Chapter 11
Music, when you're in the process of making love, is very important. It can set the mood for the orgasm of your lifetime, or, on the other hand, it can add to the fiasco of your sexual life, accompanied by a series of smelly liquids, premature ejaculations and untimely gas emissions from the bowels of both parties. And a word of warning - neither Dionne Warwick nor Barry White are suitable selections for a coital climax in these troubles times. They may be mighty fine for the seduction part, along with a glass of red wine, a log fire in a hideaway cabin and a box of liquor chocolates, between you and Mr/Miss Perfect but when you're bumping and grinding away at the Mattress Mambo, it ain't entirely appropriate to have sweet Dionne asking "Do you know the way to San Jose?"
Personally I prefer "The Velvet Underground and Nico"to
aurally guide me in my pursuit of carnal enlightenment. You
start out softly, butt-naked and beautiful with "Sunday
Morning", move slowly and rhythmically through the next
few tracks, including Nico's dark angelic vox, pure and
perfect on 
"Femme Fatal"and then by the time you get to
John Cale's raging violin and Lou's screaming
guitar 4 or 5 minutes into "Heroin", you should
have rivulets of sweat and other fluids drowning
your belly buttons and your groans should be
loud enough to be heard by the Pope in Rome.
The sound of body slapping against body, skin crashing against skin, quicker and quicker, harder and harder, should have filled the room, matched only by Lou's voice and that sweet and sour and beautiful smell of sex that permeates the air, the smell that stains your fingers for days, that gets into your clothes so that at any point in time, especially on bus trips, you get one whiff of that golden odor and you're taken back to that room where you and your partner's bodies are clenched together as one just at the same time as Lou's heading up town with $26 in his hand. And I swear, there is nothing better in this world and the next, than lying back in your bed, lover wrapped around your arms, lit cigarette burning away in your lips, and hearing Nico telling you that she'll be your mirror.
If ever there exists a heaven, one moment of exquisite pleasure that lasts for an eternity, it's there in that bed, as your breathing slows down, your cigarette bringing sweet relief to your lungs, and the sticky stains of the ultimate fuck covering your torso, your legs, your arms and even your face, and Nico crooning out that final verse. I'll be your mirror; I'll be your mirror.
The cigarettes keep burning, the CD comes to an end, and you can at last finally die knowing that you have discovered the elusive meaning of life.