The Defence of the Sex Playlist

Words: Andie Kirby

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“What language is she singing in?” Malcolm pulled out of me to ask the funniest question I’d heard in a long time; the song was Björk’s Cocoon.

Between bouts of wheezing laughter, I finally formed my reply: “English.”

Malcolm was the first man I had sex with after three-and-a-half years of gender transition-inspired celibacy. I couldn’t waste my undergraduate years getting “cracked” - I was busy popping ‘mones and mastering the art of a Dyson Airwrap dupe. I was distracted by a stupid eating disorder, and remained romantically and sexually paralysed whilst figuring out how to drop said stupid eating disorder. Thankfully, by Spring of my senior year, I finally felt as fine in my body as a trans woman can be, and as confident with a Fyson (fake Dyson) as any woman can be. My head was strawberry blonde, beautifully blown out and lacking any complaints (haha).

So I decided to lose my second virginity! To Malcolm, a Tinder-sourced, curly-haired and mustached man, who was 10 years my senior. He looked eerily similar to both Shia Labeouf, and the hot gay guy I first put out for, in the backseat of a Volkswagen, five years ago, a week before my 17th birthday. ___STEADY_PAYWALL___

For my best, most private set to date, I made a powerful sex playlist, aptly titled “The Crackening”.

Malcolm and I realized our major sexual chemistry after our very first date, when we came home to his meticulously decorated apartment, which exists in accordance with both his metrosexuality and hand-me-down OCD - courtesy of his blonde-bobbed mother - where we fucked to an episode of Entourage.

When we decided to make a habit of classy dinners-turned sexy sleepovers, I knew I’d have to level up the ambiance. With a playlist. I was a college radio disc jockey, for Christ’s sake!

For my best, most private set to date, I made a powerful sex playlist, aptly titled “The Crackening”. After a week of sleepless nights spent adding and reigning myself in, I had birthed a two-and-a-half-hour (wishful thinking, I know) joyride of aural pleasure. My beauty, personality, sense of humor and sensuality conveyed musically.

For my personal usage of this sex playlist, there is one rule: It must be played in order. That way, Clairo’s “Juna” can flow into Future’s “The Percocet and Stripper Joint,” and then into “Candy” by Mk.gee (I pretend he’s saying “Andie.”)

Taylor Swift’s horniest offering, “Dress,” is included; I’m letting my partners see all of me, after all. There are multiple cuts from each FKA Twigs album. If whoever I'm with is making the right moves, the Eusexua tribute tattoo on the nape of my neck will be revealed. “Dust Bowl” by Ethel Cain hits around hour two; if you aren’t entering aftercare by that point, you may be too freaky for my playlist. You might need Jesus.

Now, I’m happy to share “The Crackening” with anyone who might have read about its details and is looking to sonically spice things up in whatever bedroom(s) they’re in at the moment. However, I see how some may consider what I’ve just described as a total turnoff. That’s ok; my defense of sex playlists is not strictly about my own.

I’ve mentioned the existence of my sex playlist in conversations with my girlfriends, or the gay guys I give the raunchiest details of my escapades with, and they look at me like I’m Fifty Shades-level freaky. One friend proposed the idea that my relationship to this playlist could be an indicator of a secret OCD or autism diagnosis I’m missing. I don’t think so; I think my sparkle is restricted to my estradiol addiction.

Everyone, at least every other 22-year-old with any semblance of an internet presence, is obsessed with self-curation. From the outfits we post to the dinners we decide to flick up. This is a symptom of the plague we call social media. I believe we should carry this curatorial skillset to the bedroom, making those moments as unique as we can, preserving them in our minds in the process.

I’m sentimental and sensitive. I’m the kind of girl who has kept the pair of beat-up Nikes she took off to get deflowered in that Volkswagen at 16, hanging them tied together as decor in each apartment she’s lived in since. Maybe that’s weird, maybe it’s memories.

I ordered Malcolm to fetch me a glass of water so I could gather myself post-BjorkInTheBedroomGate. I found myself even more turned on than I was earlier in the night, when he proudly showed the bartender photos of the cocktails he’d concocted himself at home that week. Why do men do that? Why do I find the awkwardness of it so impossibly sexy?

So when we resumed, and “Biking” by Frank Ocean spun into james K’s “hypersoft lovejinx junkdream”, I rewarded him for his effortlessly oblivious question and boyish charm. I took us from our typical strong vanilla stylings to somewhere with a bit more spice. Nothing crazy, maybe I’ll call it French vanilla, or chai sex. No mouth was left unspit into, no throat was left unchoked, no girl was left undeemed a “good” one (a “very good” one, if my memory serves).

A good playlist can provide good anecdotes, which can prompt good action between players.

I had sex with a different man soon after that night. Ben. A man I’m much more cosmically-connected to. A man who would never need to ask what language Bjork was singing in; he’s a 39-year-old audio engineer. Before I tried putting the playlist on for Ben and I, I mentioned the “Police Scanner” by Chanel Beads inclusion. He looked at me like I’d asked him to do CNC.

“That song is way too emotional,” he said. “I can’t believe you would have sex to that song.”

Ouch. And dramatic!

​Ben and I proceeded to have great sex to his own choice of music, which I’ll admit, was quite lovely stuff. Still, I wish there would’ve been more democratic energy. That wound up being the sole sexual instance we ever shared. There’s poetry in my playlist existing as a reflection of my being, both of which did not quite work for Ben.

I’ve kept using “The Crackening” for Malcolm and myself, and the less picky partners who’ve come in the months since he and I met. It’s been nice. I like the idea of everyone crafting a set of songs that embodies their beauty and individualism, and finding the right rooms to stream them into the next time they get some play.