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. 

 

A Bathroom Blowjob

I’d never witnessed a prelude to public sex before Sunday.  Preludes to private sex, yes – but public? Never.

I was at one of those fantastic restaurant/pub deals, and the establishment was almost deserted save for myself, my friend, and a table of loud, rowdy, drunk 20-somethings.  They were doing shots of tequila. 

Odd for a restaurant.  Even odder for a Sunday night. 

However, I once drank myself retarded (and $100 poorer) at a Boston Pizza on a weeknight when I was 19 – so who am I to judge?

One guy was a loud-mouth bastard.  He was obnoxious and vulgar (and not in a good way).  He had an off-putting fratboy quality about him.  He punctuated every sentence with a loud “fuck!”  He believed his stories about benders and epic hangovers to be genuinely enticing (they weren’t special or original).  He bragged about his spending habits (which is never a dignified thing to do). 

However, he had a fan.  She might have been his girlfriend.  I couldn’t be sure.

They didn’t seem particularly cuddly or intimate in that “exclusive couple” kind-of-way.  He didn’t have his arm around her, and she wasn’t leaning into him.  However, when their companions left to go smoke outside, they turned and started kissing. 

Since the restaurant was empty, I could make out parts of their whispered conversation.  I managed to overhear – and I’m paraphrasing – “if we don’t do something about this soon I’m going to have to leave and jerk-off.”

That caught my attention.

I, being of a naturally salacious disposition, strained to over-hear the erotic exchange.  It ended abruptly, with the obnoxious fratboy grabbing the girl’s hand and pulling her towards the washroom.

I started an irritating running commentary at that point.  I told my friend what they were doing and where they were going, and guessed (out loud) at what they’d do in the men’s restroom.

A quickie against a wall?

A blowjob?

Probably a blowjob, we concluded. 

10 minutes (if not less) later, the couple emerged.  The guy was grinning and sweating like a pig.  Well, not like a pig per se – but there was visible moisture upon his brow.  He had an awkward half-erection.  The kind that flops around at half-mast.  He continuously pawed at his balls on his way back to the table.

I think he caught me staring, but I don’t think he cared. 

I suppose that, if I were a loud-mouthed bastard, I’d sneer at those unlucky enough not to receive random oral sex in public washrooms. 

Nothing but a little public copulation to make an ordinary evening that much more memorable. 

On another note, I had two disturbing dreams last night that have plagued me all day.  Both were vaguely sexual, yet extremely telling. I’ll hope for no future encores come nightfall.