Maximum Lover's Rock

Hey Babs.  Can we do it without a condom tonight?
It makes it feel so... you know... plastic.

The other day, I was awakened from my afternoon nap by the sound of my upstairs neighbour's bedframe pounding furiously against the ceiling.  This happens all the time.  Upstairsy's a big hit with the ladies.  He's got that pasty, scrawny, Michael Cera-style look that seems so in vogue right now, and he offsets it nicely with a tribal lower arm tattoo and pierced eyebrow, giving him a bit of that I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-my-grandma-thinks-type edginess.

Now, normally I'd be happy for him.  I mean, let's face it, this is a rare historical opportunity for pasty, scrawny dudes that may never come again.  Why I hesitate to give him the old thumbs-up is that Upstairsy doesn't make love to his ladyfriends.  To hear him go at it, you'd almost think he hates them.  We're talking Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!  Hard.  Fast.  Relentless.  Well, for a few minutes, anyways.  To give you a clearer idea of the tempo, he's recently taken to blasting "Fire Woman"by the Cult, and hacking away at his female callers to the beat of it.  

I'm not kidding. 

In case you're unfamiliar with this sure-fire way of getting a horny hipstress in the appropriately ironic frame of mind, check it out:

As I lay there in the fart sack, suddenly an image of this band-geek turned hipster douchebag tagging some hapless emo-chick from behind while whirling his Arcade Fire T-shirt around over his head Vancouver Canucks playoff-style flashed vividly through my mind.  I couldn't help but wonder,  

"What the fuck is the matter with this guy?" 

And then it hit me.

Porn.  Upstairsy's in his twenties, so he's part of that new generation of guys who learned how to fuck from watching porn rather than from actually fucking women.  Now, I don't want to be hatin' on the young pups or anything, but I've been fucking women for almost two decades now and, though I'm by no means a lady's man, over the years I've learned a thing or two from my fumblings in the dark.

For one thing, porn is for jerking off.  That's it.  It's really not meant to have any sort of instructional value.  No doubt there are exceptions but, by and large, most women's idea of a good time isn't to have Peter North spit on them, tear their ass apart, slap their tits until they're beet red, and then finish in the mouths while they gaze up adoringly at him like he just bought them the complete Sex In The City box set on DVD.  If you want to get women to do this shit and make like they're lovin' it, usually you have to pay them.  Or get them addicted to drugs.  Or both.

Anyways, I realize there's not much I can do to counteract the desultory effect of porn on twenty-first century lovemaking, but in the spirit of thinking globally and acting locally, I figured I'd better do something to try and clean up the mess in my own backyard.  But how?

And then it hit me.

I decided to make Upstairsy a mix-tape and slip it under his door.

"Even After All," Finley Quay.

A perfect tune for foreplay, an area where Upstairsy definitely needs to up and prolong his game.  Slow down, little dude.  Let your fingers do the walking and your tongue do the talking.  This track's a little short for truly effective pre-coital preparation, but Upstairsy's got a long way to go and I'm thinking baby steps are best to start with.

"Time Of The Season," The Zombies.

A bit on the vanilla side, I admit, but I want Upstairsy to avoid getting his nasty on right off the bat.  Word of warning, little dude: don't thrust exclusively on the "Ah..." in the verse parts, otherwise you'll probably get laughed at.

"I Wanna Know If It's Good To You," Funkadelic.

Upstairsy's about eight minutes in at this point, so I'm guessing he's ready to get hisself all funked up.  And at times like these, nothing hits the G-spot quite like the P-Funk.  There's also a great freak-out section toward the end of the song, where Upstairsy can really lose his shit. 

"Dirt," The Stooges.

Upstairsy usually doesn't make it all the way through "Fire Woman," so, at fourteen minutes in, this seven-minute track might be overkill.  Still, its something for him to shoot for other than the reservoir at the end of the condom.  As the title suggests, this tune's got a gritty, unwholesome vibe to it, one replete with tension-filled build ups and explosive releases.  In my mind, it's always best end with a bang rather than a whimper.