Advertising itself as "evocative theater for singles and couples of all persuasions," the Little Red Studio cultivates a 19th-century bordello atmosphere in a candlelit loft filled with lusty objets d'art. A bacchanal of erotic performance and audience participation, the Studio is a well-orchestrated French whorehouse nostalgia trip. It would be just my thing if not for all the other people--nervous couples and a few leering singles fidgeting through the space, making small talk and drinking their jitters away. By midnight, they would be flashing each other and asking for onstage spankings. And so, to my everlasting regret, would I.

Freewheeling sexual experimentation may be all the rage, but I'm afraid I can't relate. I am not one of those polyamorous wife-swappers with a color-coded collection of rubber instruments. No, I am a confirmed prude. So what was I doing in the Little Red Studio, nervously clutching my date's arm, being guided up dimly lit stairs by a lovely woman in a black slip? My critical duty, of course.

"And here is the upstairs room if you need some private time," said our guide. "You can close the curtains. The body painting is first, followed by some performance, poetry, dessert, and The Game...."

Two bookends:

The program began when a naked man and woman took the stage and Studio agents handed out bowls of paint and brushes. The crowd surged forward like the return of the repressed, paintbrushes aimed straight at the naughty bits.

The evening ended with a leather-clad woman handing cards to the crowd with suggestions for audience-participatory antics. Mine said, "Beg forgiveness." I called my shy date onstage and professed regret for bringing her among such a pack of hyper-sexed lustbags--and could I perform penance upstairs? The crowd cheered; we headed up, and found ourselves with the curtains closed and the sound and light men chatting amiably just outside.

Inspired by the night's atmosphere, I let my mojo do the talking. Against all expectations, I had been liberated! My date was not so easily seduced by the wine, candles, and overzealous public sexuality tinged with sleaze, but I (temporarily, disastrously) was. My inner satyr released, I found myself spouting '70s orgy absurdities like "just relax, baby" and "you'll get into it," but my date's discomfort had been pushed too far. Another couple poked their heads through the curtains and asked if we were "done with our act." The only thing left was to go home, dread tomorrow's headache, and hang my head in shame.

The Little Red Studio was a success in conjuring its libidinous atmosphere and sexually galvanizing a group of strangers. But for this unpracticed Lothario, the choreographed sexual awakening was a colossal disaster. Freedom is terrible, wrote Heidegger: Be liberated at your peril.

brendan@thestranger.com