Sexpo. Are they serious? Once again the major exhibition spaces of the country are to be turned into giant replicas of locked bathroom doors behind which teenage boys hide with their magazine stash. Who is running the cultural agendas of our various cities these days? Beavis and Butthead? Come one, come all, so to speak.
Do people who attend these circuses believe that, simply by being there, they are somehow masters of the sexual arts in the same way that guys who claim to be Barry White fans hope to convey that they are aficionados of seduction? As though simply walking past stand after greasy stand of dildos, porn dvds and nurses outfits suddenly imbues them with ability to satisfy their partner beyond all measure. A prude, you say? Possibly. Maybe there really is something deeply sexually fulfilling for the girlfriend who gets to meet her bloke’s favourite porn star that I’m missing.
The organizers should bear no ill will for this. In case you missed it, people have been fascinated with other people having sex for the past 10,000 years or so. And that’s just Hugh Hefner. I would say part of it’s allure, however, has been it’s privacy, it’s guarded secrets, the sheer s amount of work, talk and money that it takes just to get the slightest sniff of it. But that’s me. I am one of the non-attendees who is not “in touch with their sexuality”.
But i reckon i know a thing or two. Certainly more that the good hetro boys who are about to jump on and ‘Ride the Gerbil” with their mates (you might want to look it up, lads. Start with Pet Shop Boys and work your way backwards. Literally). But maybe I’m missing the “lifestyle” part of this who shebang. (Yes – She Bang). You know – lube and vibrating eggs and amateur striptease and the Sexpo Dancers. That’s right: lifestyle.
Probably this all makes me a stiff, though in exactly the wrong way. And possible I wouldn’t even know it was on had i not accidentally happened upon it by misspelling my Google search for a certain Master Chef entrant. And almost definitely if I had the vaguest idea of what to do with three-quarters of the stuff they sold at this fling I’d understand the appeal. Very likely. But when it’s all over, pity the cleaners who draw the short straw for the male toilets.
Note: That picture is Prickasso, so named because he can paint with his penis which, it has to be said, is pretty awesome.