“Sex is like . . . a triple-layered . . . frosted cake . . . of danger.”

She punctuated it with the heavy-handed pauses of Captain Kirk, but without the smiling self-deprecation that keeps William Shatner from being truly awful. To give credit where credit is due, she did have a good voice. She spoke mellow and low, and if she hadn’t been trying so hard her poetry might have achieved some kind of comic sensuality.

“I want you . . . as badly as a diabetic child . . . at a birthday party . . . with no clowns.”

A friend of mine grabbed my elbow and squeezed it in affected agony. “This is just surreal?

Surreal. It was his word of the week. “This must be one of the circles of hell Dante accidentally left off the list.” He gestured at the bar with one languid white hand that poked out of a ruffled shirt straight off Robert Smith’s back. “Want another drink? I’ll buy, since you were darling enough to come and join us. Redeem us, even, from this steaming puddle of cat piss.” Redeem was last week’s word.

“Jamie, you’re a master of understatement. Of course I’ll get up there and make you look good. It is your show tonight, isn’t it? You’re the one who put it together this time?”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, scrutinizing a leggy brunette new to the group. He caught me catching him, and he returned his eyes to the stage, pretending his attention had never left it. Christ, I thought. He must be a Pisces.

Terry hadn’t even finished her first piece. “I think . . . I might have to take a bite out of you . . . before your attraction to me . . . grows stale.”

Pause. A couple of people clapped tentatively. She cut them off.

“Love is . . . a stale piece of leftover party cake . . . at the bottom of a black garbage bag on the floor . . . of the kitchen . . . . My father will take you to the curb . . . in the morning.”

She bowed and nearly toppled forward, but recovered before we had time to laugh. “Thank you. My next piece is dedicated to my lover, Trent, to whom I have given my entire body and soul. Ahem . . .”

Jamie dragged a hand down my shoulder and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer so we could speak without being overheard. “Poor Trent,” he purred. I’d had three glasses of wine, one over my usual limit, and I didn’t care enough to push him away even though I should have. He wasn’t repulsive, he was merely delusional, which could be forgiven. “We should get out of here after your set,” he went on. “Let’s go get something to eat, or something else to drink. What do you say?”