The ghost of Eroticon past

Garter belts, naked butts and G-strings, oiled abs, flesh and flesh and flesh lubricated by sweat, undulating, touching, pressed together to music and separated only slightly by silk, leather, velvet and lace. Psyches lubricated by alcohol. Social mores broken by desire. Kissing, fondling, grinding hips and long fingernails, long legs and long hair.\nEroticon wasn't freaky enough. \nIt was the pale ghost of Eroticon past.\nI remember when the Eroticon was wet and scary. It was spectacular and frenzied. People with extra holes in their bodies outnumbered people without. People in plain clothes looked weird. People covered in tattoos used to look average at the Eroticon. I remember when people in their underwear looked as if they couldn't come up with a better costume idea. People in rubber suits, corsets and body stockings used to be the norm rather than the standouts.\nThis year's Eroticon, the fifth annual, wasn't like that. It like the spectacle had become shy all of a sudden. It didn't have the thunder, the sex power, the stamina. \nThe steamiest annual act in town was running low on steam. Gone are the days of the public bondage area, the whips and chains vendors, the professional girls leading slaves around on chains. There were plenty of eager people, but there weren't enough paddlers, enough grovellers. There weren't enough dominatrices and naughty people needing punishment. \nThe Eroticon wasn't slurpy enough. It wasn't gooey enough. It didn't have the texture of the Eroticons of old. In the second and third Eroticons, nearly naked nymphettes were served up covered in chocolate sauce and fruit slices. Now, in their stead, waiters and waitresses carried trays of fruit and bowls of chocolate sauce. There wasn't enough candle wax, liquid latex or honey dust. Most of the spanking and begging was done behind black plastic curtains in one corner of the bar.\nThere wasn't enough pain. No one was hanging from flesh hooks. No one was pierced in the middle of the bar. The spankings didn't have the same snap. \nMost of the skits were a little too corny, a little too fun. On the stage where women and men were once raptured and punished, there were instead blow-up doll fights and a cheesy "shootout" with rubber band guns. It was hard to stay captivated. There wasn't enough spectacle.\nIf Eroticon itself wasn't erotic enough, the people were. The staff, the crowd, all the people in black; everyone wore their desires on their sleeves … or their naked arms. There were enough devils and angels and thigh-highs and dancers and minglers and drunken hook-ups to make the night a success. A lot of people got what they wanted while they wiggled hip to hip on the dance floor. A lot of people made contact. Men kissed and women kissed. Men and women kissed. Costumed creatures slid fingers across each other, slid tongues across each other.\nA lot of Eroticon newcomers had a good time. Many of them looked a little uncomfortable in their risque attire, until the fourth or fifth drink of the night. Then they let loose on each other. They smiled while they touched, they left together at the end of the night. The energy of pent desire threw a little gasoline into the campfire.\nBut the Eroticon used to be a bonfire. A sex monster with steaming nostrils that could put a welt on anyone's butt. It used to be completely unbridled, a place where not only was everything allowed, but carried out. \nBut, this year, the Eroticon just wasn't enough.