, jump on it.”

The difference between hot songs and repugnant ones? 

Intent.

Do you want to arouse, or shock and horrify?  If your goal is to come up with the dirtiest, most pornographic metaphor, your intent is to elicit gasps and raised eyebrows (accompanied by covered mouths).  Writing about sweat and slobber is akin to writing about diarrhea – daring, but not necessarily commendable.  Honesty is not always the best policy.  Being realistic about your exploitative (and perhaps misogynistic) view of sex doesn’t do listeners any favours. 

It signifies the creation of one more song that makes people think – for two to three minutes – that sex just isn’t all that sexy. 

 

I Live!

Disclaimer: I started writing this entry about two weeks ago and abandoned it.  I’m only posting it now because I suddenly remembered it was sitting in my draft box. 

I haven’t written an entry in far too long.  I feel like I’ve been neglecting a good friend, one deserving of much more respect and attention.  I actually haven’t written anything lenghty  or important in awhile, and I feel guilty.

However, that guilt shall soon be assauged.  I have to write several papers – short ones, granted – as a part of the college application process.  I bit the bullet, as it were, and applied for several journalism programs.  I now may be able to post-pone real-life for another two years, which is wonderful. 

Life in the working world – or this working world, at least – is dour and depressing.  I’m doing something I’m not fit to do, mentally or psychologically (are those two one in the same?).  It’s exhausting because it’s disheartening and monotonous.  It makes me want to take up scrap-booking, and I’ve never been one for such crafty pursuits.

Yes, I was bad at Arts & Crafts as a child.  My writing was crooked, my drawing pitiful, and my gluing messy.  When I was little, I sometimes had trouble colouring inside the lines.  It was, at the time, a great source of shame and embarrassment.

For those who say they miss their childhood, what about it do you miss?

Childhood is one of the most difficult things one has to endure – and endure it we must, all of us.  Pre-adolescence is the time when you’re most co-dependent and insecure.  You can’t do things on your own, you certainly can’t expect to be taken seriously, and thus you absorb people’s bullshit like a sponge.  Childhood is when life-long insecurities take root.  There may not be a lot of 10 year-old alcoholics, but there’s no doubt things that happen to 10 year-olds that turn them into 40 year-old drunks. 

I never long for the “carefree” days of my childhood.  I prefer to be able to drive and vote and drink and come and go as I please.  I’d take bills over elementary school recess any day. 

The best time of life?

When you’re enjoying yourself on your own terms.  That can’t really happen when you’re 11 – or at least, it didn’t happen to me. 

Now that I’ve officially decided to try going back to school, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders.  I have made a decision – a wise one, at that.  I’m going to toy with the idea of working in media for a little while longer.  I know it’s what I want to do, I’m just not quite sure how or when to start.  This, I think, is a step in the right direction.

In the meantime, I shall reward myself for enduring the daily drudgery of office work (a curse I, admittedly, bestowed upon myself) with late weeknights (and weekends) spent with good friends and hot lovers.  Well, there’s only one lover – but really, I’m a simple woman and I only need one . 

….

 

All of the above was written a couple of weeks back.  I’ve since completed my college applications, but there’s been some administrative fuck-ups regarding those.  As of now, circumstances have compelled me to put all of my eggs in one wait-listed basket.  We’ll see how things go.