One Kinky Night Out at the Sexpo

Long before my partner and I ever thought we would want to parent a child together, we were very fond of the conceiving process. In fact, early on we couldn’t get our tongues off each other. Due to the very high intercourse-per-week ratio, we started considering spacing out from strictly vanilla and fantasizing about experiencing something a little more transgressive. That’s why, around the day marking our second anniversary, we decided to celebrate by buying tickets for a sexpo.

“What the heck is a sexpo!?” you may wonder. It is, indeed, an expo about sex. If you were, say, running a peep show cabin place and were looking to buy new Kleenex holders for your joint (or gag balls), this would be the place for you to shop.
   
Naturally, such an event is also open to anyone curious enough to afford a ticket. What attracted US was not so much the hope of filling our pockets with brand new bondage porn and anal plugs. No. It was about the people. We wanted to try blending into a crowd we imagined sexy and liberated and check if what we felt in such a circumstance would be, perhaps, a sense of belonging.

Besides, there were going to be attractions. In the livid glare of our laptop screen, we sucked in anticipation every bit of the program: there would be strip shows round the clock on the main stage and BDSM performances (say what?) in the “PainLand” zone. We could choose to explore the “Ero-Labyrinth” where, for an additional fee, we’d wander in the dark and rub against strangers on our blind quest to the exit. We could visit the “Venice Voyeur,” the “Swinger Saloon,” or the “Golden Shower Lounge” where we’d be given a glass of Champagne, a lapdance, and ten minutes to enjoy both.

I took a few days to ponder on what to wear, eventually settling for a black dress looking like a school uniform and porn boots to go with it. They were so tight and high they made my feet pulsate with pain before we even left our home, but what would a girl not do for a sexy thrill. Especially on an anniversary.

When the Big Day arrived, we dutifully showered, groomed, trimmed and retouched whatever needed the attention, clad our shivering (in anticipation) bodies in the chosen outfits and stumbled and cursed and giggled our way to the car. We were but a short drive away from this kamasutra lala-land and we couldn’t wait.  

The best part was the entrance, shaped like a giant vulva flooded in darkness and red neon. Two sinuous playmates in Pink Panther costumes stood by the opening labia checking tickets and  handing fliers. My partner and I took a deep excited breath and dove into the biggest vagina we had ever experienced. It felt like it was going to be the sexiest trip of our lives, rocked by the beats of the disco blasting everywhere, we held hands and entered the meaty tunnel expecting to find a lustful world of arousal on the other side, like a hardcore version of Alice’s wonderland on Ecstasy.

Once we reemerged on the inside, though, our imagination’s gallop came to a screeching halt. 80% of the local fauna was composed of barely legal boys (pimples, budding mustache, wet stains on their underwear) wandering about giggling like packs of hyenas. The remaining 20% were swingers in their fifties who looked like they had driven there on their tractors, couples composed of shy males wanting to spice things up, females who reacted with outrage at the sight of a dildo, and the occasional lesbians wearing red windstopper jackets holding each other by a dog leash.

The market stands were, in fact, overflowing with merchandise, but it was all cheap, pastel-colored, prick-shaped nonsense and mountains of (edible) underwear. Letting hence go of any shopping intentions we approached the main stage, where we witnessed the performance of a local pornstar deep in her thirties (fake blonde, silicon chest) which consisted of her walking back and forth across the stage wearing a snorkeler’s wetsuit with a zipper from the top of her ass-crack all the way up to her throat, swaying her hips while slowly pulling out of her vagina a metal chain so long it covered the stage’s width thrice.
  
Not finding this too appealing, we went to check out the “Ero-Labyrinth” but when we saw in the queue ahead of us a couple of gigantic and frankly intimidating transvestites, the idea of having to rub against them in the darkness trying to find our way out somehow made us change our minds.  

Itching to be actually impressed by something, we moved to the “PainLand” zone, where a BDSM performance was in the middle of its happening. To our disbelief, it consisted of a naked woman, not too young and neither too fit, tied up with ropes like an Italian salami hanging motionless on chains hooked to the stage’s roof. And that was it. She just hung there, eyes closed, in collected silence. The red-and-black banner hanging above her stated this was “Mistress Invidia’s Torture Chamber” but somehow it reminded more of someone impersonating a hammock than of a display of sadism and submission.

After just two hours of zig-zagging through this disheartening human landscape, we sat on the floor in some corner, sipping hot tea from paper cups. By then, the porn boots had cast a clusterfuck of blisters on both my feet, and all I was able to think about was our couch at home and sweatpants. But it was our anniversary, and we came such a long way to feel kinky and special, how could we give up on it so quickly? We finished our tea and built up the courage to go for the real deal, no more dancing around it: we would finally go grab us some orgiastic fun at the “Swinger Saloon.”

Fortunately though, in order to allow for a proper build-up, we decided to pass by the “Venice Voyeur” first.      

The interior of the “Voyeur” looked very much like the fitting rooms of a cheap department store, but with the lights off. On one side was a plywood wall and on the other was a row of boxes shielded off by dark curtains. Each box, equipped with a kleenex dispenser and a mini trash can, had a window, or better, a Venetian mirror through which one could see an area of the “Swinger Saloon” where people had sex knowing they were being watched.

We shut the curtain, the box went dark and the details of what was happening on the other side became painfully clear. Our jaws finally dropped at the sight of what looked like a giant bowl of worm-spaghetti wiggling in a sauce of meat-red mattresses. A shapeless heap of bodies, not really moving, not really still, a multi-headed centipede, sort of winding, sort of licking, a creature that could only exist in the drunken nightmares of a medical school dropout. In an eye-blink, everything in us went soft and dry.

You think orgies are sexy? Well, in some movies they can be. But in real life, more often than not, people have a tendency to not look exactly like pornstars. They don’t act like them and, most importantly, they don’t fuck like them.

So if you ever feel like celebrating your relationship in some temple of sexual bliss, remember this story. You may end up on your couch, packs of frozen peas on your feet, too exhausted to even think about giving your loved one a happy-anniversary hand-job.

You’ve been warned.

About the author: Writer by calling, Filmmaker by choice, Mama by surprise, Marta still dreams of becoming a Rock Star, one day. Till then, you can find her at naptime drinking yesterday’s coffee and blogging at Baby Blues & Rock’N’Roll http://www.babybluesandrocknroll.com/ about the breathtaking marvels of being someone she never thought she would ever be. Her writing has appeared also on Elephant Journal, Bonbon Break and Role Reboot. Follow her on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/BabyBluesRockNRoll; and Twitter https://twitter.com/MamaBlues11 and you will make her love you forever in a dirty way.