DAY 89: Giving my libido a right flogging

MY wholesome task is rained off today, so I’m forced to go undercover and explore Melbourne’s seamy underbelly, where women wear open-toed PVC heels whatever the weather, and men wear roomy pants.

First stop, Sexpo: a peculiarly unarousing emporium of bare buttocks, sparkly lubes, spankings, floggings, sour-faced porn stars, strip lights and novelty penis paraphernalia — not so much Melbourne’s underbelly as its flaccid cock.

Held at the MCEC, it’s right next door to a lifestyle expo for retirees, who won’t want to be getting their show bags muddled up. Or maybe they will. “Pink or purple vibrator?” I’m asked on arrival.

Being the day of rest, there’s not much sauciness going on, other than a trapeze act and Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee (best known for gazumping Sandra Bullock), who’s manning a stand with no takers. Off in one corner is The Gerbil — a ghost train converted into a rolling rompercoaster of knockers, but I’m sidetracked by getting my photo taken with a giant penis, which I can’t bring myself to publish.

I have to leave when some pervert cranks up the public tannoy. Why is it the Sex Crazed insist on putting on such revolting ‘naughty’ voices?

Next up is a strip club on King Street, as it seems I’m the only person in the world who hasn’t experienced over-priced drinks and buttocks set to vibrate, despite having grown up listening to the teachings of Vince Neil. I take along Nicole and Layna, and the strippers love us. No really — they love us for who we are. Each dancer that joins us seems hugely relieved that I’ve been to Sexpo, as she gets a conversation starter of how tacky it is and how she never goes anymore — and I get to say I had my photo taken with a giant cock. Blam, everyone’s happy.

The action on the pole’s less acrobatic than I expected. The first girl does some languid, slo-mo undulations that I could easily pull off, given a gram of ketamine, while the next chick, by contrast, looks like she’s going to fly off at great speed to a dance rendition of ‘Run to Paradise’ — not ideal when you’re a couple of months pregnant. The third strips off completely and straddles some dude’s face which, quite frankly, my mum could do.

I don’t know what the men are thinking in these circumstances, but I can tell you definitively that the girls in the audience are weighing up their own qualifications. There’s a hierarchy of talent here, and I reckon I could awkwardly gyrate my way in on a lower-lower-middle rung, as do Nic and Layna — or Lulu and Mercedes, as they’d now like to be known.

By the time Roxanne has come over to spin us some bullshit yarn about how she had a lap dance from a gorgeous girl one night and — whaddayaknow — she signed up to be a stripper the next day, we’re all sparkly eyed thinking about being long-limbed lolitas (give or take a couple of decades), like little girls fantasizing about being princesses.

Keeper? Yep — discussing the costumes was a pleasing way to accompany a drink.