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On my tropical vacation last week, I’d somehow stumbled upon this adults-only amusement park called “Erotica Land.” It wasn’t advertised on any mainstream tourist sites, more like a whispered legend passed between hostel-dwellers. Intrigued, and admittedly a little bored, I found myself walking through its surprisingly tasteful, yet undeniably suggestive, gates.
The park was a kaleidoscope of risqué rides and themed attractions, but one particular monstrosity dominated the skyline: a colossal, undeniably phallic structure that twisted skyward. A neon sign at its base pulsed with a name that made me snort-laugh: “The Cocktival.” I couldn’t resist. As I got into the line, a theme park employee, looking suspiciously like a retired burlesque dancer, handed me two items. “For the cream, sweetie,” she purred, pressing a sealed condom and a pair of industrial-strength swim goggles into my palm. My eyebrows shot up. This was going to be an experience.
