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This weekend we went to the Everything to do with Sex Show, an exploration mostly fuelled by free passes but also by an idle curiosity to see freaky-deaky things.

In the Exposition Center, rows of booths hawked bargain price dildos, hedonism resorts and S&M art. Convict strippers thrashed vigorously and threw their striped jackets aside to she-screams of approval. Girls dragged their overwhelmed boyfriends through the crowded isles in search of devices for spicier sex. This debauchery was all very much what I expected.

The vast majority of attendees were seemingly straightlaced hetero couples, although the occasional old man in a "Wanna bone?" shirt added dirt to the grounds. And did you know that Klingon counts as a valid sexual fetish? I caught sight of numerous dudes in full regalia who I assumed wandered into the wrong convention, but who were apparently looking for Star Trek love with furrowed foreheads.

I was very amused by two 'ladies of the night' who slinked and slithered across the top of a hearse, which had been remodelled to include a love bed in the back. From coffin to coitus, this vehicle was destined for strange days. Rows of men took pictures of the two cellulite-sprinkled performers while their (much hotter) girlfriends waited behind them impatiently.

One exhibitor was very proud of his home-brewed device, which essentially resembled an outboard motor with a fiercely plunging phallus attached to one end. He informed us, quite congenially, that his machine was designed for "four friends... or enemies... whatever," which conjured up images of a small group of ladies battling it out for a turn on the Super Eviscerating Penis Contraption.

I purchased a chocolate representation of two pigs sexxxing it out, which I vowed to eat only if I was very, very drunk.

We also found a perfect shirt for Kyle, pictured below. Unfortunately - and I mean unfortunate in several senses of the word - the shirt was designed to be worn by an infant.

At one booth, skeezy looking characters were recruiting future adult film stars from the general public. The booth poster depicted a chubby naked man amongst the hardbodies, presumably to suggest that even fatties can bang for cash-money in the wondrous, burgeoning economy of pornographic movies. I wasn't buying it - that dude is probably one of those guys in leather gimp suits who get horribly beaten by German death-femmes. Not an ideal line of employment, in my opinion.

Titles for porno movies are always hilarious, intentionally or not, and we spent a while merrily combing through the filth. I won't bother cataloguing the depravity - what, you can't find silly porn on your own? - but my favourite was There Was an English Lass Who Loved Cock Up Her Ass, if only because the box proudly proclaimed that its contents contained 94.8% Anal. That leaves, what, 5% for the plot? For regular intercourse? For CREDITS? The film was mysteriously problematic, a statistical conundrum.

Finally, our wanderings nearly complete, we attended a conference on G-Spots and P-Spots which was packed beyond capacity. An older woman liberally told us all about the proper way to insert fingers... or carrots... or whatever into poop-holes for maximum enjoyment. She lay on tables and wiggled her hips. Complete with anatomical diagrams, her presentation was frank and unabashed. I think I learnt a lot - who knew the G-spot wasn't just a feminist myth??

And who knew that Torontonians were so ravenous to find new ways to get themselves off? Me, now, I guess. And you.

[Everything to do with Sex Show]

Posted by Chris at 05:57 PM >> Commentations (3)