Erotica 2005 - Please Look After This Dog, Thank You.
by Embra
"So, are you sex people then?!"
The question came from an old friend and well respected publisher. He was winding me up, but equally he was oddly astonished. I guess he'd be embarrassed to be mentioned in this wee story, so we'd better just call him Marcus. Mainly because that's his name.
My wife and I had met up with Marcus at a St Pancras café where conversation quickly got round to why we'd made our way down from Scotland to the City of Sin (and Astonished Publishers). We told him outright - Erotica 2005, Olympia - hence the wind up.
Were we sex people? Guess so! The questions followed thick and fast, and the conversation came back around to the purpose of our visit every few minutes. What were we looking to do at Erotica? We didn't know. Would we buy anything? We didn't know. What would happen there? We didn't know, except that there would be a floor show that we were looking forward to. Marcus choked on his lemonade and orange juice (bless him).
Thing is, we didn't know, though Marcus declared the reply verging on open and deliberate obfuscation. This was our first Erotica, and we deliberately went into the experience with an open mind and a padded wallet. What would happen? Would we buy anything? Would we get involved?
Actually, this last was a moot point. We were very much looking to get involved, my wife and I both being writers. We were looking for possible legitimate creative outlets. In fact, the quest for legitimacy was very much on our minds as we walked up from the Earls Court underground station. We were looking to see who was trading at the show so we could see who they were and what they sold just so we knew we could trust them the next time we were looking for something in the minefield of the Wild Weird Web.
There were three of us striding up the steps to the venue - me, my wife, and her Hearing Dog. I should imagine no one will remember us, but many will remember the dog. He has that effect. We'd all been here before for the British Toy Fair, before it moved to the Docklands (don't follow, Erotica, for goodness sake!). The parallels between the events were uncanny, though there's usually more live flesh on show at the Toy Fair.
At the Toy Fair, a trade and press only event, sex sells. Young and nubile and unemployed models and actors are hired to baffle and distract the predominantly male, mostly balding and overweight, middle-aged audience of lecherous buyers with sparkling smiles and impressive cleavages (yup, guys included). Those of you who've been to Erotica will already be seeing some similarities.
At Erotica, however, it's a more wholesome affair. The sex bit is a done deal, so it is remarkably inoffensive. The breasts might occasionally be bared, but they are not the goods punters are always focused on. Sure, there are a few scattered packs of lads who expected something akin to a cheaper version of the clubs they don't have the guts to venture into, but they quickly get embarrassed and slope off. Their testosterone-fuelled, peer-pressured, Ingerrland football shirt-clad bravado withers in the face of so many folks just having a good time.
You see, unlike the Toy Fair, Erotica is welcoming, non-judgemental fun. And some of the toys are so much more inventive.
We attended the first day of Erotica 2005. Getting there early means folks are still bright and buzzed (not that way. Mostly…) and willing to have a laugh with the crowd rather than just promote their wares. The initially smaller audience for the stage show meant that the enthusiasm of the hosts sometimes fell on few ears, let alone deaf ones. This did not deter most of the performers, and the show was worth going back to from time to time. The trapeze artiste was particularly fascinating - especially from the gallery, where the extent of cover provided by her diamanté heart was greatly reduced. Unfortunately, some of the cage dancers looked unutterably bored. Perhaps they weren't used to competing with so much else.
If you haven't been, you might find it odd that one of the big things missing from Erotica is, with the significant exception of the stage show, the erotic. This is no bad thing, really, and is more the focus of the ball on the Saturday night (next year, must go next year). Instead, what you have is a big, noisily enthusiastic and welcoming market selling a lot of the stuff you wish other markets would sell.
Visitors to Erotica find it very difficult to be shy or embarrassed. The sheer vibrancy of the place draws you in, and you're quickly grinning from ear to ear. I chuckled at the site of a wee bloke being beautifully mugged by one of the two Booby Sisters. Standing a little under five foot, the far-from-unfortunate bloke was grabbed by the head and had his face buried in an expertly giggled cleavage. On release, I swear the top of his head could have been flipped back, so wide was his smile. Kudos to the girls there for judging their audience to absolute perfection!
There were a couple of disappointments at Erotica. The art show really wasn't up to much, unfortunately. A few of the artists should invest in a course in life drawing. Their work would improve immeasurably. It's difficult to present effective erotica when you can't get basic anatomy right. A lot of the others need to get over the likes of Boris Vallejo and Chris Achilleos and start showing some real inventiveness. Oh, and copying out a photo from the latest Playboy doesn't cut it, I'm afraid. Not at £80 a throw.
The basic sex toys on sale left a little to be desired. They were mostly cheap, tacky and really ordinary. However, the DVD stands were the biggest let down. They were doing a roaring trade to exclusively male clients who fell into three distinct groups. There were dapper gents who were obviously on a break from the House of Lords. There were elderly men in scruffy old macs who mumbled as they walked, read the covers, or stood still. They drooled a little as they ogled the uncomfortable-looking girls behind the counters up in the gallery. As could be expected, the small groups of loutish lads found some shelter there as they watched the trailers on the big screens. Perhaps they were hoping the footy results would scroll by after the latest bout of cum-spitting was done. The dodgy sex shop experience was alive and well.
The big hole waiting to be filled at Erotica (ahem) is for friendlier and classier DVDs and DVD retailers, and the more inventive and higher quality sex toys. Lets face it, the overwhelming majority of visitors to Erotica will have at the very least a rabbit vibrator, rampant or otherwise, yet they were the main toy on sale, and predominantly cheap versions to boot. People come to Erotica with money to spend, so someone please give them toys worth buying!
All that said, there was some wonderful stuff. The alternative furniture ranged from stealthy beanbags with alternate uses to stunning, elegant Gothic bedsteads. Dungeon keepers really were spoiled for choice, whether they lurked in a suburban semi or lorded it up in a vast mansion. There were some great St. Andrew-style crosses that made me come over all patriotic.
Amongst the dazzling array of clothing, corsetry was much in evidence, something never to complain about. Bo's Tit Bits (www.bos-tit-bits.com) displayed beautiful, colourful crystal studded masks, collars and cuffs. Skin Two and Torture Garden had the rubber market all sewn up quite delectably. The shoe lovers of the world had much to enjoy, and there were even some heels that wouldn't be classed as deadly weapons at airports. The Rally Shack (www.therallyshack.co.uk) offered a strong alternative range to the previously inescapable New Rock boots, which was nice to see.
Speaking of footwear, our thanks to the lovely girl with the thigh-length candy pink boots and the distractingly low-cut top at the lube stall who regularly and enthusiastically launched herself at my wife's Hearing Dog and cheered him up with a good fuss. He loved it, and we were very happy with the view and the chat each time. I did feel sorry for the two Dream Boys who, despite their bods-to-die-for and studied flexing were utterly abandoned in mid chat-up as we walked past. Perhaps if you shaved less, lads?
The top quote of the event had to be from the chap in the gallery selling a comprehensive-looking guide to partying Erotica style in London. He approached us to fuss over our dog, which was much appreciated and, failing to read the dog's coat, asked how we'd got him past security.
"He's a guide dog", I replied, my voice virtually lost in music. With a delighted squeal and a coquettish skip, the erstwhile-author said;
"Ooooh! A gay dog!! How wonderful!"
Poor chap was quite crestfallen and apologetic when I explained his error. Still, it throws up a wonderful possibility;
