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.