The club hangs in moody darkness, lit only by spotlights in the ceiling that give off muted glows, like dim stars in an otherwise lightless void. The décor is faux Greek, complete with Corinthian pillars and mock-marble statues. Adding a Baroque flavor, the wallpaper is flocked – it’s a bizarre collision of styles, yet it works.
Once, in one of my more analytical moments, I decided the pillars and statues must represent the men, all power and rectitude and authority. The wallpaper depicts the dancers; fake, decorative, gaudy, stuck on for nothing more than show. That’s how management see us, that’s how all owners of gentlemen’s clubs see us – as wallpaper, simply there for the stripping. I shared my analysis with Amber one night during a quiet moment, and she said I think too much. Maybe
