My flight ascends through the dusty clouds of Los Angeles as I head back to Miami. I have just attended Erotica L.A. As a native now residing in South Florida, I can tell you with complete certainty that this city has elegantly matured. She has blossomed into a prominent art and culture scene. With all of her diverse sub-cultures clustered in colorful pockets throughout the basin, L.A. is a hip place to be.

For all you saucy chicas who may not be privy, a morsel of advice: when in L.A. do not hydrate before jumping into your car unless you have a porta potty. That inevitable urge familiar to all us felines will challenge your bladder while snagged on the 405 freeway.

So there it was. A sprawling banner assertively stretched across the heavens above a very proud Convention Center. EROTICA LA. My native town had a clue.

L.A.’s pricey parking has finally gotten with the program. But never mind the $15 fee, re-entry – not. Folks poured in droves. Picture all walks of life planning their Saturday for a dose of titillating erotica. Imagine entering Space Mountain in a pretend, glorious universe that is Disneyland. Check your inhibitions at the door. Polished nymphs empowering sensuality invited us into a private, fantasy world of forbidden indulgence. I was in for a treat. My husband quietly concurred.

But alas, I shrank into my fitted, denim jacket and little black heels that I thought were all that. Hello salads, goodbye beef. Sparkling beauties beckoned my presence. Adorned in buttery silk and lacey regalia, proud and regal kittens scribbled away with shiny nails at endless autographs.

Queens and goddesses flaunted for photographers. Coquettish celebrities wrapped around poles with flying mains of hair, endless, silky legs and delicious tans. Envious curves of perfection abound at every corner. Fans huddled here and there, gawking, proudly whispering this name and that. Giggling wives posed with stars because they knew that later they’d get lucky. This event would surely promise presents for all.

Later, I scored a piece of ass. A bite size, butterscotch butt sinfully melted in my mouth. Better yet, it was offered to me on a silver platter by a sugary blonde as sweet as the milk chocolate penises on the table next to her. They came in all shapes and sizes, by the way. Sex, sweets and humor. What a killer combo.

Moving along, there were real estate companies (erotic people buy homes too, right?) and plastic surgeons giving away squishy, stress ball boobies. Designers adorned customers with corsets exploiting cleavage while male novelty vendors peddled endurance. Film producers sold naughty flicks a dime a dozen while secret sugarplums pranced about in stilettos and fig leaves. Well, almost. What I didn’t see was a chiropractor to adjust all the rubber necks.

As a photographer, I instinctively migrated toward every portfolio my eyes could find. Some of the images were miraculous. Others screamed with embarrassment. Occasional models requested my services which I happily obliged.

Back at the hotel, I sifted through the psychological sex mystery shrouding my brain. I later concluded over a cosmopolitan that there are not 2 but 3 things in life that never go away: death, taxes and sex. Written by Meeshee

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