What Your Go-to Hookup Music Says About You

Tell yourself whatever story you need to in order to make today as painless as possible. “Valentine’s Day is a corporate circle-jerk created by an ad exec sweating coke pit-stains directly into his off-brand suit jacket” or “As someone in a deep and loving monogamous relationship, I cherish that Valentine’s Day gives me another reason to celebrate being with my one true love: someone else straight and really into nights in with our television” or maybe “Yes haha, I’ll be with my Valentine, alright: this 24-inch pepperoni PIZZA hahaha.” Whatever, man. Do you what you need to: this is meant to be a day of love. Love yourself.

There’s more to do than engage in the eternal ‘is Valentine’s Day shit or not’ debate, though. We have spent a fair bit of time on this site contemplating sex music, that core element of this day, and many other days besides. We’ve collected your worst stories about music to bang to, had a writer volunteer to test definitively if there is such a thing as good sex music and written a handy guide to it in general. But unless you honestly hate the person you’re about to see naked, you will be kissing them and so the music that comes before the fucking plays its role too. Your choice of music for snogging (or make-out music for those of you in North America) defines a core part of your being. It is some of the most vulnerable shit you will ever put on the AUX cord. It is the real you. And if it’s these albums, then this is who you are.

(Also, important note: no one at Noisey makes out while listening to music. We do it in stone cold silence like normal people)

“Do you wanna come see my oil paintings?” you murmur to the lucky lady (you are a straight cis man), before inviting her into your bedroom, which consists of one single bare mattress on the floor surrounded by tobacco tins, odd socks and discarded poems written in biro, which you secretly think are the work of undiscovered genius. “Have you heard of this guy?” you then ask, hitting play on The Ooz, which you already have lined up on Spotify, “He’s called King Krule, he’s really good,” and before your date has a chance to reply you are putting your tongue in her mouth and swirling it around. You are 29 years old.

You are a kissing legend. You are the Hercules of kissing. Keep doing what you’re doing. The world needs more people like you.

Whew, my guy, you’re still not quite over the high school ex who introduced you to this band, are you? For you, kissing is a Serious Act. Kissing is not something to be taken lightly – though, of course, you are partial to very light butterfly kisses on the eyelids because you read somewhere once that those practically constitute shagging in remote Inuit communities (thank you, an unverified online source!). You like to look the person you’re about to kiss deep in the eyes before you lean in and you NEVER burst into a fit of giggles while doing so.

You don’t deserve to go near another human honestly.

You have a poster on your wall that reads “Just Gin and Bare It!” You can’t meet up on Sundays because that’s when you have gossip brunch with the uni girls. You have an infinity symbol tattooed on your wrist. You tell people that Shambala, the festival, “changed your life”. You have a special app on your phone that locks you out of social media at 9PM. You went to a silent, sober morning rave once so that everyone would call you “a little bit crazy, a little bit mental”, but really you just want a nice cyclist boyfriend with a secure job who looks, dresses and acts exactly like your dad.

You almost certainly have a Pulp Fiction poster on your wall despite being 27. The fact that the Arctic Monkeys are releasing a new album this year is literally the best thing that has happened to you personally in over a year. You have a desk job. You use Original Source Mint (the other flavours are for girls) and you kind of like the tingle, because it reminds you of a human touch. You think that Skins series two is the height of artistic achievement. You’re not sure that you have been truly happy since 2009.

Either you’re a complete loser or nervous as hell but probably both. You’re laying down on the bed watching…. The Best Epic Fails Of January 2018?! The air can be cut with a knife. The closest you are to touching is the light brushing of skin as you queue up a shared playlist of videos which… is…. kind of cute? But also let’s not forget the one raw pillowcase on top of your unwashed sheets. Combine that with the current scenario and it’s a complete marvel of nature that you actually have hair on your chest.

You and the girl you met on Reddit are sitting on your bed, side by side, not touching or speaking while “Hysteria” plays loudly in the background. You wish you were on Call of Duty instead. You think 9/11 was an inside job. You wear a ponytail and bootcut jeans. You call women “females”. You slowly place one cold, static hand on this girl’s boob before leaning in for a kiss. You cum immediately.

You’re a person in their twenties in February 2018. There’s nobody in this demographic who hasn’t made out to this album and we should all be ashamed of ourselves.

You are the God of Fucking (or at least that’s what you believe). Sensual pheromones waft off your skin like incense. Your bedside cabinet is host to at least three vanilla-scented candles. Being naked is a religion. In some alternate universe (Prince’s universe, probably), you picture emerging from a rose petal-scattered bubble bath as master of seduction: the living embodiment of the Purple One. In reality you’re Duckie from Pretty In Pink with little more than a record collection and a back covered in horrible-looking hair and pimples. Still: mood is important and you have this shit covered.

You cry at skate videos.

Who hurt you?

You know how some people really plan seduction and are like, ‘oh yeah, I’ll wear those nice pants and clean my genitals extra-well and have fluffed all six of my pillows as well as wiped down the kitchen counter in case we end up starting in there’? You are not those people. You went to the pub tonight in the vague hopes of getting a perfectly poured pint and, shit, now there’s a stranger using your loo (why didn’t you uncrumple the damp old bath mat before leaving the house?) and soon you will be kissing. That person is about to see what your bedroom looks like – fine, though potentially better if you’d ever bought a lampshade for that bare bulb – and you’ve got just enough time to finish pushing your dirty laundry behind your desk before trusting a Spotify algorithm to set the mood. I guess. Whatever, they’ve flushed – it’s happening.

“Do you not think so far ahead, because I’ve been thinking about forever?” – wow, way to completely blow your codependent load in the first 35 seconds of bringing someone into your bedroom.

;)

Literally what the fuck are you doing?

No comment.

Let’s not beat around the universe: you’ve been planning tonight since the horoscopes came through on Sunday evening and said the moon would be in Aquarius rising or some shit. This is a meticulous make-out, it has been written in the stars. Three hours earlier you smudged your room with sage, held a rose quartz to your wrist for an extended period of time and manifested. So to hell with it: time to put on some Lana Del Rey and show everyone what a freak of nature you really are!!!

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