The first time I kissed a boy I was 19 years old. I was in the basement of a dank student bar at university. Our eyes met across the dancefloor, we smiled at each other, and he came over. He told me his name was Sean, he was studying commerce and then put his hands on my waist. Just as he leaned in to kiss me the beat dropped on the final chorus of Rihanna’s We Found Love.
The next morning, I fired up my iPod Touch, created a nameless playlist and added We Found Love. I was still so deliriously excited by what had happened with Sean that I wanted something to preserve that moment. The song turned out to be all that I would get from Sean – he told me after one date I wasn’t really his type.
Crushed by his rejection, I did what any other sensible person would do: sought out validation from another man. I took a guy home from a country-themed club night and he soon became the second song on the playlist: Barefoot Blue Jean Night by Jake Owen. By the end of that school year, I’d added five more songs, and a personal tradition was born.
What started as a silly teenage impulse to capture the excitement of finally being myself has slowly transformed into a musical diary of my life for the last 14 years. Every time I meet a guy, there is a part of me that starts wondering what song he will become. Will he be the latest pop hit that plays while sharing our first drink, or a slow classic barely audible in a shop? A track from an artist we saw live together? Or something completely unexpected? It’s a compulsive game I play that they have no idea they’ve signed up for.
Now called Remind Me, the playlist includes 75 songs and a running time of just under six hours. Perhaps unsurprisingly for a gay man born in the 90s, most of the songs are by female pop divas whose music I have worshipped for most of my life. Mariah Carey makes no less than seven appearances on the playlist – the most of any artist – alongside Janet Jackson, Whitney Houston, Toni Braxton, Beyoncé, Céline Dion and Lady Gaga.
I should clarify that this is not a playlist of songs I’ve had sex to. While some of them were played while clothes were off, others were not. The only rule for adding a track is that, for whatever arbitrary or emotional reason, it has to bring me back to being with that particular guy. Music has helped me memorialise and give meaning to even the most ephemeral romances. While I don’t remember every guy’s name, when I play “his” song I can see his face and where I was when the song played.
The fun process of compiling this playlist has given me a unique relationship to certain songs and artists. When most people hear Elton John’s 1997 version of Candle In the Wind, they think of Lady Diana’s death. Me? A threesome I had with a couple in south London. I was in a taxi on the way to meet them and the driver put it on. I couldn’t help but laugh at what an absurd song it was to hear at that moment. Since then, I’ve never been able to listen to it with a straight face.
Up until now, no one in my life has known this playlist exists. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. I grew up in a generation that became accustomed to broadcasting every experience for collective consumption and judgment. I wanted something that was for my eyes and ears alone. To anyone else, the playlist would look like a haphazard collection of songs that vaguely tracks pop music trends over the last decade. But for me, the playlist is precious, veering on sacred, because it’s the most honest recording I have of my life.
Part of what makes exposing this part of my life so scary is that it’s also the story of my perpetual singledom. When I started the playlist, Spotify hadn’t even launched. I was either buying singles on iTunes or uploading tracks from CDs to make my compilation come to life. I honestly didn’t think I’d still be adding songs at age 33. Naively, I assumed by now I’d have met the great love of my life that all pop culture and romcoms I’d grown up with had promised me. The final song would have been added.
Every year in December I put the playlist on shuffle to reminisce about the new additions and old favourites. Each song evokes memories and feelings like I’m flicking through pictures in a scrapbook. Amid a sea of the short-lived flings, this playlist has become a constant; providing me with the commitment and security I’d hoped to find in a long-term relationship. Every track is also a melodic reminder that there is no shame in craving intimacy, or finding it outside a romantic relationship.
In many ways, this playlist epitomises the role music has played in my life. Music as a surrogate lover that holds me up and lets me be myself. So to give it up or to lose the playlist would mean doing away with part of who I am. I can’t do that. I’m still enjoying discovering which song – and which person – might come next.
