December 23, 2002 @ 11:02 p.m.
Penisaurus and Me

Let's pretend it was just a pause, a deep breath, okay. I've been busy doing volunteer work. No, really, I have. But don't worry, it's not with retards or poor people or poor retards or anything. It's with a radio station, so it's heaps of fun and I get to feel all good and worthwhile without having to deal with retards, or have them look at me with their piggy little retard eyes (sweet baby Jesus, how I hate their piggy little retard eyes).

Anyway, having offended half my readership (not saying you're retards or anything), and having set something of a personal record for use of the word "retard" in a paragraph, let me finish telling you about Sexpo. You know, that think I started telling you about OVER A FUCKING MONTH AGO.

Let's forget I ever worked there, shall we? It was hell, largely due to the people I was forced to work with.

Instead, I'll tell you about going there on the Saturday as a spectator with the lovely and morally flexible Stu by my side.

It was my second time at Sexpo, and my first time attending as their demographic - i.e., one half of a heterosexual(ish) couple. It didn't make me feel terribly special or anything, but it was nice to have someone to walk around with and talk to and hang shit on the lamer stuff with. There were a lot of representatives of various strip clubs around, so we got handed lots of free passes. I got really pissed off with the places that only handed passes to Stu; not so much because it was like they were suggesting that he sneak out behind my back to go see some strippers, but more because they were assuming that I wouldn't want to see naked ladies waving their bits in the air too. My faithful readership knows that this is not the case. Hell, even my unfaithful, whorin'-around-behind-my-back-getting-genital-warts readership knows that's not the case. Bring on the naked ladies, I say! But not at the places that didn't give me a free pass.

I took the opportunity at one point to try on porn star shoes. You know the type, the six-inches-plus stillettos. Although Stu reckons they're stripper shoes, not porn star shoes. We had a long and involved argument about this. I hear some people argue about stuff that matters.

Anyway, I tried some on. I liked them very, very much. I could even walk in them, a fact I cheerfully demonstrated to Stu, the saleslady, and the odd bemused onlooker. I was having fun, despite Stu's misgivings about the shoes, which I put down to him disliking me towering over him.

But disaster had to strike. I might have been able to walk okay, but I forgot about my left ankle, the tricky one that is prone to giving way with no prior warning, usually whilst I am standing stock-still, and making me fall on my arse. Had I remembered about tricky ankle, I would have realised that the combination of it and my clothing choice of a short denim skirt and a g-string was a poor one indeed when one is trying on shoes that one may fall over in.

The obvious happened. Those poor onlookers did not need to see that. Poor, poor onlookers. I let Stuart talk me out of buying the shoes.

I got to see a male stripper too, for the first time ever. It's not something I've ever been particularly keen on seeing; I find the male body more hilarious than I should probably admit to. But I think Stu was trying to prove some sort of point about his lack of jealousy or something - "of course I'm not worried that you'll compare my pale geek physique to that of a stripper, O hooterific love of my life!" - because he dragged me up to the stage to watch the stripper despite my loud and repeated protests. The only other explanation I can think of is that he's secretly attracted to men but is really, really good at pretending otherwise.

Anyway, we watched the stripper, who was as bad as the ads for Manpower Australia have probably led you to believe. He was in a cowboy outfit, and danced to a medly of songs about cowboys. I was most disappointed to note that neither Mclusky's Alan is a Cowboy Killer or Pansy Division's Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other were among the mix.

But something wonderful happened after the stripper had finished. Those of you who read my report on the 2001 Sexpo will remember me talking about Penisaurus, the penis/dinosaur hybrid that wanders through Sexpo, getting giggled at and occasionally squirting the audience with his eye. You may remember my desire to get my photo taken whilst hugging him.

Well, half of my desire was granted, as cameras aren't actually allowed into Sexpo. But Penisaurus appeared after the stripper had appeared, as the crowd that had gathered was dispersing. I squealed with delight and dragged Stu over to him.
"Can I hug Penisaurus?" I asked, like a little kid meeting a Sesame Street character.
"Sure," said his female minder (the male minder just smiled enigmatically). "You can give him a rub too, if you like, he likes that."
So I gave Penisaurus a big hug and then an enthusiastic two-handed rub on his shaft/neck. The female minder leaned over and whispered towards the bit of mesh that presumably allows the person inside to both breathe and see, "show them what you do when you get a rub."
At which point Penisaurus squirted straight out in front of himself, either accidentally or purposely hitting a small group of middle-aged men who had gathered and were leering at the young chick who really, really liked big dick. Hah! Served 'em right. Penisaurus is my friend. Respect the cock! (Although going on the fact that he's at Mardi Gras in this photo, he gets around a bit.)

I think that's about all the memorable stuff that happened while we were there. We filled in a survey on sexual practices and stuff, which involved lots of muttering and scribbling by both of us, and consulting each other on questions such as "when was the last time you had sex?", because we're both pretty forgetful about stuff like that (of course, now that I'm in a relationship and getting laid more often than a reincarnated egg, I can afford to be blase about all this. But you can bet that if I was single, I'd be able to remember not only the last time I'd had sex, but how long it lasted and how many times my partner said "who's yer daddy, bitch?". Maybe I'd even remember who it was with!). Stu got all competitive about it and started covering his sheet up, like it was an exam and I was going to start copying his answers to questions like "how many sex partners have you had?" and "how frequently do you masturbate?". Which certainly would have made a more interesting exam than the ones I did in high school, now that I think of it. Also, one that all the redneck tardfuckers I went to high school with might have actually been able to pass.

And on that happy, totally non-misanthropic note, I bid you all a merry festive season type thing if I don't get around to updating before the 25th, and let's face it, with my record, I probably won't.

Have fun, be safe, tie mistletoe to your belt buckles, and don't do anything I wouldn't do. It's up to you to decide if that will really limit your activities or not.

P.S. A thank you to all who wished me a happy birthday. I like being in my twenties so far. It's like someone passed me a note saying "you're no longer a stupid teenager". Although now I have no easy excuse for my occasional bouts of angst. Damn.

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