The crowd is still absolutely silent, watching him, but the effect can be felt.  The air is practically thick with phermones, every eye in the place glued to the performance on stage.<br/><br/>Spike keeps up his writhing, feral movements, the painted beauty of his face no cover for the beast that's all too apparent as his hands scratch and claw at the velvet, opening slits through which his skin can be seen.  As he all but humps his hand.<br/><br/>"Well I guess what they say is true<br/>I could never spend my life with a man like you<br/><br/>I could never be your woman<br/>I could never be your woman<br/>I could never be your woman<br/>I could never be your woman.."<br/><br/><br/>And as the music trails away, as he rips the velvet from him, leaving only the thigh-high boots, a quick almost flash of his jewels before his hands move to cover and he turns to strut away, his magnificent ass framed by the black leather of the boots.<br/><br/>The spotlight disappears, and the audience explodes.  Money is thrown on the stage and a slender boy moves out to pick it up, ostensibly to carry it to Spike, and picks up the discarded bits of his clothing as well.  The joygirls and joyboys are waiting, weaving through the crowd, and it's almost like throwing bits of meat into the lion's cage.