The man taking our tickets winked. I glanced at my friend and chuckled. That’s right, Mr. Ticket-taker! Ladies aren’t perverts! Sure, I had come to Adultcon on my own accord, but I didn’t do it like everyone else. I sent an e-mail, made a phone call, sent a fax, recruited a friend, drove 100 miles and shelled out a provisional $30 to get a nifty press wristband snapped around my arm! Pervert? No, sir, I was on assignment.
And then it hit me. There was only one thing that separated me from the guy behind me in line, who clearly woke up, jacked off, sniffed his pit-stained shirt and decided, “I’ll go to Adultcon today” — I actually put effort into it. Who puts effort into porn? Perverts, that’s who. Beam me up to the mothership; I was home.
For those of you who haven’t reached my inadvertent perv status, Adultcon is a semiannual event hosted at the L.A. Convention Center. Boasting over 60,000 square feet of space and over 50 adult entertainers in attendance, the three-day convention declares itself the one-stop spot to ogle, drool and, most especially, spend money to your burning loins’ content.
Why admire your favorite porn star’s boobs from your parents’ basement when, for $5, you can admire her implants up close? Why bust a premature nut into a sock when you can bust it on her shoe while talking to her? (That’ll cost you extra, I’m sure.) Is your rubber vagina on the fritz? Why not snag a new one off a babe in a thong, so you can pretend it’s hers? And if divulging your monkey-spanking methods to porn stars seems a bit awkward, rest assured! According to the Adultcon Web site, it doesn’t matter who you are or what inanimate device you do. “At Adultcon, the girls will talk to you and smile at you!”
And judging by the atmosphere, I got the feeling that the average convention-goer hadn’t experienced the voice or smile of a woman in a very long time.Quite simply, the ambience was dirty. No, not just the “Bend me over, Daddy, I’ve been a bad girl” kind of dirty – that was expected, and frankly, under-delivered. I’m talking about the kind of dirty that smells like Buffalo wing farts and cheap cologne. The kind of dirty where old men look you up and down and make you feel naked in your cardigan sweater. The kind of dirty that thinks it’s funny to ask the talent, “Did you know there’s a vagina on this flier?” (“That’s mine!” she replies, smiling.) The kind of dirty where men bury themselves in the talent’s cleavage and ass-cheeks like a death row inmate devouring his last meal.
I’ve come to realize that the industry produces a glorious illusion; the videos and photos displayed behind the talent projected surreal images of flawless sex goddesses. Take away the airbrushing, lights and hair and makeup crews, however, and you’ve got a girl on par with the rest us. Except with a porn star’s ego. Hence, she’s a size 8, but thinks she’s a size 0. Next year, I’m bringing my friends Stacy and Clinton from “What Not to Wear.”
The only real highlight for me, ladies and gentlemen, was the only girl candy in the room. I give you the Master of Dirty, King of Sex Gods Who Look Like My Grandpa, Mr. Ron Jeremy. Seated at the ExtenZe booth was “The Legend” in all his glory (and by glory, I mean Santa Claus belly and greasy receding hairline.) Like the good sportsman he is, he was ready for anything – even the cracked-out old woman who walked up and pulled out her breast… he latched on like an old pro!
Now, what good is going to an adult convention without taking a picture with Ron freaking Jeremy? My friend and I eagerly waited our turn. As we approached, he flashed his thousand-dollar smile, growling, “Hellooo, sexy ladies!” He wrapped his arms around us, sharing his irresistible charm (and by charm, I mean B.O.) “Smile!” Hands descend. Click! Hands descend some more. “Thank you, ladies!” We shuffle away before he can squeeze.
I’ll never wash this ass again. I’ll bet he hasn’t washed his – ever.