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The stage was raised and six-sided, black, shiny, broad, two mirrored columns at opposite ends. On it, four chrome poles formed a square two meters to a side; three rings of fold-up seats surrounded it; a neon-lit bar sat to one side of it. The room was lit with pulsing lights and glowing smoke; speakers pumped harsh dance hits; an open door lead to a small stale lobby with a table, a money-box, and a pimp.

We came in and sat down, hiding behind the others. Around us were a dozen tourists; some whites, an Indian, a handful of East Asians. We were sitting next to a well-dressed man, may be French; next to him was a small group of frat types, and a rotund couple that looked fresh out of the Midwest. To our other side were two old fat white-haired men, an Indian and may be a Texan; next to them were two girls and one guy in their early tweens. Everyone stared with saucer-eyed, strained attention.

The Thai woman on the stage was nude and birthing four of five ping-pong balls into a glass cup. We’d clearly walked in on the title act. She was stiff and glassy-eyed, probably a hundred miles away. She bent down with a red cloth and cleaned up, then stepped down with her cup.

The next dancer was already waiting, clad in a black thong and top. Her face was hard and creased; she might have been 35 or 40. She stepped up and started to “dance,” shuffling her feet, swaying a little left and a little right, alternately walking the stage and limply holding a pole. After ten minutes she stopped, dropped her thong, and put her fingers to her vagina. From it she laboriously pulled two meters of linked razors, glinting to the beat. She took the lead blade in her hand and showed us a sheet of paper, which she calmly sliced to shreds.

A plump dancer took the stage, a brace around her right ankle. A thin scar snaked around her stomach. She winced as she shuffled from foot to foot, carefully, painstakingly. She eventually produced five meters of white cloth; she limped around the stage, pulling the cloth around the poles, creating a cloth arena around herself. She rhythmically yanked the cloth back and forth before gathering it up and stepping down.

We stayed perhaps two hours. The dancers got older, younger, one unexpectedly spunky, most dead to the world. Bananas launched in the air, birthday cakes and snuffed candles, mysteriously smoked cigarettes, clear water turned miraculously to brown coke.

For the finale, a man and a woman had sex. The man alternated between thrusting and moving the woman around the stage, so the whole audience could see. And my friend and I, we looked to each other.

There come times when retinas peel and emotions detach, times when we must act because sadder worlds threaten our own. To that end, we stood and left.