Viva Las Boobies!
Two hours of strolling around the seventh annual Adult Entertainment Expo has left me firmly convinced that I am the only woman left in America with any hair on her cooter. Scattered throughout the Sands Expo Center were giant video screens showing shiny, bald, prepubescent-looking twats attached to adult women with enormous, obviously post-adolescent (not to mention post-surgery) boobs, performing all manner of naughtiness. I never considered myself particularly uptight, but I gotta admit, I found this barrage of banging a bit overwhelming.
The next day, I sent my boy off to mingle with the computer geeks while I met up with my friend Jules and headed over to the nudie show. She was in town covering the event, and we figured it'd be a good laugh. The first thing that hit us was the smell: a scent-sation akin to sweaty ass with a hint of cherry syrup. The second thing we noted was the enormous snaking line of mouth-breathing basketcases waiting to hand their inevitably sweaty bills to the ticketsellers. Uh-oh. We'd mistakenly chosen to attend on "Fan Day."
Now I've been to loads of conventions: comics, sci fi, marijuana, the aforementioned electronics event-you name it. One thing they all have in common is the fan element's single-minded obsessiveness. If anything, these particular dudes (and, shock-o-rama, the crowd was overwhelmingly male) were even more die-hard than even the most rabid comics aficionado, some armed with the kind of complicated video equipment a CNN crew might carry. Others looked as though they might pass out from the sheer excitement of breathing the same air as their favorite on-film fuck bunnies.
The fact that Jules and I were both over thirty and fully clothed rendered us completely invisible. It was like being a superhero without any superpowers. I can't tell you how many fellas plowed right through us-with nary an apology-in a frenzied tear to slobber all over their favorite video vixen.
We watched as a lumpy William Hung lookalike straddled a motorcycle already occupied by a cute young lady in a scandalously short skirt. As he clutched awkwardly at the poor girl's plaid-clad ass and drooled for the camera, it became clear that, besides maybe his mom, this was the closest he'd ever gotten to a real live woman.
Speaking of real live women, the expo is also a place for manufacturers to exhibit and sell their wares. One of the most popular (and disturbing) booths featured a rubber torso. Arms, legs and head had been neatly amputated, leaving only what I can only assume its consumers consider the "good bits." Glass dildos were also very much in evidence, though I'm still a little concerned about the wisdom of shoving something that could shatter up inside me. At least they were pretty though; the ceramics table, topped with putty-hued pseudo phalli that appeared to have been a perverted special ed project, was decidedly less cool. Ceramic coffee mugs, okay. Ceramic dildos, on the other hand, are about as scintillating as a hemp garter belt.
The next booth that caught our eye featured a low-slung toilet seat set on springs and lead pipes. Apparently you're supposed to plant bare-ass while your beloved slides himself underneath, making rim jobs that much more convenient. This was the manufacturer's logic, anyway. Even though I was wearing a bulky parka and carrying a bag filled with all the crap we'd been gathering, I thought it would be a good idea to test the contraption out.
As soon as I plopped my ample butt down and reeled to one side, almost toppling over, I realized I'd made a big mistake. A crowd started to gather. Terrific. The one time anyone looks at me, and I'm squatting on a toilet seat. A toilet seat on springs that is proving impossible to maneuver myself out of. Red-faced and grunting I finally manage to heave my ass out of the thing and make a quick getaway.
Starting to get into the spirit of things-this porn stuff is fun!-Jules and I rounded a corner. Oops. Not so fast. Directly in front of us were two tiny pigtail-sporting Asian girls, clad in pink and white furry bikinis, sucking on lollipops. I know by law they had to be 18 or better, but these girls looked maybe 11. Utterly flat-chested, the pair looked like they were cutting sixth-grade homeroom in order to pose winsomely for the gaggle of drooling would-be pedophiles with cameras.
My lip curled involuntarily as I leaned over to my equally horrified friend. "Men are such fucking pigs," I hissed, shocking even myself with my vehemence. Jules frowned in agreement.
We quickly decided that if we planned on remaining heterosexual, we'd better high-tail it out of there pronto. Over a nice lunch in a faux French bistro, we discussed our surprise at our mutual disgust. Neither of us is the least bit bothered by porn, and in fact, have enjoyed it on many occasions (separately!). But the wine kept coming and we needed to get to the Liberace Museum, so we shelved the discussion for another day.