When my editor told me that instead of coming into the office on one sunny Friday I was to go to Sexpo in Melbourne instead, I had two immediate thoughts go through my head. Firstly, this is the price I must pay for working at a workplace that is happy to discuss sex over the lunch table, and secondly, how do I explain to her that not only am I the most inappropriate person to send to this thing, I also only learned what a butt plug was last week.
Oh, and thirdly? My nana just got an iPad and dad just taught her that the combo of the words Zara McDonald + Mamamia means she gets to read anything and everything I write.
With that in mind, you can imagine how this entire ordeal was about to go down.
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So because I process my emotions through words, and am also in the mood to help you out and give you the kinds of life/sex/etc lessons I learnt very quickly and via baptism of fire, I have compiled the six most important things I could possibly take from a morning that my Catholic primary school upbringing did little to prepare me for.
1. No-one goes to Sexpo at 11am.
I will happily admit this perhaps isn’t the kind of earth-shattering kind of revelation you would expect. But I will also happily admit it was exactly that for me. So here you go: People don’t tend to walk through the doors at Sexpo at 11am like I did. And probably for good reason. Because walking into a room where you receive a free VR headset to watch 3D porn with upon entry and have giant inflatable penises waving hello to you is the kind of activity I imagine you need to be relatively awake for.
(And for anyone who was there at 11am? I began to wonder why the hell these people didn’t have to go to work.)
2. This guy’s name is Pricasso and he can make paintings with his penis.
For real. If you thought the name Pricasso was inventive, then you need to take a look at the paintings he can produce using nothing more than the tip of his penis.
The guy is a talent, and particularly efficient at his craft. I did, of course, wonder whether the entire exercise was hygienic and whether his peen ever got too tired to keep painting, but I was quickly re-enthralled by the entire exercise and proceeded to forget about the health of Pricasso's glans. (I just Googled that, it's the tip of the penis and you're welcome.)