Drake Was Whispering Encouragement in My Ear While I Was Having Sex

"Yeahhh, that's it right there, that's it, do it just like that"

The other night, my wife and I had sex.

Now, this isn't an altogether rare occurrence. The odds are against us (we've been together more than 10 years; we work multiple jobs; two profoundly talented 4-year-old cockblockers patrol the house endlessly like goddamn sex sniffing dogs), but we're still good for no less than once but no more than three times a week.

BTW, if you're married with two kids under five and you have sex four times a week, well, God bless you. I don't know if there's such a thing as a Nobel Sex Prize, but if there is, you deserve one.

At any rate, sex. We had it. Normally, it's done so with zero music playing in the background because I am a traditionally uncreative lover. This time, though, the radio was on. The Wife had turned it on while I was in the shower. In my head, she did this to set a mood. In reality, she probably did it because the fan in our bedroom makes a tink, tink, tink while it whirls and the music helps muzzle it some.

BTW, taking a shower immediately before you plan on trying to coerce your wife into coitus increases the probability of receiving oral sex by a considerable percentage; tips for a healthy marriage, yo.

At any rate, the radio. It was on. During foreplay, I paid zero attention to it. Zero. It could've been playing audio clips from Happy Feet or an NPR interview where they were discussing Nazi death camps for all I know. I don't know. I was locked in, I guess, just focused on not screwing anything up too badly. Once I'd navigated that mine field though, once things were moving, the goddamn radio was all I could focus on.

I remember realizing it was on, thinking, "Hmmm. This could potentially be cool." Then I remember thinking, "I wonder how hard it is to be a late night radio DJ. It can't be that hard. I mean, play some records, say some words, call it a night. I need to remember to investigate this further tomorrow." Then I remember thinking, "Oh, right: boobs."

But then, panic.

Ideally, the DJ -- that bastard -- would've played a set of songs that was one of three things:

(1) Classy, maybe something like Miguel's "Sure Thing" nine times in a row. That'd have gotten the job done, for certain.

(2) Interesting. D'Angelo's Voodoo would've been stellar, but only if the DJ would've been clever enough to omit the ones that made you say, "What the fuck is happening right now?"

or, best of all,