In the interest of research into what’s been floating the various boats all these years (and in the interest of imagining Aunt Cathy’s face when she reads this and realizes she passed this place up for Gaudí) I decided today to visit the Erotic Museum.
This post will not be suitable for moms. It will also be in reasonably poor taste if any of the pictures came out, but I will try to make up for it and show my education by using my very best multisyllabic words. Interjection: Ha! I came into this restaurant next door for lunch and to write stuff before I forget it, and they’re playing “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” which is striking me as very hilarious. The flowers are not next door, Peter. (And Paul… and Mary.) But thank you for asking.
So the museum visit got off to a solid start with what I assume is a misspelled Bill Cosby quote- which, under the circumstances, they should really rethink- on a poster that led up the stairs toward my ticket and a complimentary glass of champagne. Since I’d lounged all morning, bypassing breakfast for blog posts and books, I was rather tipsy almost immediately and giggling at the tidbits of erotic history, which were carefully typeset into adjacent sixes and nines. My gut says this was not an accident.
I learned a LOT. Like, a lot a lot. I will be rethinking my pre-Columbian and Japanese history units for sure. (Correction: I will not be rethinking those at all, but I will definitely now be aware of all the insidious undercurrents. Did Mr. Hickey know about Rasputin’s reputed magnitude when he told us all those stories in 7th grade? Was Catherine the Great really a literal equine lover? Why was the little cartoon penis in one of the first black and white animated pornographic films detached and frolicking happily down a beach? These are questions for a true historian.)
Also, nobody ever told me that Pompeii was essentially a giant, imaginative brothel with very explicit instructions inscribed in ancient graffiti. And that snuff is interesting, yo.
So I finished my champagne and wandered sort of open-mouthed through the various exhibits, which include a royal erotic film gallery, a phallus/Betty Boop garden, and a world record section (where I had to pull out my handy “go someplace foreign” app and do some thoughtful metric conversions).
The best, though, was when I got to the gift shop portion (inevitable and ubiquitous museum exit station… this aside is when I get to use my big words, see?) and the lady- who spoke only broken English but clearly recognized me as an American, probably from my solidly Puritan heritage- told me to try out any of the toys, and right there in the shop no less! I laughed at the lack of clarity but to be gracious, turned something on. Then BOOM! That very instant, every light in the place went out and we were left in almost complete darkness, the only sound an embarrassing and erotic vibration coming from my hand.
I am still laughing. Still. I am still laughing even though it’s like an hour later and Michael Bolton is on the hi-fi and it’s not even that nice a day out.
Because that- history, hilarity, and the mildly inappropriate- that is what floats my boat.