Erogenous Zone The Cat's Whiskers For Homely Sex Fans

Sunday Star Times - 18 November 2001 / Jodie Molloy

I wonder if Anais Nin would have gone to the Erotica Expo? I pondered this as I made my own flight of sexual discovery to that notorious bordello of sin, Auckland's Epsom Showgrounds.

It took only three minutes to realize this was life Jim, but not as I knew it.

OK, I know my photo byline makes me look like a cheeky schoolgirl who's about to whisper "you've been a bad boy", but looks can be deceiving.

I'm a nice girl. Honestly.

There could have been a number of reasons why my erotic voyage didn't work out. Next year somebody has to go to the marketing pervert who books the venue and yell those words: "Location, Location, Location."

Who decided a beige building across the road from a maternity hospital was the right place to gather giggling hordes of sexual experimenters? How could I possibly enjoy a sexpo in the same place I first saw the Whiskas Cat Show with my family?

The road to hell began as I parked the car. The first seconds of your erotica experience is being ripped off by old men in raincoats. For the kind of money they're asking to park 600m away from the venue, I expect them to don skimpy negligees and sing hits from Moulin Rouge.

At the door I was viciously frisked by someone the same age as my grandmother. As far as the eye could see, there were people who looked like your aunty and uncle. The sort of people who attend family reunions and tell you "you're a good kid".

The male friend I was with was turning shades of albino - the possibility of becoming a voluntary eunuch was more attractive than what was in front of us, he said.

With great trepidation we entered, my friend assuming the role of sexual sherpa. I am not good in crowds, especially those containing men in iridescent G-strings.

First up were the less than titillating motorbike and sauna displays. Then I stumbled across a man with a mullet offering to lash me - alas if only we'd had time to stop.

Somewhere between the Prostitutes Collective and female hygiene gel displays sat the Family Planning Association, which had saucy brochures displaying the plethora of diseases available to consumers.

This was getting me all excited when I found myself face to face with a prosthetic fist standing proudly alongside a cabinet full of multi-coloured phalluses. How, I wondered, is changing the colour going to improve the situation?

I kept on hiking through the sea of smiling faces, into a room where woman were lining up to get their Brazilians. No, not the greased, impressively torso'ed South American male version. More the white, pasty, pre-pubescent hair shave variety. A woman holding a wax staff shouted like she was the Queen o f Hearts talking about Alice's poor head coming off. I felt no connection to a woman who extolled the virtues of turning your nether regions into the Gobi desert.

Wandering around the remaining displays, including tattoo parlours and beer stands manned by women wearing traditionally sexy clothing, I was struck with how this was a whole lifestyle for some people.

It's all so obvious. The sexual underbelly is simply another club, full of people who just want to belong. It's about a sense of community.

The grand finale of the day came with the 2.30pm performance of a stripper who appeared to have the talent of a nude Romanian gymnast. The men at the front cheered heartily, clapping each time she successfully managed to stand on her head and climb the pole.

Perhaps it's my lack of gymnastic training and ability to pole vault that explains why I am still single.

But after hours of perverted perusing, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing erotic about erotica.

It isn't sensual wandering around a concrete hall with 8000 other curious bods. It isn't sexual watching a strip show with men who look like your uncle.

And it's just plain unnerving how homely and unsexy, sex fans are.