I don’t know how the internationally notorious Exotic Erotic Ball in San Francisco, “the world’s #1 wildest and sexiest party” according to E! Entertainment TV, slipped our social list for the last 29 years, but it did. So when EEB founder Perry Mann, Producer Howard Mauskopf and PR dynamo Chris Buttner offered me a free booth, VIP treatment and unlimited free tickets for my entourage to participate in EEB’s big 30th Anniversary Blowout, well, let’s just say it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Since the good folks at the Ball didn’t offer to pay for a tricked out pumpkin or First Class air fare for every member of my beloved Bonobo Gang, we decided to transport ourselves in the most economical, wild, crazy and trailer-trashy mode available: Motorhome! We rented a reasonably luxurious Cruise America home on wheels, filled it up with food, feather boas, vibrators, books, whips, DVDs and Agwa Cocoa Leaf Liqueur, and got on our way.

We were a diverse family of sexpots, adventurers and voyagers: Sister Mel, excited to see the Cow Palace of her childhood memories transformed into a barnyard of human exhibitionism, organized the trip with the EEB. Brother Michael, the Institute’s new business developer, music promoter and fellow Yalie (SOM 1995), brought in the Cruiser to pick up the rest of us, including Bloggamy web developer and Speakeasy lounge pianist Nori, Speakeasy photographer/ladies man Alex Filangieri and the beautiful, whimsical Sparkle Sparkle Bang Bang (RadioSUZY1 regular, go-go girl and aspiring DJ). Plus, of course, our own Prince Max, recently freed political prisoner, quadruple bypass survivor and loving husband. We stopped in the Valley to pick up retired architect and Institute patron Jack S, practically backing the Motorhome into his neighbor’s house. Next stop: Camarillo where we retrieved porn star couple Natasha Skinski and Tommy Lei and a ton of BDSM gear, including a leather horse; we were going to the Cow Palace, so of course, we needed a horse.

We bounced along like Mexican jumping beans through the great state of California all night. You really get a feel for the road in these American Cruisers, especially when you’re lying down in the caboose bed going over a bump; a lightweight like me just narrowly missed hitting the ceiling several times. We consumed gallons of coffee and fast food, got lost and almost wound up in Santa Cruz, until finally pulling into the legendary Cow Palace around noon. Day One poked along kind of slowly, maybe because it wasn’t actually the Exotic Erotic BALL, more like a porn and sex toy convention being held in a humongous New Age barn. We set up our booth and sold a few copies of “The 10 Commandments of Pleasure,” Eros Day X: Orgy for Obama and Squirt Salon, running into old friends like the lovely Sinnamon Love (one of our Three Graces in Eros Day), our old porn director buddy Roy Karch and the swinging nuns and bawdy bishops from Kasidie. Then I gave a talk on Sperm Wars for a crowd of cowboy and girl voyeurs, as Natasha and Tommy whipped each other in syncopated rhythm to my speech.

Shay Lynn, Asia & the Paparazzi Monster

Saturday was more crowded and more fun; less convention-ish and more bacchanalian. I sat on Natasha’s leather horse in front of my booth, the better to meet and greet the hoi polloi, when who should scamper up to me, cute as a cheerleader in naughty Catholic school garb, but sweet Shay Lynn whom I hadn’t seen since she reigned as our divinely nude Venus, Goddess of Love and Mother of Eros, in our 2007 Eros Day Operatic Orgy. As soon as Shay Lynn sat down next to me, the small gaggle of photographers around my booth turned into a paparazzi monster, part-human/part insect with dozens of arms, legs, penises, tongues and flashing, blinking eyes. Lady Gaga would have been impressed.

This is a total non-sequitur, but whenever I hear Lady Gaga sing that song, I feel like she’s crooning about her Electra Complex. Maybe I’ve just got a dirty mind, but the way she emphasizes the “Papa” in “Paparazzi” just makes me think she’s going off on her Daddy Fetish and her love/hate relationship with these tabloid photographers, her Papa/Voyeurs.

Back to the ball. Striding through the clicking crowd like a knight returning from his quest, Michael brought me Asia, an exquisitely formed, petite nymphette wearing nothing but a splash or two of silver glitter and matching skyscraper heels. Now flanked by the two most beautiful women in the Cow Palace, the paparazzi monster in front of my little booth grew to immense proportions, threatening to swallow up us three preening exhibitionists in its gaping, flashing maw.

Suddenly, it was time for another Sperm Wars talk. I grabbed Shay Lynn and escorted her over to the stage as I whispered into her delectable ear that I wanted her to “act out” the amazing story of sex that the Sperm Wars theory of evolutionary biology reveals. Sweet Shay Lynn performed her dramatic part superbly, stripping and using her ultra-toned, nude, athletic body to play out the football-like battle of the sperm teams for the precious egg which she represented by sitting on a chair facing the audience, enticing them into her game, then lifting and outstretching her glorious gams into erotic goal posts. The crowd gathered as close as they could, fenced several feet away from the stage. Score!

I didn’t realize you could go stark naked at the EEB, but I wasn’t about to complain. Things got even wilder as the ball itself bounced into action with a reveling parade of over 10,000 sexual seekers, nudists popping up occasionally among all the sexy costumes, silly outfits and erotic personae. Of course, most of the naked bodies paled to a knock-out like Shay Lynn, though it was still fun to see your average Bay Area suburban couples on a slightly kinky adventure. The Spirit of Commedia Erotica was alive and well in the Felliniesque pageant of exhibitionists of every style, gender, race and creed; from Raincoat Flashers to Porn Superstars.

The important factor in huge sprawling events like this is access. You need the right bracelets to get into the more exclusive spaces where, theoretically, you get more goodies, hook up with hotter people and enhance your already swelled self-esteem. The purple vendor bracelets we received when registering were pretty low on the access totem pole. But before nightfall, I had wrangled so many different kinds of bracelets – VIP access, Backstage Performer’s Access and the all-powerful ALL-Access Bracelet – that my right arm was a rainbow of license to penetrate any level of security I might encounter.

Perry the Mann of Balls

Our heated pursuit of colored, paper bracelets brought us smack dab into the inner sanctum of none other than the EEB founder himself, the Man of Balls: Perry Mann. With a festival of access on my right arm and smoking hot Asia on my left, I had no trouble breaking through the Mann’s imposing phalanx of security. It also didn’t hurt that some of the guys – including the Mann himself – are fans of The Dr. Susan Block Show on BTV and San Fran cable (thank Goddess the Bay Area is pro-Free Speech enough to continue public access, even if LA and Time Warner unceremoniously killed it). Perry greeted us like homies, and then attempted to devour Asia like a plate of juicy sushi along with me as the ginger on the side.

On the Big Stage with the Sea Snakes

But we had a show to do in the central Cow Palace arena, in front of thousands of cowboys, cowgirls and just plain cows looking for a good exotic erotic time. Our longtime pal Mistress Genevieve (star of Dommes and Hollie) had called that morning, and in her usual dominatrixy manner, commanded us to join her onstage for the Impotent Sea Snakes concert at the Ball’s Grand Finale. So we flashed our bracelets and our smiles, wiggling our way into the Sea Snakes green room where we hung out with the band – muscular male musicians decked out in corsets, garters, lace panties and stockings – along with their groupies, masochistic aerialists getting hooks surgically inserted into their backs (which would later fly them through the air with giant dildos hanging out of their pants; don’t ask me how they do this without ripping their skin off and falling to the ground, big dongs and all, but they do) plus Grammy-winning rapper Coolio. Then we all piled onto the big stage in front of the cheering crowd. Ms. Gen, Natasha, Tommy, Michael, Asia and I danced, whipped each other and engaged in wild strap-on dildo play and other simulated sex in between the gymnasts, masochistic-dildonic aerialists, jugglers, flag-burners, trapeze artists, fire-eaters and stilt-walkers, as the band played on.

It was delirious, exhibitionist fun for all of us. And the crowd seemed to enjoy it too (whenever I squinted out at them, all I could see were big smiles as if someone was holding a Magic Wand to their genitalia). Asia really stole the show, plucked from obscurity (she works at Jiffy Lube, no pun intended) to sparkle on the big stage as a true star of stars, even if just for a few moments, as Ms. Gen, Natasha, Tommy and I performed all sorts of good-natured perversions upon her willing, shimmering body.

Attacked by a Flying Dick

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Is it ever? Suddenly, out of what seemed like nowhere, as I was blithely dancing in front of a giant flashing KISS sign, one of the masochistic-dildonic aerialists, hanging by those hooks in his back, swooped down upon me, his big rubber penis waving like the trunk of a flying elephant, pushing me into the KISS sign and knocking it down behind me. It all happened in this kind of slow but relentless motion, so I wasn’t hurt, but the sign broke at the K, resulting in ISS, and the poor guy couldn’t stop apologizing while dangling from the wire like a well-hung anchovy on a huge fishing hook. And yes, you could say I was swept off my feet by a giant flying dick.

Simulated sex of all kinds – from body painting to shameless, public Real Touch humping – abounded at the EEB. Nothing wrong with that, but it was good to come back to the hotel room for the real thing with my Prince. Nothing like a few good, old-fashioned, marital orgasms after a wild night of flying dicks and Asia.

Woodstock Reunion & Climbing the Golden Gate Bridge

The next morning, our Motorhome turned into the Magic Bus and off we went to Golden Gate Park for the “West Fest” 40th Anniversary of Woodstock. It was an outdoor rave for old hippies, but 21-year-old Sparkle had the best time and threatened to stay when it was time for us to go. I might have stayed too if I was 21, but I had to go home and face the music of the move.

We took one more special San Francisco moment before returning to our So Cali destinies, snapping photos of each other on a windy hill across from the most beautiful bridge in the world.

Everyone loves the GGB, but I have a special feeling for it since I climbed to the top about a dozen times when I was just a bit older than Sparkle, with a group of mostly guys called The Suicide Club (shout-out to Jayson Wechter and John Law) which morphed into the Cacophony Society that spawned Burning Man, plus my brother Steve Block who once raced up to the top in less than 45 minutes. Check out then and now photos of the Golden Gate Bridge towards the end of the free gallery below, as well as the fabulous, uncensored Exotic Erotic Ball galleries when you Join the Bloggamy.