Eat to the Beat – Fiction

Eat to the Beat

by Chris Adams
illustration by Jef Taylor

If music be the food of love then there’s a lot of hungry horny people out there. While the conventional middle-class married couple can count on wonder bread like Julio Iglesias, Michael Bolton, and Mariah Carey to get them “in the mood” once every other week, there’s a shitload of loners, losers, perverts, and weirdos out there who need to know which music will spice up the idiosyncratic flavors of their particular sex lives. With that in mind, I’ve conjured up this little “menu” for these sexual outcasts.

Undoubtedly, the type of sex that’s occuring the most at any given point on this planet is masturbation. It’s a lonely, bittersweet, some say shameful endeavor, but, even so, lone lovers deserve musical accompaniment to their onanistic acts. Elvis Costello’s rhythmically insistent “Pump It Up” is probably the definitive jackoff anthem, closely followed by Generation X’s “Dancing With Myself” during which the lead singer, lame-ass designer punk Billy Idol, shamelessly simulates the sounds of an orgasm at the tune’s (ahem) climax. Lonely hearts will find trying to “beat” Bill to that “petit mort” a stimulating substitute for solitaire. (Music fans with taste would, no doubt, find literally beating Billy to that “mort grande” pretty satisfying as well.) Those more attuned to the melancholy aspects of masturbation might feel more comfortable with Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again, Naturally.” Participants of that cumming-of-age ritual known as the “Circle Jerk” should find Bob Dylan’s generally loathed “Band of the Hand” appropriate. Other recommended cuts: the Buzzcocks “Orgasm Addict,” James Taylor’s “Handyman,” the Divinyls “I Touch Myself,” and Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.”

Sinatra also comes in handy during that rare but rewarding act of sympathy known as the mercy fuck. (You have to be a guy to make this work Ñ women are rarely so pathetic as to beg for sex.) Here’s the scenario: You’re at a party, and you’re such a snivelling loser that you can’t get it together to approach the object of your desires. Solution: Sit in a corner and pout with obnoxious “furtiveness” in her direction. If the lass is the sensitive type (or drunk enough), odds are she’ll come over to see what’s up. That’s when you lay it on thick, brother: “My girlfriend of 4 years just left me, I don’t know what to do, I loved her so much, and my puppy just got run over by a cement mixer…” yadda yadda yadda. If she takes the pitiful bait and ends up back in your room, ya gotta keep up the facade or it’s no dice. That’s where the Chairman comes in. Toss on one of his tearstained, wistful post-Ava albums, and the velvety blue mood is set for sorrowful sex. Try sobbing as you come – chances are you’ll set yourself up for another round. “One for my baby and one more for the road” indeed.

But say you’re not the tearful type. Say you’re a depraved, nihilistic Lower East Side drug-addled scum-rock freak. Not to worry, my fucked-up friend, there’s a virtual plethora of platters to accompany your bizarre, vile, crap-caked fornication. “Sister Ray” by the Velvet Underground is a mind-numbing drone about shooting up next to dead poeple while transvestites in sailor suits keep busy by sucking on various “ding-dongs.” Kinda makes ya think of home, doesn’t it? However, as it clocks in at 18 minutes, it may be about 17 and a half too long for “staminally-challenged” junkies. If that’s the case, howsabout a nice quickie in the closet to the tune of the Stooges ” I Wanna Be Your Dog” or “Loose”? (Sample lyric: “I stick it deep inside/’cos I’m loose!”) Other recommended cuts include the Cramps’ “Can Your Pussy Do the Dog?,” the Voidoids’ “Love Comes In Spurts,” and Big Black’s sphincter-iffic “Fists of Love.” (Punks so alienated that they find sexual solace only in inflatable partners may find The Sex Pistols’ version of “Substitute” appropriate.)

Those who seek pleasure within the shadowy realms of S&M might be surprised to learn that aging pop pinup Adam Ant used to write songs that apply directly to the liggotage and leather experience. If the preposterous sound of Mr. Ant yodeling awful lyrics like “I paid a packet/for a new straitjacket” and “They say your cat has got nine tails” doesn’t punish your senses into ecstasy, then maybe the pain scene isn’t really your trip. Submit to “Whip in My Valise” or “Beat My Guest” for maximum torture. Thigh-high stiletto-boot lovers will no doubt find a special thrill in Adam’s swoony “Puss In Boots.” (Try not to concentrate on the fact that Phil Collins plays on the record, though, or the phrase “soft ‘n’ dry” will take on depressing new significance.) Antmusic for sexpeople! Other recommended tunes: X-Ray Spex’s “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” and Devo’s “Whip It.”

Bon appetit!