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A round carnival tent sprouts oddly out of the Miami Beach sand. Hidden behind a tall fence (the kind that doesn’t let you see in, and consequently makes you want to see in really badly), the tent emits a yellow glow and the chime of group laughter. Outside a bar sunk into the sand pours drinks for the 10 p.m. crowd, including absinthe served martini style with rock sugar.

At the fence entrance two beefy bouncers in black do no bouncing at all and a woman in a flesh colored leotard adorned with green tubes of light greets arrivals cooing “Hello, pretty lady.” A few of Miami’s ubiquitous cabanas inside the fence are empty except for flickering candles. So, this is what a R-rated European-style burlesque show carnival in South Beach looks like, I muse.

Absinthe, the traveling retro-raunch show at Spiegelworld, is indeed a circus of sorts, but instead of pooping elephants and clowns in suspenders, this glowing stage is patrolled by a motley cast of contortionists, strippers, strong men and off-color comics. A night in the mirrored tent named Salon Perdu (the lost living room) is like stepping back into 1920s Germany. If it weren’t for the Portishead soundtrack and all the designer jeans, you’d swear you’d walked into a speakeasy or a cabaret of ill repute.

But Absinthe is also undeniably modern. It’s Cirque du Soleil without the family friendly attitude and million-dollar, moving set. There’s no opera singer, just a striking blond dressed in a tuxedo singing on top of a piano, and no clowns either, just an orphan Annie look-a-like with a trucker mouth and a sleazy comedian with a mustache that reminds me of Steve Buscemi. The show is modern in that it’s old school entertainment for adults only. No eight year olds staying up past bedtime here. Thank god.

A young woman fills the spotlight. Her body twists around a metal cylinder bolted to the tiny stage. It’s half jungle gym, half stripper pole, and as she slides between and wraps around its bars, our performer blurs the line between acrobat, ballerina and erotic dancer. Although she keeps all her clothes on, the sexual tension hangs heavy in the air. It is totally enthralling, and I didn’t need to bring a wad of $1 bills.

The rest of the show in Salon Perdu, the art deco carnival tent called a spiegeltent, follows in much the same vein. A mish mash cast of carneys set up under the lights, mocking, performing and letting their freak flags fly high enough to blot out the sun. (If the sun were visible. It’s night and we’re in a tent, so there is no sun, but you get the idea.)

A blond stripper sheds clothing inside a giant balloon. A family in sequined pants does elaborate tricks on the strength of the father’s legs Flexible women contort themselves above the audiences’ seats, legs splayed and heads cocked back invitingly.

“Lean back. You don’t want to get kicked,” warns the Busemi-as-pimp emcee before one of the evening’s flexi-girls takes to a trapeze.

He’s the Gazillionaire, and while the flying ladies in retro costumes and the requisite strong man are certainly entertaining, we’ve seen this all before and under better lighting. It’s really this greasy comedian that steals the show and steers Absinthe right where it belongs: on the dark, steamy, slimy side of the circus arts.

“Now we’ll play guess the Jew,” the Gazillionaire deadpans to a politically correct silence. “Lots of spandex and crotch shots.” A slow laugh spreads through the tent. “Yes, let it sink in: circumcision,” he teases.

More than a dance show, a circus, or a carnival Spiegelworld’s purpose is to shove us face to face with our guilty pleasures. Hot women. Muscled men. Dirty martinis and filthy jokes all within arms’ reach intimacy. If it sometimes feels a little to close – and it does, just ask the guy in the second row who got an unexpected nipple lick from the Gazillionaire – it’s worth it for this un-sanitized, uncensored evening under the big top. This show isn’t for the prude or proper. Now go out and see it.

Absinthe at Spiegelworld, Collins Park, 21st Street and Collins Ave., Miami Beach. 305-358-5885. www.Spiegelworld.com. Through February 17th, every day but Monday.