Los Angeles [LAist]- And I’m not talking about the good kind of of bust. It all started on that fair day in April when I noticed the seductive billboard just west of Coldwater Canyon on Ventura blvd.

You know, right next to that sketchy Days Inn that’s so awkwardly placed in between the trendy Il Tramezzino and 24/7 Twain’s? Anyway, it advertised a vague yet intriguing event known as Erotica LA. Naturally I felt it to be a moral obligation to gain press entry to the event and share with my fellow LAists the wonderment of what I thought would be an epic porn convention a la Las Vegas’ AVN Awards, of sorts. But to tell you the truth? Don’t feel so left out.

Don’t get me wrong; wading through the throngs of exhibitors selling penis-shaped lollipops and light bondage material can always be amusing. However, I must admit the truth; my sense of entitlement that accompanied that press badge was probably where my main issue with the convention emerged. For any trade show open to the public, you’re bound to deal with those that have aptly been referred to as “gawkers”. Those that stop for 2 minutes in the middle of a quick-paced path to take a high res picture of Tera Patrick’s arm, for example. But that’s just me. I do recognize that it is a fantastic move to allow public access to shows such as these. I think it’s great that the F.A.M.E. Awards (Fans of Adult Media & Entertainment) are chosen exclusively by the fans, and I love the exposure it gives to those looking to enhance their bedroom activities. But what about me, the disenfranchised badge holder, that actually has has to write about something?

To sum up, going to Erotica LA felt like I was going to one big sex shop. Which, on the surface, I seriously can’t complain about; I mean who doesn’t want to be surrounded by sexy porn stars and enough toys to make FAO Schwartz look like a 7-11? But honestly, I felt like there could be more. Where were my bluetooth vibrators? My USB-powered dildos? My medieval bondage equipment that bordered on creepy torture devices? All I wanted was something to jump out at me, both figuratively, and quite possibly physically, just so I could make a solid photo essay for LAist. And to be honest, there wasn’t much worthy of taking a picture of.

Now I’m not one to complain about something without coming up with a solution. For starters, give the press more than a half-day on a Friday to scope out the scene. I probably missed a few noteworthy exhibitions and seminars due to the aforementioned gawkers and a simple lack of space used.

Also, if LA is trying to capitalize on the success of Vegas’ AVN’s, make more of an event out of it! Don’t occupy one room of the 140,000 square foot LA Convention Center and expect an epic spectacle. And finally, as I mentioned before, give me something to write about. We all know what a Rabbit is. We’ve all seen that mile-long line to get Jenna’s autograph at one point or another. Just give me something to, well, turn me on.