“Plug it in and turn me on” are the seven words that ruined hook up playlists for me. The lyrics are from Afrojack’s 2011 hit “Take Over Control” with vocals by Eva Simmons, who bears the privilege of reciting these words before the convulsive bass drop a few seconds later. The song is blatantly sexual—Simmons feels so turned on by someone (presumably a guy who has something to “plug” into her) that she’s willing to submit and let sex overcome her. It’s an arousing concept, no doubt—there is inadvertent carnal power in letting someone else take over and do all the work. The song vividly describes aggressively passionate sex, but it definitely doesn’t make me want to take any of its suggestions.
I was hooking up with a guy when that unholy Afrojack song started playing on the Pandora playlist he put together. Simmons breathily whispered, “Plug it in and turn me on,” at the exact moment that I was about to do just that. The bass that explodes directly after simulates the voracious humping that might occur after someone makes this wild demand. I was dumbfounded by the hilarious synchronicity between real life and the song, while my friend appeared to be reaching the height of his excitement. I laughed, and he urged me on. The disconnect evaporated the sexual energy in a split second. Music rarely enhances my sexual encounters. It usually distracts from them, actually.
People have been getting it on to music forever, but the concept of creating a hook-up playlist aligns more evenly with millennials who are the ones making playlists in the first place. CDs and vinyls surely soundtracked lots of sex in past decades, but playlists can be carefully curated, which makes them more personal. Playlists are the results of moods we experience, crafted with a motive, bearing certain suggestions to the people who hear them.
I WAS DUMBFOUNDED BY THE HILARIOUS SYNCHRONICITY BETWEEN REAL LIFE AND THE SONG, WHILE MY FRIEND APPEARED TO BE REACHING THE HEIGHT OF HIS EXCITEMENT.
When so much music is about sex, it theoretically seems like a good idea to match the two in real life. Even this study found that music triggers the release of dopamine, the “feel good” chemical in our brains that also gets released during sex. Of course, I’ve heard songs that have made me imagine a wild romp, but the reality for me is that music is more likely to interfere with sex than it is to improve it.
First, there is music which is clearly not sexy. Imagine entering someone or being entered to Nine Inch Nails, or trying to hump to the jovial rhythm of a Bob Marley tune. Rhythm is an inherently important part of sex, independent of whether there is music playing. Adding music to the experience layers on pressure to somehow sync up real time activities with whatever song is playing. There are certain genres that, intrinsically, don’t provide rhythms conducive to sex. In my experience, most people comprehended this, at the very least, which is why the more popular and intuitive choice seems to be music that sounds like sex.
When someone says, “Oh, this would be so hot to hook up to,” it’s a reaction to a sensual feeling the music evokes. Music is compelling because it has the ability to arouse and intensify feelings and emotions. I’m down for a happy song when I’m feeling upbeat, and I love a good cry to a sad song. Rage is another emotion I can learn to embrace with the help of an angry, thrashing rock anthem, but sex is a shared experience and a more vulnerable one because of it. My intention is not to posit that sexy music—D’Angelo, Ginuwine, and Ciara for example—isn’t good. Admittedly a lot of the sexiest music is rooted in the R&B and hip-hop genres, which are two of my absolute favorites. I feel confident and independent when I listen to sexy songs. And, as someone who advocates open, candid attitudes when it comes to publicly discussing sex, songs about sex are opportunities to gauge progress on that front. I just would rather not hear them while I’m literally doing it.
It’s too calculated and kitschy. Do I enjoy listening to Miguel’s new album and being unabashedly seduced by his raw sexual magnetism? I do. It’s one of my favorite records of this year, especially because of the agency he gives to females. But I prefer not to feel as if I’m simulating the experience Miguel is having, which is inevitable when I am having sex to a song that is so clearly about it. The songs that my partner chooses may be undeniably sexy—what’s not sexy is the embarrassingly blatant attempt at seduction. Moreover, now that the mood has been set, I feel an uncomfortable pressure to somehow live up to the sultry environment the song is pushing us into. Now I feel like we’re in a music video, and now I’m in my head, and now it’s ruined. The image of a boy turned away from me as he scrolls down his iTunes for the perfect song, having stopped whatever we were doing to deliberately set a mood, is all too familiar. Let’s face it, if good sex is in the cards, it will happen: the music you put on is not going to make or break it.
It’s counterintuitive, I know, but sexy music feels cliché during sex to the point that it makes me want to shrivel up (no pun intended) and reconsider my participation.What my conundrum really highlights, though, is the difference between the way sex and music interact within a particular song and the way music and sex literally interact in a physical encounter. The “Take Over Control” situation was so flagrantly awful precisely because it illustrated the disconnect between the world created within the song and real life. It was uncomfortable to let the world of that song infiltrate my own very personal experience. How about letting grunts and moans and even some dirty talk be the soundtrack to our hook up? Turn the music off, please.
Ethan is a music and pop culture writer based in New York. His writing has appeared on No Fear of Pop, The Big Takeover, Stereogum, and other publications. At any given moment, he is probably dancing to Madonna or sulking to Modest Mouse.
