For the first time in the convention’s history, scalpers were selling Erotica L.A. tickets.
“How much?” I asked a scalper, who didn’t identify himself as Scalpy McScalpington, at the corner of Flower and Pico, one block from the L.A. Convention Center.
“$50,” he answered, and I declined. I asked him how much my press pass would go for, but he said those were easy to fake.
It turns out he should know, because the LAPD busted him less than an hour later for scalping forged tickets.
The three-day convention was a success, with more mainstream media coverage than ever before, as well as a significant increase in pro-sumer documentation, as about 15 percent of the attendees seemed loaded for bear with gadgetry designed for personal digital inventories of the proceedings.
But each year the booth candy of Erotica L.A. look less like porn stars and more like bartenders (except Michelle Aston). This is a great compliment to the excellent crop of bartenders in Los Angeles but a sad state of affairs for a convention barred from showing too much skin or simulating sex acts. I couldn’t even get around that by actually having sex with someone, because that was prohibited, too.
“We can’t even fuck in the bathroom,” said Aiden Starr.
“We’ve never tried,” I suggested.
As a consumer show, there are always exhibitors at Erotica L.A. that seem tacked on. Business card scanners, a booth selling videos of gang fights, and a row of plastic, water-filled foot massagers just didn’t seem erotic to me.
But what is erotic, really? A warm puppy? No. That’s happiness.
Erotic is Holly Randall in a red polka dot dress smelling neither of booze nor Australia, but only of the musk she exudes as a result of her powerful attraction to me. I asked her to get behind the wheel of the AVN Racing Formula One car, co-sponsored by Wicked, Red Light District, Burning Angel, ClubJenna, and Python Pictures.
“Is Formula One Racing erotic?” I asked passersby.
“No,” said Marianna Del Amo of Irwindale, CA. “Belladonna is erotic.”
“Am I erotic?” I asked.
“No.”
I asked AVN’s Farley Cahen how much it would cost to affix a Gram Ponante Prix sticker to the car.
“Ha ha ha!” he kept saying. I’m fucking serious. I can drive better than Joanna Angel.
Pulpo, my favorite Latino porn company, was a new exhibitor.
“Latinos are about ten years behind Americans in porn,” said Mako, producer of Black Worm.
I found this inscrutable.
“What, in dumbassedness?” I asked.
“We don’t do the gagging and the punching and things like that,” she said. “We like to tell a story.”
I took about 100 pictures in my inimitable style. If I didn’t get a picture of someone at her booth, I got her at the FAME Awards red carpet or on a cigarette break. Most of the more recognizable performers had microentourages to shield them between autograph signing duties, but porn conventions don’t really allow for privacy beyond a curtained-off area in the larger booths, and even those do not have restroom facilities.
Regan Anthony, who is about the size of my Little League trophy, walked right into my waist.
“When I’m at these things, I look straight ahead and walk really fast,” she said.
“Otherwise everyone is asking to take your picture.”
“Can I take your picture?” I asked, frightened of this thing that I’ve become.
The most crowded booth, when Jenna Jameson was there, was ClubJenna’s. Otherwise it was Wicked’s booth, followed closely by Tera Patrick’s. Evil Angel’s booth was the most treacherous. They had rented space at the last minute (I was told) and they were stuck near the back, so the crowds that came to see Belladonna had little room to negotiate. This is where people got surliest, because it was like Calcutta. At least the Jenna line had room to stretch out.
As America’s Beloved Porn JournalistTM I am sensitive to the needs of fans and the performers they crave. I wanted to see Little Casey ParkerTM at the WantedList booth but she and her huge hair were attracting huge lines. She called to me as if from a great distance as I walked by, and I immediately got dirty looks from the dudes waiting in line.
“Sorry, dudes,” I said solemnly.
Because I spent my early years as a Thai aerialist, I looked forward to seeing Cirque du Soleil’s vignette from “Zumanity”. I’ve seen a few of their shows around the country, and am looking forward to seeing “The Beatles’ Love”, their permamnent production at the Treasure Island in Las Vegas, but “Zumanity” as staged at Erotica L.A. was underwhelming.
The place isn’t really set up for open air performances, and though the production, on paper, seemd suited for the crowd, it wasn’t really given a chance. The striptease vignette was ten minutes long. The same was true of John Stagliano’s “Fashionistas”, which also has a home in Las Vegas. In theory, using Erotica L.A. audiences as a feeder pool for boobalicious Vegas tickets is a good idea, but the presentation opportunities weren’t ideal.
But it was a lively crowd. I hate the word “mainstream”, not because it isn’t accurate, but because people depend on it too much. I really think that, like cross-country motorists need to eat where the truckers eat, porn consumers should look to bartender trends in Los Angeles to see how far porn has penetrated the real world.
To that end, a lot of Erotica L.A.’s paying customers looked pornier than the people they were coming to meet. And that was sweet. It’s like when I go to The Hall of Presidents in Disneyland dressed like Abraham Lincoln. Imitation is the sincerest form of whatever.
The second annual FAME Awards seemed fun. I was backstage. I heard no gunshots or fisticuffs from up front, and no one showed up to my backstage lair weeping or bloody, so I assumed everything went fine. And unlike recent award shows, the performers who were nominated showed up to receive their awards.
Last year’s Temptation Awards and this year’s Adultcon Awards suffered from a lack of interest from the stars both events sought to profit from. FAME succeeds because it has the support of AVN.
While Vivid and Digital Playground were not represented with booths on the convention floor, they sent emissaries to the FAME Awards (one each, in the persons of Savannah Samson and Jesse Jane). Hustler was absent.
As has been the case for the past few years, Naughty America had the best booth, with discrete rooms that reflected the styles of different performers (Gia Paloma and Lorelei Lee used the punk rock room, for example).
This is a business about women, and the men who survive in it need to be cordial and have a good sense of humor. Jack Lawrence, Evan Stone, Tommy Gunn, and Randy Spears roamed the convention floor and women loved them. It’s important, too, that these guys be gracious, else boyfriends and male hangers-on would flip out.
Aside from Michelle Aston, Jack Lawrence had the dirtiest interactions with fans. He was shirtless and sporting a dildo. Women came up to him and immediately bent to suck on the dildo and get their pictures taken by giggling friends. He had to gently inform them that simulated sex was verboten.
I didn’t attend any of the big parties. I wanted to go to the Vivid-steve affair but I was too tired. I heard it was fun and a welcome change from the Sex Z-sponsored megaparty, which was, I heard from several attendees, a sausagefest with few porn stars and, worse, a techno version of “Sweet Home Alabama”.
Other Erotica L.A. ancillary events included The Babes and Aces poker tournament to benefit breast cancer research and a seminar on the Adult Sites Advocating Child Protection (ASACP) drive to self-label adult sites with a Restricted to Adults (RTA) tag.
Sasha Grey had the best outfit.
Reading ovver last year’s Erotica L.A. recap, it’s interesting to see how many companies and individuals are no more, adult industry-wise. Tristan Ryan? Black Widow Productions? Entice.tv? R.I.P. At least Teagan Presley, hunkered down in pregnancy with her second child, had Jesse Jane pick up her Best Ass award.
It is hard to think about Erotica L.A. without considering January’s AVN show. All convention centers look alike on the inside (though L.A.’s looks prettier than the Sands) and the booths companies use are stored, trucked, and reassembled depending on where the convention is located.
A visitor plunked down in the middle of either convention would be unable to tell one from the other in terms of the type of fans or the type of porn stars; only when he considered the scale, the stakes, and the surroundings would he be able to tell if he were in Vegas or L.A.
Erotica L.A. is certainly smaller than the January Vegas show, but as a harbinger of consumer contentment with the adult industry this show was a success. As I look through the pictures, though, I am amazed at the lack of skin.
If next month’s Mastery in Transformational Training convention has more boobies, I’ll be pissed.
See a full gallery here.
Previously: Erotica L.A. in review (2006)
See also: Erotica L.A., L.A. Convention Center
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