by J.D. Oxblood
August 18, 2011
Sideshows by the Seashore Coney Island
Storms rage through Brooklyn, snarling traffic and spinning carousers indoors on a breezy August night. Audience and performers alike show up late, wait in line, swig Coney Island-brand beers from bottles almost, but not quite, large enough to be called “40s.” The unwashed tourists are pouring out of Coney, the randy fans of Tigger pouring in. This isn’t just a chance to see a half-dozen boys take their clothes off and cavort, this is a pilgrimage. Tigger’s legacy is almost as well known as his own skills as a performer, giving a name and twisting the form of a man stripping in a woman’s world, all of which is inevitably informed by his personality, his Veuve, and, yeah, probably his sexuality. Because what are we talking about if we’re not talking about sex? Tonight is about cutting lose and hollering, because after this, the fifth installment of Tigger’s boy-fest, Man: A Tease, he and his boy are going straight—er, I mean, directly—to Fire Island to tie the knot, LEGALLY, ten years after coupling in every other legitimate sense.
Rockit is working the gogo and we settle into hard, wooden benches and try to forget about bedbugs. Or fucking reality, for that matter—this is a bachelor party, after all.
Enter our hero. Newscap, vinyl trench coat, Wellingtons, dragging a big suitcase. Strips out of everything lickety-split, hiding his Johnson with his hat, but giving us just enough of a glimpse to notice the cock ring encircling his twig and berries. He slips into a classic white lace wedding dress, complete with veil, and begins to unwrap a present, which is, of course, a big, fat dildo. He reaches under the dress, removes his cock ring, and places it on the dildo, and fellates it quickly and—gulp—deeply. Turning to bend upstage, he flips up the dress revealing the words “I do” written on his glutes, and takes the dildo forthwith and begins to insert it into his rectum—quickly turning back towards us.
I don’t know why they banned it in Rome, I mean, it wasn’t graphic or anything. It was only on the tip of his tongue, so to speak. But the act was banned. His Father McTigger act, wherein he molests an altar boy—oh, that was cool. But marrying a dildo? NOT in the shadow of the Vatican. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, it was a show in Rome in early August, “The New New York,” featuring Penny Arcade and happening at—no joke—the “Gay Village.” Says the producers, ix-naying Tigger’s dildo act, “We need this to be a safe place for straight people.” But straight people already have a safe place, says Tigger—the rest of the world. And this is why I’m here. Sure, the guy seated next to me who keeps launching into out-and-out GIGGLE paroxysms every time he sees a penis—which is a lot. It’s frickin’ ManATease—I think he came to see nekkid* boys. I came to sit and BE with Tigger. Because this is diva-goodness, just sittin’ and listenin’ to him spin his tales, banned in Rome, “inventing” boylesque—purely self-deprecating, as in what he “thought” he was inventing since he didn’t do his research or homework. Man, it’s nice to hear a legend admit to a time of ignorance. This is like having a night with Laurie Anderson, hearing stories, being entertained, and really not sure what’s coming next except that I’m happy to sit and listen. He’s pulling off a bottle of tequila, and I not only want some but my shaman would recommend it—that go-juice has some serious juju, being passed to Tigger’s man and handed around the stage.
But Tigger also brought toys. Enter GoGo Harder, the boy most likely to shake the New York boylesque scene to its sock garters, working his “Hot for Teacher” number—which is different every time I see it. You get the drift—schoolboy fetish, propeller hat, stripping to the Richard Cheese cover of the Van Halen classic. Tonight he’s adding a great bit where his glasses fog up, finding a sock hidden in his jock, and giving us the full Monty.
Tigger re-enters wearing a blue Tiffany bag on his ding ding. Read that again. He gives some love to all of us who try to dress as if people are looking—which they are—and not wearing Abercrombie and Fitch and “dressing like the guys who used to beat you up.” Gawd, I love this man. He then disses on “boylesquers” who refuse to undress. This gets into the whole history of how he started stripping in a woman’s world, and swore that he would work as hard as them—which means, get as naked as them, which means effin’ G-strings. I got a twinge of nostalgia just thinking about it—the first time I saw Tigger was at the VaVaVoom Room at Show World, hosted by Miss Astrid—circa 2000. And let’s not forget he was coming up with Dirty Martini and Julie Atlas Muz—who was doing an all-nude “performance art” piece at Dixon Place. Hard to believe that was so long ago.
Waxie Moon, making an NYC debut, brought the Isadora Duncan act we saw in Vegas—all yellow flowing robe and balletic moves, which criss-crossed the Vegas stage in gossamer beauty. The act was even more impressive on the small Coney stage, where we could see his facial expressions, beatific gaze, shuddering lashes, and truly feminine gestures—not fey or mock-fem, but actually feminine without being arch, which takes serious physical skill.
Later in the show, Waxie came back from the butch side of the iconic, wearing a denim vest and jeans, motorcycle boots and dark shades, his hands cuffed behind his back. Queen’s “We Will Rock You” accompanied him as he lay down, worked his hands under his legs, and stood up with his arms in front, popping the snaps of his vest in rhythm. He slowly undid his belt, dropped his jeans, and stood in a jock strap as Freddy yowled “I paid my dues,” and Waxie stepped over his cuffs to get out of his vest. He reaches into his jock and gets the cuff key, freeing himself to rip his wife beater off his body. But it’s only the beginning of a six-song Queen melody, so he puts himself back into the cuffs and drops the key from his teeth back into his jock.
Mat “Sealboy” Fraser performed his legendary act of dancing onto the stage in a suit sporting prosthetic arms. He dances out of his pants—whoa. When that dude hangs around he really HANGS around—and flips an arm behind his head, squinting, and pulls it off. He unbuttons his shirt, licks his shoulders, and sports a stellar Iggy Pop snarl. He eats his hand and goes into the helicopter, the crowd absolutely roaring. According to Wikipedia—not that I’d believe it, but also backed up by other more reliable sources—Fraser’s phocomelia was the result of his mother’s being prescribed thalidomide, and I wonder if he’s ever used the moniker, “The Thalidomide Kid.” It’s got a nice ring to it. Tigger said, “The lord taketh, and the lord giveth,” an obs dick ref, but one of the few women in the house, Melody Mudd, paid Mat a much higher compliment. “He looks JUST like Brad Pitt.” Really? See for yourself—open this great article in another window, and compare it to this stock image of Brad.
“We were in the sleaziest nastiest sex pit we could find. If you want to find a soulmate, do what you love.” Tigger began Act II by telling us how he met his match, and the story was so dirty and heartwarming we shed a collective tear. I go for a story that doesn’t pull punches—straight people never want to tell you how they first FUCKED, you just get a bunch of namby-pamby bullshit. Which reminds me of how politics taps into the “ick factor” of otherwise-reasonable Midwesterners who just don’t know any gay people, and how not knowing—and resulting fear—fucks up everything.
Like that dickweed blogger who got all “homophobic” on the Economist for printing a pic of Tigs and his partner at gay pride? Because Tigger was wearing a codpiece, which doesn’t make him GAY so much as it makes him an exhibitionist—come on, being an artist is every bit as intricately intertwined into your identity as your sexuality. Anyway, it inspired my piece on how the homosexual community should flip the straight world just by asking, “Which one of you gets on top?”
But Tigger puts it better than anyone: “I don’t give a flying fuck what your sexual preference is… Is your preference SEXUAL?” Ok, we’re on the same page.
Which brings us to my favorite of the eve, Dew Lily, making his New York debut. Um, I’m pretty sure this guy is a bona fide model. We’re all accustomed to sizing up potential sexual partners, either consciously or sub, but it’s weird trying to size up your own getting-est potential with the same sex when it’s not your precedent. When I look at some of the boys of burlesque, I think, if I were gay, I’d totally bang THAT kind of boy—he’s about my size, he’s better looking than I am, but that’s mostly coz he’s younger, and I could totally get him into bed through charm, money, or worldly tolerance. Or sheer drunken braggadocio. But when I look at Dew Lily, I think, OUT OF MY FUCKING LEAGUE. Tall, thin, androgynously gorgeous, with a body made for strutting clothes down a runway.
He enters as a librarian, in chinos, a blue mock turtleneck, hiding his face behind a book. He sits, reading, and slowly lowers the book, just enough to see his glasses, and hides again. HOT. He crosses his legs. He licks a finger, turns the page, and dunks his tea bag (literally). As the AC/DC song kicks into high gear, he RIPS the sweater off in a lightning-fast move, revealing a low pink corset and torn hose and fuck-me boots, totally Dr. Frank-N-Furter. It was so quick and shockingly awesome, I wish he’d picked a bulkier sweater to hide the corset, and a full turtleneck to hide the bow tie. The reveal is fleeting, as Dew quickly strips out of everything, rips down to simple vinyl Jockeys, grabs his teapot and dumps it all over himself. Cue the audience rapidly fanning themselves, and not just because it’s hotter than the Lex platform at Union Square in that bitch. Super hot, super fetish—everyone has a librarian fantasy—and super hot boylesque, because that Frank-N-Furter cross-dressing is something that quite simply can’t be done by a woman. Cock rings off to you, Dew.
For the big ending, Tigger comes out in cowboy regalia, strips down into a tub, and all the other cowboys in the show dump white wine all over him, which they then collect into cups as it cascades off his pecker, and they pass it out the crowd, who drink hungrily, a twisted communion from the back room of a sex club. Which I thought was fucking disgusting. White wine? I’m not drinking white wine unless I’m starring in a remake of “Will and Grace.” Or “Absolutely Fabulous.” Whatever. Where’s the fucking tequila?
Snaps to GoGo Harder for slipping into the bar with some of Tigger’s special tequila and giving me a sip. It means I’ll have seven more years of good sex, and my shaman won’t send me into the desert again.
Congratulations, Tigger. May you have many more glorious years with your soulmate, doing what you fucking love.
*For those unfamiliar with Southern parlance: Naked—you ain’t got no clothes on. Nekkid—when you ain’t got no clothes on and’r up to no good.
All photos ©2011 Melody Mudd. Please respect copyrights and contact firstname.lastname@example.org for permissions. Performers, please do use shots for promotional purposes, but credit properly with photographer’s full name and a link to this piece in all instances. Performers who would like hi-rez images, get in touch.