Picture the famous scene in Say Anything when the super-dorky Lloyd Dobbler rolls up to Diane Court's window. He's wearing a trenchcoat, his head looks tiny, and he's blaring Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" from that boombox hoisted above his shoulders. This moment is so well-known and revered that I feel kind of lame even referencing it. But, whatever. To me, this is one of the sexiest moments ever captured on film. He's kind of creepy, the gesture itself is borderline pathetic and, for fuck's sake, his sweatpants are tucked into his sneakers. But the song saves it. Scratch that, the song makes it.

Now picture that same scene, only this time, the song is different: Blondie's "Call Me;" UB40's "Red, Red Wine;" Melissa Ethridge's "I Run For Life." Not hot. Not even a little bit. Now, chronologically speaking, I know the latter two aren't feasible options, but you get what I'm saying: the song makes the moment.

The same thing could be said for the final scene in Sixteen Candles, when Jake Ryan frenches Samantha Baker over an enormous birthday cake. The song playing is the Thompson Twins' "If You Were Here," and it's as if it was tailored for that moment. It's so perfect. The music swells, Sam and Jake slowly crane their necks over the lit cake (this detail always made me a little anxious), their lips meet and all is good in the world. Same with the Moldy Peaches' "Anyone Else But You" number that Juno and baby daddy sing to each other in the precious closing moments of Juno.

You know how some songs make moments more magical? How the right music can make sex sexier? And how the wrong music can ruin everything, fast? 'Cause I do. I'll never forget a night two years ago when I had just convinced my recent ex to give my sleazy, two-timing ass another go; as if on cue, the opening lines of The Velvet Underground's "Femme Fatale" flooded the room (eat my dick, iPod shuffle): "Here she comes, you better watch your step/She's going to break your heart in two, its true..."

Needless to say, bitch changed her mind. Then there was the time I was finally about to get railed by my dream girl. I'd seen her around my neighborhood for years, and somehow we ended up naked (and sober!) in my bed. The radio was bleating innocuous, lite FM hits, we started to fuck and before I knew it, I realized that we were humping to the precise beat of Blues Traveler's "Hook." EW. I had to stop, and couldn't get back into it after that. Ruined.

About a year ago, my friend Devon and I set out to make a list of the songs that you can't fuck or make out to under any circumstances. The list is far from complete, but is a useful tool when strategizing for how a certain night should or should not go.

Perhaps a friend is coming over for dinner, one whose company you enjoy but whose being turns you off sexually. Get some wine in 'em and you know it's only minutes before they'll attempt to mount your leg. No thanks! Play any one of these songs and their libido will be decimated. Or perhaps one of your co-workers gives you a raging hard-on every time she brushes past you. She says hi, and you feel faint. Her hand grazes against yours, and suddenly it's time to change your pants. This list could also come in handy here: should you find her in your car, on your lap or at your house, play any song BESIDES the ones featured on this list and your chances of sealing the deal will increase tenfold.

So without further adieu: "Wicked Game" (Chris Isaak), "Rhythm is Gonna Get You" (Gloria Estefan), "If I Had A Hammer" (Pete Seeger), "Who Let the Dogs Out?" (Baha Men), "Whoomp! (There It Is)" (Tag Team), "Cotton-Eyed Joe" (Rednex), "Believe" (Cher), "I'll Be" (Edwin McCain), "Vertigo" (U2), "Morning Has Broken" (Cat Stevens), "Put the Lime in the Coconut" (Harry Nilsson) and "You're Beautiful" (James Blunt). That's about it. Lemme know how it goes.