The Soundtrack to My Sexuality: From the 90s & 2000s
Design: Malaaya Adams
I remember the day I learned about blowjobs, gag reflexes and women's objectification. It was the weekend and my sisters and I had finished cleaning. I was listening to the intro of an album where a girl was giving a guy head in his car. When she went deeper, following his urging, she gagged and vomited. He was so disgusted by her body’s natural reaction that he kicked her out of the car and drove off.
I'm not sure what the intro was meant to represent; his ego, his ruthlessness, the disposable-ness of women? At the time, though what happened felt totally disrespectful and violent, I did not have the language to decipher that. What stuck out to me the most was the sexual act. I did not know what blowjobs were, but when you're curious, and hear things seemingly related to what your curiosity is, you don't have to work hard to put two and two together. The main signifiers were the sounds of her slurping, his moaning and the implication that he wanted more. If he was talking and she was not and later choking, I could only assume something was in her mouth. I was grossed out––women put men’s private parts in their MOUTH?!
My sex education started there, through music and music videos. Like many people, there were songs I grew up vibing to, only to realize later how dirty they were. And then there were songs I knew from an early age were discussing sex, and I loved the feeling they gave me––like the chills I felt from Ying Yang Twins’ “Wait (The Whisper Song).” These songs guided my sexuality, from the type of intimacy I liked to fantasize to the sexual play I wanted to engage in. To this day, I still get wet picturing Adam Levine in “This Love” singing, “pressure on your hips, sinking my fingertips, every inch of you,” or listening to him croon, “I’d tried my best to feed her appetite, keep her coming every night, so hard to keep her satisfied.” Before I even knew what cum was, I could sense the eroticism that sparked between people sexually into each other, and I found myself gravitating to more songs that teased that kind of tension.
Busta Rhymes’ collaborations with Janet Jackson, Kelis (Gabrielle Union in the music video) and Mariah Carey illustrated the romantic and sexual compatibility I would later aspire to have. The artists would often describe their shared desire for one another, creating tension through close looks and aching proximity. Busta let the women shine without trying to exaggerate his tough male partner persona. He was protective, goofy and sweet and showed that naturally. Busta and his features/co-stars were partners, equal in chaos, strength and friskiness.
That is something I ended up looking for in a partner: the guy who understood that sex was a joint experience and not a performance I needed to be lured into. I usually interact with dudes via phone before in-person dates and sex appointments. A lesson I have learned is the guy who hypes up his performance usually disappoints the most. If I am into you, I will fantasize about fucking you and use the personality you show me (if you show me any at all) to imagine what that will be like. Do we have anything in common like Mr. and Mrs. Smith? When describing the thrill of sensual cinema, Isabel Sandoval says, “What’s sexy is not the sex, but the . . . anticipation of that desire being satiated. Desire, in effect, becomes a looming, ominous presence.” Just like in Busta’s “I Know What You Want” music video, desire lingers throughout our interactions, and eventually, if you have fondled my imagination, I will start to wonder, “are you that somebody?” before finally meeting and satisfying that curiosity.
When it came to seduction, Aaliyah and Mýa led the charge. Their voices were sultry, sweet and confident. They emitted an “I’m shy but not for you” energy that I felt was a lot sexier and easier to embody than the “ride or die” persona girls were groomed to possess. Sydney Scott describes Mýa’s persona in “My Love is Like... Wo” as, “girl next door becoming a sexy, confident woman.” Their forms of seduction included being direct about their desires and identity. I later adopted this into my own routine, realizing I was horrible at flirting and preferred to tell people what I want and how I like it. Mýa’s “My Love is Like... Wo” reigned her partner into acknowledging her prowess and Aaliyah’s “Try Again” interrogated her love interest: “Would you give up or try again if I hesitate to let you in? Now would you be yourself or play a role?”
Our sexuality is a part of our everyday lives and is visible in the way we seduce. Since I know I am not great at picking up social cues, I gravitated towards direct lines of communication. I am less likely to miss out, lead people on or waste my time if they know exactly what I mean. This works for when I am trying to know if someone likes me and when I am sharing my sexual preferences. This took time, of course, and does not work for everybody, but it has been rewarding. Even Mýa stated that she did not feel comfortable with the lyrics Missy Elliott wrote for “Wo,” but she eventually gave into the song, ditching people’s potential judgements and declaring, “My sex is like wo, my ass is like wo.”
It would be impossible to talk about the music that influenced my sexuality without mentioning the identities I navigated. Like I previously mentioned, the men's version of romance heavily leaned on a woman's capacity to be a “ride or die chick.”
Admittedly, the ride or die chick was enticing, as the role is tailored to be. The role was designed to be a partnership that was deep in trust, support and intuitive sexual harmony; the latter being the main focus in Truth Hurts’ “Addictive.” Men expected their partners to tolerate turbulence in exchange for intimacy and a better life. As Busta’s erotica anthem says, “I never meant to put a thousand pounds of stress on your head. I love the way we sleep and how we always cuddle in bed.” And still, I daydreamed of being the bad bitch who held her partner down, like Beyonce in JAY-Z’s “03’ Bonnie and Clyde”: "Whatever she lacks, I'm right over her shoulder. When I'm off track, mami is keepin' me focused."
This fantasy was quickly threatened after watching 50 Cent’s “21 Questions.” In the music video, he contemplates life in jail and what that would mean for his relationship with his girlfriend. He asks her a bunch of questions that are centered on him and encapsulates what the ride or die role entails, a woman being asked to trade her peace of mind for a chance at not being alone. I realized there is no gratification I will get from holding a man down that is worth the stress associated with being a “ride or die.” Also, I do not have the patience or quick-thinking of Meagan Good.
Unsubscribing from the ride or die faction did not mean I could not enjoy the hits it inspired, like Aaliyah and DMX’s “Come Back in One Piece.” While Aaliyah and Missy’s depictions were a preferred source of sexual and romantic inspiration (the reason I fantasize of vampires and being caressed in baths), I relied on the vulgarity of Ludacris, Missy and a dash of Petey Pablo as resources for imagination. From Pablo, I learned that guys will avoid eating out but have no problem shoving your face in a pillow. From Ludacris’ “What’s Your Fantasy,” I was given a bucket list of locations besides the bedroom to have sex. And from Missy, my personal favourite, I learned how to wear my sexuality on my sleeve.
It is very telling that the woman whose music instructed me on sensuality has written for, produced for and collaborated with many of the artists mentioned in this article. From Mýa’s “Wo” and “Lady Marmalade” to Aaliyah’s remixed “Hot Like Fire,” Missy’s presence in my sexual journey has been significant to my growth as a woman. I will admit, I was more into her music for her style, visuals and personality before I fully understood her sexual references. But once I did, her existence on my MP3 player made complete sense. Missy Elliott’s sex appeal and lyrical boldness combatted the imagery men gave of what it was like to have sex with them. I think of her as a fairy godmother belting pussy anthems in her signature shout while she floats down with flailing legs from the sky.
I could only fit so many words into this piece, but I would like to end it by sharing an honourable mention through another story of firsts. Unlike films suggest, playing music during sex has never turned me on. However, one time, a Biggie Smalls/Star Wars mashup album, called Life After Death Star, was playing. I cannot remember if I climaxed at “Dead Wrong” or “Big Poppa,” but that was the first time my orgasm had a soundtrack. Every time I hear those songs, I get a little bit excité.