A Real-Life Investigation into Whether "Good" Sex Music Is a Thing


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A Real-Life Investigation into Whether "Good" Sex Music Is a Thing

My boyfriend and I banged to a bunch of different songs to find out, once and for all.

Humans are never satisfied; we're always looking for more. It's in our stupid, fickle human nature. We like to ruin things by being greedy and excessive to the point of no return – it's just how we are, all flawed and dumb. We take the wonderful, natural things that are gifted to us by the universe – like nature, or Taco Bell – and we deform them to the point of questioning if they're even enjoyable anymore. It's one of mankind's greatest mysteries; this wild, menacing overindulgence.


Safe in the knowledge that we've probably already destroyed our planet so bad that it's too late to reverse it, all we have left to enjoy is sex. But we want more, don't we? We have to go the extra mile, and start writing songs to have sex to. Does music even enhance sex, anyway? Sex is good, and music is good, but there are just so many horrible stories of the twain meeting, aren't there. So many examples of things going awry. The optimist in me likes to think that, considering these songs were written with a specific purpose in mind, at least some of them must deliver. But there was only way to find out – stop speculating, do some Real Journalism™, and trial it myself.

So, the name of science, I decided to convince my boyfriend to have sex with me to a variety of different songs in a quest to objectively answer one of life's greatest unanswered questions: Is there such thing as good sex music?


To start this investigation, we looked to none other but the King of Sex himself: Robbie Williams. In true Robbie spirit, we decided to play "Rock DJ" off my phone at the side of the bed, hungover as hell, in the middle of the day with the curtains wide open and the sun directly beaming into our eyes. I picked this song because: a) Robbie Williams is the only good British institution left and; b) my boyfriend loves Robbie Williams more than he loves me, so I knew it would be a sure-fire way to keep him engaged during what was possibly about to be the weirdest sexual experience of our lives.


After the first chorus, it all just became background noise to be honest. Robbie's voice eventually faded into what sounded like a choir of angels, lifting us up with every thrust, encouraging us into each position. He's rooting for us, I thought, he's really rooting for us. In this moment, I realised "Rock DJ" is whatever you want it to be. I never understood its true purpose beforehand, and now I understand it even less so that I've banged to it. Regardless, the sex was very good, and after it successfully ended, I couldn't help but picture Robbie sitting up there in the sky like a guardian angel, looking down on us with pride – a single tear rolling down his cheek.


Anyone over the age of 24 who claims that that Titanic sex scene wasn't their first sexual awakening is lying. The jovial rush of sneaking into a fancy car that doesn't belong to you; Leonardo DiCaprio's soft, angelic face; the slow, creeping in of Celine Dion's 1997 smash hit "My Heart Will Go On"; Kate Winslet's hand print on the steamy window – it's the perfect template for Serious Lovemaking.

Turns out lovemaking is a thing people only do in movies. While I'd like to think it was as cinematic and romantic as Leo and Kate having one last bang as doomed lovers, it just wasn't. The sex started and ended exclusively in missionary position, like there was some kind of vanilla magnetic force holding us back from being our usual selves, like it was literally illegal to be kinky, because, you know, you're shagging to the Titanic song. The whole experience was pretty nondescript and subtle, but I'm also not going to sit here and pretend I didn't sing along to the key change in my head. I take this as a small victory. Next.



To be fair to Berlin, this track is probably the only one that seems like it's not trying to parody sex with dramatic drum breaks or middle-of-the-road indie dad jams. It's all swirly, atmospheric and kind of romantic, but not in a sleazy way. We subconsciously tried to recreate the iconic sex scene in Top Gun – including the bits where Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis basically just lick each other's mouths slowly – which was a nice starter. But because of our unknowing commitment to our roles, this was yet another missionary-based fuck. I got a leg cramp in the middle of it; I asked my boyfriend to get off of me; I got on top; I audibly said "fuck this song"; and ended up having to finish myself off while my poor boyfriend was laying there, wondering where it all went wrong. It wasn't explicitly bad, but it also wasn't good. We move on.


Banging to possibly the best song of all time came with with its pressures. Am I going to going to involuntarily use my boyfriend's dick as a microphone while I give him head? Are we going to inadvertently thrust to the BPM? What if we high five after, by reflex?

While I can gladly confirm I didn't use my boyfriend's dick as a microphone, I cannot sit here and say we didn't end up synching our fucking rhythm. In fact, we went full Summer of 69 (nice), and did it doggy style throughout the whole song. Every time the chorus hit, without fail, my boyfriend bent down to kiss me, as if to say thank you for letting me fuck you while Bryan Adams plays in the background. This is what true male empowerment looks like.


Banging to "Summer of 69" can only be described as a visceral experience in its purest form; there was no logic, no inhibition, just an overwhelming desire to hop on that karaoke stage, can in hand, and smash out a fine rendition to the roaring applause of my peers. We both had a nice time for those three minutes and 32 seconds. Then again, we always have a nice time when Bryan Adams is on, don't we.

BRAND NEW – "137"

It's 2017 and one of your favourite bands just surprised-dropped their supposed last album ever. What's the only logical response to that news? See if you can shag to it.

I chose "137", in particular, because: a) that guitar solo shreds and; b) it's about the impending doom of being evaporated in nuclear warfare, so why not test the strength of our minds here. The first three minutes of the song are slow and brooding, which makes it hard to focus on the morose lyrics, and easier to bang to the mood the song creates. This can only be a good thing, I thought.

I set myself the small mental challenge of trying to get my boyfriend to come when the solo kicks in – suffice to say, it didn't work. Turns out trying to get someone to have an orgasm from scratch in three minutes and 40 seconds is quite difficult. Also – he denies this – I'm pretty sure he was tapping his feet along to the drums while I was giving him a blowjob, which was distracting. All in all, would not recommend trying to fuck to a song that is ostensibly about everyone being bombed to death.



I'm from the South, so, naturally, I've had a cowboy fetish since birth. In fact, I would even say that I would bang anyone even mildly attractive as long as they were wearing a cowboy hat. With this knowledge, you'd think I'd enjoy banging to Uncle Kracker. On paper, it's the perfect gateway to unlock my wildest fantasy: a toe-tapping country love song sung to me by a man playing the slide guitar with a beer bottle on some remote ranch in the middle of Florida. All I had to do was just close my eyes and believe…

It was so bad that I distinctly remember physically feeling the burning rage inside of me more than I was feeling the act of sex I was engaging in. I got angry, aggressively told my boyfriend to get out of me, which then made my boyfriend confused. We hated every minute of it and had to stop. Just like that, all my Southern illusions had been shattered. Now I will never fuck a hot cowboy, both IRL or my dreams. Thanks a lot, Uncle Kracker.


This is a song about coitus that does everything but imply sexual thoughts, like two negative magnets pushing each other apart. It's the sonic embodiment of the sound two slices of plain white bread with mayo on them make when they're slapped against each other, repeatedly. It's the musical equivalent of a flaccid penis; an uncooked chicken; a limp handshake from your uncle's creepy friend that gets weird when he's drunk. That is Charlie Puth and Meghan Trainor. That is this song. The details from this sexual encounter are hazy – probably because my brain is trying to block it all out – and I'm surprised we even got through it in full. I would even go as far to say it's the least sexy song of all time, and I've accidentally fucked to a live recording of The Phantom of the Opera before.



If you're willingly banging to this song in 2017 it means you've either dry humped in the middle of a Propaganda club night once, or you've tuned into Radio X before taking your bootcut jeans off, which makes you a Weird Sex Person That Gets Off To Chris Moyes.

Everything about "Sex on Fire" just sucks; the whole song has about ten words in it, and Stereophonics did this song ten times better with "Dakota" anyway. However, in this Kings of Leon-sized obstacle course, and the ultimate hurdle to overcome is: the climax. While my dude was going down on me, I was really close, and then I heard "hot as a fever / rattle of bones" and we were back to square one. Turns out it is physically impossible to have an orgasm while "Sex on Fire" is blaring from a phone next to your bed. If I'm being honest, the whole experience just made my disdain for white men grow even more, which didn't really work out in my boyfriend's favour. All in all: Not Good.


After my very scientific experiment, I have decided that banging to music is definitely Bad. I think we can all agree that having sex with background music is acceptable, but only if it's that: in the background. Nothing good can ever come out of deliberately choosing a song to bang to. It won't spark a movie-moment between you and your partner; it won't become "your song"; it won't make your orgasms feel any better. If anything, it'll just slowly ruin your sex life. In fact, it might ruin your entire relationship, too, because afterwards, you'll just lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling, with the 'ooohhhooohooo' from "Sex On Fire" playing on a never-ending loop in your head as you wonder how you even got here and whether humans even deserve to have sex at all. Anyway, we're getting married in the spring!

You can find Rachel on Twitter.