Sitting at the stage (where you sit if you're making it rain), was an older couple, maybe 45 years old. A man, with, I will say it, a fairly unattractive wife. There they sat, his hand in her lap, while before him elegant young women revealed to the world their inner demons. He stared while she put money on the counter for him, and they were spending a lot of money. The truth was cold: they were doing this so that later on they'd be able to have sex again. I think it was a middle-class nightmare.
Chrysalis: One particularly dirty girl, who wasn't even wearing panties when she took the stage, sat doggy-style with her ass and V in his face, her ankles resting on his shoulders. As his wife proceeded to tip her dollar by dollar, the dancer proceeded to spread herself wider and wider, pulling one cheek further and further from the other. The man stared in and sort of nodded his head with every labial inch revealed, until he was staring not just AT her but IN her. Where I was sitting, I had the unfortunate angle of seeing the whole thing myself. I realized that he was paying to look deeper, not into her but into the vast black chasm of his own soul, the dark and psychological interior abyss that confronts every human in its own unique way. His wife was having the same experience, as she looked at her husband's hypnotic nodding and saw her marriage decayed. If you followed that gaze from her eyes to his, and from his eyes through the innards of that dancer to the dancer's eyes as she looked back to the pole at the center of the stage and the lit doorway to the dressing room beyond, you would realize that the same depraved sentiment was shared by all: no matter how deep into the psychological rabbit hole we go, we will always be looking into the mirror.
