—the audience, just as if on quiet cue, starts trickling away in twos and threes, vanishing in a stream that is steady the stairs.
Pumps are kicked down. Zippers are unzipped. Sexy Ebola Nurse costumes are discarded in yellowish and white heaps. Thongs, boxers, and lacy bras are fallen midstream, resulting in beds like bread-crumb tracks. In an instant, the vibe has switched from Williamsburg-hipster-bar to director’s-cut-of-Caligula. The orgy is under means.