I would equate going to your first Sex Expo with having your first sex- there’s some trepidation coupled with excitement mixed with the hope that if more people end up watching, you don’t embarrass yourself. (Or maybe that’s just my first sexual experience.) I was proud to be chosen to do a talk at Sexual Health Expo LA- the acronym is SHE, but I swear there were HE’s there too (even on Superbowl Sunday) and more encouraging, plenty of THEM/THEYs too. What I didn’t realize, is that along with giving a talk, I would also have my own booth. To sell products. That do not exist.
The organizers had been so professional up until that point, you’d think it would have made me read the accompanying specs more clearly. Instead, I scanned the detailed PDF document offering me shelves, round tables and chairs thinking, “Oh, how fetch but I won’t be needing any of those, I’m one of the speaking people, not one of the selling people.”
The booths were all roughly 8 x 10 feet deep (I came to find out) and encased in white frosted plexiglass. When I got directed to mine, I needed a moment to process the fact that there was a spacious empty booth with my name on it, so I started chatting to the people in the booth next to mine, LA Kink.
They seemed like nice people for a bunch of perverts and their site is actually a great way to find out about kinky and BDSM happenings in the area. What I didn’t realize was for the rest of the weekend, the soundtrack of people being whipped and beaten was going to intrude on my every thought and word, as I offered people the only thing I had with me to sell… me.
I set up my small banner at the back of the booth (a gut instinct had told me to get one made) and thank goodness the sadists next door had some gaffer tape. I spread my business cards out on the long conference table (6 x 4, tablecloth included) and sat behind it. Opposite me, a slight Japanese woman in traditional Geisha garb was setting up her booth to display Pomegranate Pussy fragrance. I hoped the people who visited her would come to me right afterwards so I could tell them their pussies smelled just fine.
I coached/counseled/listened to/experienced at least one hundred people at the conference, like a red-haired Lucy in a Charlie Brown psychiatrist booth, people came by and blurted their deepest secrets to me (one gentleman wanders over to tell me he’s a cross dresser called “Bethany,” then wanders away again.) On Saturday, the Dominant in the booth next to mine (my good friend Hercules Liotard) was whipping, flogging, spanking and all round beating the shit out of a lingerie clad sub who was so jacked on endorphins, I got high just standing next to her. Good times.
On the Sunday, the deviants next door got in a Female Dominant and a male submissive (also yay!) In between the heartfelt, filthy and heartbreaking confessions from couples, singles and everyone in between (and the moans of pleasure/pain next door) I gave two talks titled “How Sexually Intuitive Are You?”
The Japanese lady remarked later, “You have many people in your booth all the time many people stop listen,” and I was like “Thank you,” but really I wanted just to hold her and say “Your pussy is fine, I intuitively know your pussy already smells like pomegranate,” but instead I went back to spruiking outside my booth like the carnival barker/whore that I am.
I managed to attract a small crowd for both talks, whom I then had to engage for an entire 20 minutes standing on their feet (the second talk went to 30 because we all got excited.) I started by getting them feeling grounded in their bodies, cutting through the cacophony/visual stimulation of aisles and aisles of shiny sex toys, erotic banners, and my favorite, the art project/documentary with close-up side by side pictures of all kinds of vaginas. (I hope the Geisha saw it.)
I might be able to live quite happily with just a Sybian, Netflix and salted caramel ice cream delivered weekly. This machine was fun to see in person – an amazing sex toy for women and couples, in that it feels sturdy enough to writhe around on, at any weight or amount of movement, or even fucking a woman on it, and the thing would just keep making you cum and there is nothing wrong with that.
The woman running that booth looked like the fittest PE teacher you’ve ever seen, except if that PE teacher actually looked happy, accustomed as she was to having dozens of orgasms daily. It turned out her name was Bunny Lampert, and her father invented the Sybian, meanwhile I can’t even make eye contact with my dad on Skype, let alone continue the family sex business.
The varied attachments caused me endless fascination and I wasn’t the only one, Bunny’s booth became kind of a hangout for educators, vendors and participants or, as my boyfriend had previously dubbed them, “The Sexmos.” I hung out and swapped dirty stories with my friend and maven Elle Chase, she of the new book “Curvy Girl Sex,” and was reminded how grateful I am to find myself finally in a female dominated industry. Turns out those vulva-having vixens really have each other’s backs.
Did I mention that I loved The Sexmos with all my heart? Also the Goths, the creatives, the suburbanites, the gypsies, the big-breasted mermaids, the shysters, the shy dudes, the dreamers, the blustering Dominants, the horny Jews, and the women who love womyn or men or who love “?” and they who love them, but also are #@% and mostly every person adding to positive sexual energy in the world. It was an honor to be a Sexmo among Sexmos, all striving to be the best Sexmos we could be.
And then, all at once, it was over. We rolled up our tarps, carted away our medical-grade silicone wares (I will be reviewing something AMAZING for you shortly,) and left Downtown L.A. Some of us had to go home and tend to the one by-product no one wanted to talk about, the one largest taboo topic that can be a consequence for some people after some kinds of sex, that’s almost never mentioned in the 20 hours talking almost exclusively about it- CHILDREN. May your doors be thick enough to muffle the sounds of pleasure, America, and may your locks be sturdy enough to keep out the pitter patter of little feet, for we, The Sexmos, are coming for you…