I Hate Dave Matthews
by Carolyn Smuts
Bad sex ruins good songs.
When I first heard “Crash
Me” by the Dave Matthews Band, I liked it, but stoner sex got it blacklisted
even though it’s a sexy damn song.
In 1994, I wore my hair
Rachel” style. I was engaged to Kevin and teaching at South Torrance High
School near LA. I carpooled daily with one of my colleagues, an idiotic pothead
He was physically hot as
swimmer with well-defined muscles and gorgeous skin. Mentally, he was a box
of rocks, a condition
not helped by the weed he smoked daily.
Yeah, I was engaged, but
and I had zero chemistry. I already felt trapped by his sterile sexuality and
we weren’t even married. Marcus potentially offered zero commitment, no-strings
carnality without the threat of liking him too much. We engaged in a few months
of fun, back-and-forth, flirty talk in the car which eventually evolved into
hand play of every sort during our drives. God, his skin was amazing.
We never kissed in the early
days but when we finally did, things progressed past the point of no return
After school, I followed
his house and we screwed while Dave Matthews soulfully crooned “Crash into Me” in
It was awful—the sex with Marcus, not the song.
Stoners are the worst in
bed—flat and selfish. There was nothing erotic about the way he moved; he
pretty much just wanted to stuff his cock in me.
And that he did with zero
style. He buried his face in my shoulder and thrusted lazily, grunting each
time. Too tired to prop himself on his arms, his shoulder pinned me to the
mattress. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, which I did not.
Within ten seconds, I couldn’t
wait for it to be over. Sadly, the bong
on his nightstand reminded me his senses were dull as hell and I’d probably be
there a while. It was the longest twenty minutes of my life and listening to
Dave Matthews on a loop made me feel like I was trapped in some kind of
torturous fun house—the sexy song punctuating the silence and the actual sex as
gratifying as nails on a chalkboard.
The guilt was worse. For
years I could not hear the song—the
tawdry, secret fuck song—without feeling literal nausea. I learned to love my
steering wheel volume controls because they allowed instant silencing of Dave’s
plaintive voice without having to reach up and turn the dial.
I can’t help but wonder:
sex had been good, where would I be today? I’d never have “been” with
Marcus—the stupid, beautiful, stoned swimmer—in any real way, but
I’d probably never have married Kevin had I known
Last Friday, I heard the
for the first time in a decade—certainly for the first time since Kevin and I
divorced. I forced myself to listen. It was enjoyable and nostalgically sexy in
a ‘90s sort of way. There was no nausea, only an excited, sick adrenaline
twinge in my solar plexus—it was good; maybe how it was supposed to make me
feel, had it not been ruined by pot and guilt.
Smuts taught history before trading academic life for
corporate America. She’s been writing for business and pleasure more than ten
years with recent fiction works published by Intrinsick, Prolific Press,
Jitter, Dual Coast, and The Dirty
Pool. She spends weekends studying weird local history, running, drinking,
and hiking the hills of Southern California with her family.