DEAR KEN & ARIEL: What's the best music to fuck by? My live-in boyfriend is a metalhead, and there's only so many times I can screw him to "God of Thunder" and "Enter Sandman." I'm more of an ABBA, k.d. Lang type, but he'll have none of it. What's on your CD player when you're doing the nasty?

Well, I don't know about you, sister, but Ken and I get down and dirty to the likes of Tom Jones' "What's New, Pussycat?" and some good old Lawrence Welk. His polkas get me so worked up, I hardly need Ken to be in the same room! But that may be an acquired taste.

Let me ask you something. Why is your metal-master dictating what is to be played in the boudoir? Perhaps it's you who should takes charge--tell Tommy Lee that this is your videotape, and you want something less jarring: Maxwell, D'Angelo, Fiona Apple, Jeff Buckley, Travis, Moby, Liquid Soul. Alternate; be raging sex slaves to Korn or Marilyn Manson one night, Tantric partners to Deep Forest the next.

I think music is more important for drowning out your own... um, "music" that you make during sex. I'd rather have the neighbors complain that the dulcet sounds of Engelbert Humperdinck upset their parakeet than that my high-pitched snorts of ecstasy caused several calls to 911 for a possible suffocation by casserole.

Ah, music is truly the food of love, and there's nothing like a good soundtrack pumping from a pair of Harmon Kardens while you're treating your beloved--or whomever you happen to be shacked up with at the moment--to a 45 minute tongue lashing. Practically everyone with red blood coursing through their veins has, at one time or another, listened intently as a particularly shagadelic tune poured froth from a bar jukebox or car radio and thought to him or herself: "Man, this'd be a great tune to fuck to!"

Surely you've had similar experiences yourself, and there's no reason to keep 'em to yourself. Tell loverboy that tonight you wanna be the DJ. If he's truly a love master, he should be in the zone whether he's tagging you to Yellowcard or vintage sea shanties.

But be warned--not all music is made to be screwed to. Case in point: A ex-galpal of mine would only allow me entrance to her garden of earthly delights if we could blast "Tonight She Comes" by The Cars while we got our groove on. All I can say is if the image of Ric Ocasek's greasy mug floating around in your head doesn't topple even the sturdiest of hard-ons, you're a better man than I'll ever be.

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