Sext Mad

‘My, my, my,’ chuckles the large salesman as he rings through my selections at the Museum of Sex on New York’s Fifth Avenue. He resembles Rerun from the 1970s sitcom What’s Happening?, though without the red tam and suspenders. Pausing to look me in the eye, the clerk smiles with what I imagine is respect tinged with surprise. I grin back shamelessly, but find his demeanour unprofessional, especially given the pro-sex-there-are-more-than-two-genders exhibitions featured upstairs. The best installation was about the history of filmed pornography from the turn of the century on. The awkward roadside scenes from the gritty 1930s were my favourite; everything went downhill after that. While I am willing to paste below some potentially disturbing photos taken inside the museum, I am not going to reveal what I purchased from its rather fabulous shop. For the first time, I am withholding sordid details about my lust-filled body. Perhaps you are relieved? Perhaps not.