Sexapalooza

Last night, I found myself paying $20 to get into Sexapalooza a sex-trade-show. Someone had mentioned that Sexapalooza was coming to town and I figured that since I've never been to any kind of Palooza at all, I'd make this my first.

As my 2 single-girl friends and I wandered down the main street to the convention centre, I was cool as a cucumber. Sex is so just part of everyone's lives. I'm totally cool with my sexuality, and I'm cool with everyone else's too. I think I may have even strutted just a little, thinking about howI would capture this oh-so-Carrie-Bradshaw experience in an understated Times font.

But as we got nearer and nearer to the convention centre I began to worry a little that I might give myself away as a sex-trade-show nube. I've been in sex shops before sure; I even went to the sex museum in Amsterdam once. I silently reminded myself as I paid for my ticket 'Don't be awkward. Don't be awkward. Please, for once in your life G, don't be awkward.'

Greeting us in the entrance was a giant plastic vagina. I picked up the matching giant plastic penis and took advantage of the photo op. Totally not awkward.

The first booth was full of cheap plastic vibrators and vinyl nurses outfits. Not awkward, but not what I was interested in. The next booth was called "Clitoraid", a charitable organization fronted by an awkward Stuart-Smalley type man in blue eyeshadow and ugly pink lipstick. We chatted about how successful clitoris rebuilding surgeries can be. 'I'm so progressive' I told myself.

But the next booth was a trap. It was a simple booth with bowl of chocolates and free condoms. I helped myself, and as I stuffed my face with chocolate hearts, a pretty girl approached me with free tickets to a gentleman's club, despite the fact that I am not a gentelman.

"Oh! A Gentleman's club!" I spat out. "Are you..." but I paused. Is it wrong of me to assume that just cause these fine ladies are manning the booth for a gentleman's club that they're performers there as well? If I finish this statement will I be committing some kind of sex-trade-show gaff? G, I reminded myself. Just cause they're spending their weekend handing out free tickets to a titty-bar does not make these women strippers. But my hesitation was noticed. My cheeks flushed a Stuart-Smalley-lipstick shade of pink.

"Don't be shy. Ask anything. You want to know if we're dancers." A towering blonde prompted me out of my dumb freeze.

"Yeah, thank god, I didn't know if it was ok to ask."

"Actually we're the bartenders." Another girl said.

"Oh! Well that must be a fun job." In my head I'm telling myself to move along. You've been saved G, but if you spend too much time here... "Sorry I'm a little awkward, it's weird for me to be here."

"Why?" the blonde asked.

"Awkward" noted my friend who just walked up behind me to witness the stumbling conclusion of this exchange.

"Oh I uh, its not. It's just not what I uhh... Thanks for the chocolate condoms, I mean chocolate and condoms.. uh." Crap.

New Sexapalooza rule. Don't talk to the strippers.

The rest of the night was spent cruising a variety of booths, looking for that perfect corset, testing vibrator settings and textures (on my hand-you sickos), and making a mental list of sex-toys I could make at home, from a candy-necklace thong to a beaded penis ring - or bracelet? I don't know what the proper term for it would be but I don't think I should have to pay $30 for it.

By the time we had left, the pink had faded from my cheeks and I was more comfortable with my kinky side, but still not totally cool with girls who may or may not be strippers. On my wishlist for next Christmas? A Leather corset with buckles and hooks, not zippers and a mustache trimmer.

G.