“I got a feeling” that you have more than once been lured into a party by the pounding rhythms that make Isla Vista’s heart beat, danced until the stiff air made you sweat and found a rando to grind up against so hard it would make a strumpet blush. Maybe you slip into a trance and get wet or put the “bump” in bump and grind by brazenly getting hard on her backside. The fact is, our generation has found a way to dance that puts kissing to shame. If the “love generation” revolutionaries of the ’60s sent their parents into shock with their hip gyrations, I fear the worst if our mamas and papas ever learn of our lap dances and “dirty little” stripper pole “secrets.” Perhaps rather than counting the drunken make-out sessions we’ve racked up, we should add up the times we grated our asses all up on a dick like cheddar on the dance floor.

I was at a club the other night dancing with some drunk sweeties when I began to question the reason behind all this hyper-sexualized public dry humping that has replaced the waltz or tango. Then suddenly I was given a sign from above, and it came in the form of David Guetta. He spoke directly to me, telling me what I needed to know — that I’m a “sexy bitch.” I was like, David, you’re right, I am a sexy bitch. It was so convincing that the beat made my genitals engorge enough to realize that this drug that keeps us backing that ass up is in the music (although Ke$ha might argue that it’s your love). LMFAO has a way of making me take more shots than anyone really needs — I “say ahh, throw my hands up in the air” and the next thing I know I’m doing some horribly offensive Helen Keller dance and suddenly feel like “making love in this club” to a guy who really wants nothing more than to “break my heart.” All I want is someone to “teach me how to jerk” and/or “dougie,” and I end up with a “rude boy” who thinks he’s “cooler than me” in an instantly “bad romance.”

I get it, sex sells, but have you listened to some of these popular songs recently? I think Chris Brown is responsible for more conceptions than beatings. Is it really necessary to specify that in addition to my neck and back, I would also like you to lick my pussy and crack? And how kind of you to let me lick your lollipop and remind me that my sexual urges are no more advanced than a Discovery Channel mammal in heat. What happened to comparing me to a summer’s day? Goodbye, subtle poetry, hello “sexual eruption.”

Alright, let’s rewind the track a bit. I’m not hating on all pop music. I love “gettin’ jiggy with it” to crunk beats as much as the next guy. I’m just pointing out the direct connection between the DJ’s panty-droppin’ cuts and your panties dropping, which brings me to my next topic: sexuality and musicality. If dirty dancing is your pre-game, then once the hat goes on the door handle and game time rolls around, an essential ingredient must follow you from the party in your pad to the party in your pants, and that is musical accompaniment. The right sex mix can be like the perfect garnish — you may not notice that it’s there, but if it isn’t, you’re like, “where’s my fucking parsley?”

Just like any good movie, you need levels that build you up to a climax. Start off with some slow jams to get the mojo flowin’ and move into something rough and tough for the main course. Maybe kick it off with some throwbacks — Dr. Dre, not O-Town — and move into anything but Justin Bieber that has a good baseline, unless a three and a half minute reminder of pre-pubescence and hair products makes you randy. Just remember, techno is more fun for the club than the chubb-rub, so keep the rhythm grind-able. Ladies and gentlemen, start your iPods.

I guess it boils down to this: Pop music lyrics are unromantic, blunt and offensive, but they get you laid. So here’s a big “fuck you” to the music industry from my feminist side and a kind-hearted “thank you” from a horny college chick dancing her way into a bedroom near you. Now “don’t cha” wish you could nail this “promiscuous” girl?