I have two problems with the name “Erotic Museum”: this pace is neither a museum nor especially erotic. You’re paying to see the collections of the owners of the space, who apparently make buying decisions based solely on whether or not the object featured visible genitalia without considering whether or not the object is, say, actually from the time or location the seller claimed for it. Thus, the first couple of floors (there are seven levels) are filled with fake pre-Columbia terracottas of dudes with erections, fake African carvings of dudes with erections, fake Indian miniatures of dudes with erections, etc. Yep, this is what my art historical training has equipped me for: detecting fake dicks.
The most worthwhile collection is a series of photographs and other documentation covering early to mid 20th century French brothels, but again this falls short of actual eroticism, since the snapshots of prostitutes left me thinking “you risked syphilis for THAT?”
There are two special exhibitions, which when I visited were a mixed bag (one was good, with funny cartoons of erotic Tarzan and Jane; the other was paintings of wolves with knives doing very very disturbing things to women).
