mia loves henry miller
Letter 38 – LMAO with Friends, Burlesque Beginnings, The Blues and Tiger Man
“A loving heart is the beginning of all knowledge.” –Thomas Carlyle
2/14/2012 – 12:56 a.m.
Dear Henry Miller,
Happy Valentine’s Day Henry Valentine Miller! I love you so much! I genuinely do. However, I actually think this is a stupid holiday. I’m not very romantic when it comes to this Hallmark moment. I think that it’s a ploy to increase the flow in our economy and to put expectations on people that can be unreasonable. Why can’t we give to others because we love them and wish to express that, on any particular day? Why do women expect roses that will eventually die or diamonds, baubles and jewels that really do nothing but make one a little more decorative or put them more in the spotlight for thieves? Or why do we like to receive yucky chocolates, bought at the last moment, in highly decorated boxes? I do love lingerie though. I would love new lingerie – sexy black thigh high stockings, long black gloves, matching panties, corset and a bra. Do you know how many fights I have been in with my significant others because of unrealistic expectations on this holiday? I once threw a huge bottle of baby powder at my ex-husband, which exploded into large volcanic, white clouds in the bedroom, because he didn’t do anything for me for Valentine’s Day. I was young and stupid. He generally bought me cheap, yucky chocolates, in an over decorated box, after Valentine’s Day, when they went on sale. Today, I feel so much better and emotionally stable that I have no expectations for this day. I didn’t even remember it was today, until I looked at the date when I began typing this letter. Do you think that I’m being cynical? Yes, indeed I am!! I do like this day because the name of it reminds me of you. I love your middle name.
I recently saw a jpg on Facebook, of a pink candy heart. Mr. C had it posted on his page and it pissed some people off… mostly women… no sense of humor. I laughed my ass off! The candy heart did not have a romantic or silly message. It read, “the money’s on the dresser”. I thought that you might appreciate the humor in this. I did. I’m sure many readers hate me. I don’t fucking care! This is still a stupid holiday! I refuse to give into brain wash. I will not do what society expects me to do because Hallmark deems so. NO! NO! NO!
Am I somebody who would piss you off, Henry? Would you spank me if I did? 😉
Mr. C and I had an amazing time with Mr. Smart and Miss Sexy last night. We never did anything kinky or erotic. I am still not feeling 100%. But, I’ m definitely looking forward to future play dates with them. I’m feeling better day by day. I can’t wait to get back in the groove of things and come like a Peruvian waterfall. However, it gave us the opportunity to eat a delicious dinner, which Miss Sexy made, roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables and dessert, a delicious, moist chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. I wish that I had a huge slice of her chocolate cake now, and a cold glass of milk. I’m so hungry. There is not much in the fridge. I haven’t been to the grocery store in weeks. Miss Sexy is very funny. She had me laughing so hard I was falling on the floor, tears rolling down my cheeks, my face aching from smiling so large. I love moments like that!
Our conversations offered more fodder for me to write. I was jotting down notes to myself all night long on shitty pieces of scrap paper in my purse. It was intriguing learning more about Mr. Smart and Miss Sexy as individuals, as a new couple, and discovering the funny and awful things we did as children. We told stories about what we were like growing up, our experiences, beliefs, spirituality, science, technology, and even the velocity of farts, after watching a hilarious YouTube video of a man lighting his farts on fire with a lighter, which blasted through the air and lit a candle a few feet away. We talked about our hilarious moments, our stupidest moments, our most white trash moments, and the beginnings of burlesque, when the revival began in the early years of 2,000, here in Minneapolis. Burlesque was very new in the Twin Cities. We got a lot of press, media attention, and were known for putting on a great show.
The best part about the burlesque show in the beginning was the dressing room. There was so much abuzz… girls curling their hair and gluing on pretty pasties on their nipples, and false eyelashes, while chatting fast to the girls beside her, beautiful women undressing out of street clothes and into their g-strings, frilly butt panties, vintage panties and bras, as well as sexy corsets or bustiers. I observed sexy, sultry singers practicing their notes and band members smoking so much pot you could hardly see through the heady, suffocating, euphoric clouds. I would pin a large amount of balloons onto my bra and panties, for my balloon striptease as soon as Mr. C would finish blowing them up, quietly observing the pre show backstage.
I can still recall the dozen red roses which Tiger Man had delivered to me on opening night. I think I may have freaked some of the girls out because the flowers were not from Mr. C. It shook up some of these burly girls and their conventional way of thinking. I used to write music reviews. Tiger Man was a blues man. I reviewed a few of his highly talented CD’s. We were introduced by a fan of his who lives in Minnesota and was encouraging me to get more involved with him. She told me that she thought that this highly talented blues man had a soft spot for me. I will tell you more soon.
“How can someone have a problem with me when they will pay to see a film where an actress shows a nipple?” –Dita Von Teese
“It’s silly to go on pretending that under the skin we are all brothers. The truth is more likely that under the skin we are all cannibals, assassins, traitors, liars, hypocrites, poltroons.” –Henry Miller
Because I was a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer at GZ, and MJ a well known Dominatrix, and had been for many years, the other burlesque girls never really understood MJ and me. We were cutting edge with open minds. A majority of these girls lived inside of a sheltered box. I honestly can’t blame them for that, because living inside of a box is so much safer for some. Fetish and Erotica were freaky to them, which seems weird to me. I actually found it irritating and hypocritical, because Bettie Page was a burlesque icon. I’m sure that the girls who thought I was freaky, love to shop the Bettie Page store at MOA or in Las Vegas while attending Exotic World. And at the roots of our Neo-Burlesque or burlesque revival, we have burlesque stars from all over who pushed the edge of the envelope in other endeavors besides Burlesque, such as Dita Von Teese and NYC burlesque star, Ducky Doolittle. There is also NYC burlesque star, Miss Ruby Valentine, who once appeared on the first television series of Mad Men, doing a classic burlesque striptease, who also competed for Miss Rubber World a few years ago in NYC. Hello… can you say fetish, bondage, and erotica?
Why would you bring up the fact that you like my Bettie Page appearance, which my hair sometimes emulated at the beginning of my burlesque career, if you can’t actually accept other facets of me? Why would you say that you love Dita Von Teese because she’s a beautiful burlesque star, if you can’t accept her passion for fetish photography or performing in fetish flicks for Gwen Media? I don’t go around judging others because of they live inside of a safe, protective, vanilla box. I just move on with my life. They are who they are. I am who I am – end of discussion. We are all a part of a larger picture. We don’t have to like one another. We just have to coincide peacefully. I don’t give a fuck what you do with your life, so please don’t give a fuck about mine.
“I always get billed as `Dita, internationally known fetish supermodel.” –Dita Von Teese
“When things get you down, make the best of your own life rather than worrying about what everyone else thinks.” –Dita Von Teese
The reason I bring all this up is because last night we talked about some of the struggles I went through, and how unwelcoming some of the performers could be towards MJ and me. We scared many because we lived life so edgy and we were confident with our sexuality as well as fetish lifestyle. Isn’t the ability to live life fully and to live life upon the edge help create a burlesque star? I’ve read some of Lili St. Cyr’s biography, who used to be a distinct burlesque legend from Minneapolis years ago. She was not a saint. Didn’t she live life with reckless abandonment? I think Gypsy Rose Lee possibly lived off rich benefactors for many years. Why do so many people love Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston after they are dead, yet bought gossip magazines which ridiculed these people with amazing gifts when they were alive? I don’t get it… will someone please explain the hypocrisy in this? I love the Showtime series, Dexter, Weeds, The Big C and Shameless. I love their edginess. So do most people. Have you seen the sex and controversy in those shows? Hello…Wake up America! Dexter murders people. Yet, we love him and watch him kill on cable television. What the fuck is wrong with people? I don’t understand why is that okay and Fetish and Erotica are not? I’m dumbfounded. Do these same people who do not approve of me and my lifestyle, love Lady Ga Ga, Madonna and Prince for being so cutting edge? If they do, all that I can say is HYPOCRISY!
“I am a walking piece of art every day, with my dreams and my ambitions forward at all times in an effort to inspire my fans to lead their life in that way.” –Lady Ga Ga
2/14/2012 – 2:26 a.m.
couldn‘t sleep earlier… I’m finally feeling drowsy.
2/14/2012 – 3:32 a.m.
“Sex is currency. What`s the use of being beautiful if you can`t profit from it?” –Lili St. Cyr, Minneapolis burlesque legend
I can’t sleep… I’m hungry… My stomach is empty and rumbling loud. I’m eating leftover Chinese food in bed with my laptop computer screen glaring in the dark. If we didn’t have delivery in the suburbs I would starve. My head is still spinning with random thoughts… Muse, please go to sleep and stop bugging me. I don’t think quieting my muse is going to be that easy. I remember when I performed in the very first Best of the Midwest Burlesk Festival, five years ago at the Ritz Theater. They didn’t have drag performers nor did they have boylesque acts included. Actually, none of the burlesque shows during this time, except Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater, had such controversial acts. At that time, I was considered edgy and that girl who has drag kings in her show and gay boylesque acts. And she likes leather and bondage… oh my! How freakishly horrible is that? Today, you now see boylesque and drag performers included into the Bomb festival and into other shows in the Twin Cities area. I’m sorry that it took you so long to catch on about diversity. Am I still freaky? Do I scare you because I like to be tied up and spanked and kiss other girls or kiss guys who are not my husband? Is it still weird of me to have Drag King and Queens in my show and gay men doing boylesque? If so, I don’t really care to get to know you. I honestly don’t care if you are my friend or not. If you are like minded, genuinely open, I would really like to be your friend and hopefully share the stage with you. A big fuck you to all the people who said that I shouldn’t be doing something so edgy, and talk behind my back, ridiculing me for my so called, unconventional vision, because you are doing exactly what I was doing almost ten years ago. Please don’t judge my life because I have chosen to bravely live my life outside of the box. Especially after you ridiculed me for doing it years before you were brave enough to stretch your mind.
I remember back when I first began burlesque, how many in the first cast enjoyed the movie of Henry and June… Sex, sex and more sex… There was fucking and lots of fucking! Read Anais Nin’s diary… it’s not just a movie filled with artsy, high brow moving pictures. People love Anais Nin. Is it safer to romanticize her image and what they thought she stood for than to really comprehend her and her sexually adventurous life? I’m tired of people masturbating in private, yet acting like sexuality is a bad thing in public. I’m talking to the lady who turns her Hitachi wand on high speed and then frowns at the adult toy store on the corner in her safe neighborhood. I just want to tell people like that to go fuck themselves – and not in a literal way! But, that wouldn’t be so ladylike. 😉
2/14/2012 – 2:50 P.M.
I finally got some sleep. I feel so much better. I awoke to a Blue Mountain Card in my email inbox this morning, from Mr. C. It was such a sweet card! I loved it. So much for my anti-Valentine’s Day mood. After I read Mr. C’s card, I sent him one in return. It was a talking e-card, with a dog reciting my message with a computerized, female voice. I was going to make the dog talk smutty, but thought the Blue Mountain police would come out of dark corners to kill me for doing so. So, I skirted upon the edges of smut and laughed my ass off when the dog recited it all back to me. I am often astounded by the amazing world of technology!
2/14/2012 – 6:05 p.m.
You know what really makes a special Valentine’s gift? Having a significant other remember your favorite foods from the grocery store, after giving them a small, succinct grocery list that didn’t have those items on it like chocolate pudding, Oreo cookies and mini Ritz crackers. To me, that is romance and means more to me than a dozen red roses and diamonds. Thank you Mr. C for being so romantic this year! I appreciate it even more so because I am in an anti-Valentine’s Day mood. He makes me remember the little yet significant things in life. I attempted to make him dinner, which burned because I was typing my letter to you… ack! Maybe I should have tried to give him a “welcome home from work” blow job instead.
I’m super tired. I must get some sleep. I’m working on the mural project tomorrow. It’s been a long time since I have worked on it. I will do my best to write to you in between my busy schedule. I have a date with Mr. B tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to seeing him.
2/16/2012 – 3:00 a.m.
I met with Mr. B last night. He gave me Valentine’s Day gifts too – three notebooks in various sizes with various covers from NYC. I love useful, thoughtful gifts. One is a pink, moleskin notebook which I can slip easily in my purse. I fell asleep, shortly after Mr. B fucked the hell out of me! After a long string of multiple orgasms, I was out like a light. I don’t even recall Mr. B leaving, which was probably around 10 p.m. I needed the sleep; I worked on the mural project during the day and was exhausted. The orgasms exhausted me even more. Now, I’m wide awake. I can’t sleep. I’m going to write for a bit and then paint for a few hours.
“Unless one believes in predestination, it is clear that the circumstances of any encounter with another person, which, for the sake of ease, we attribute to chance, are in fact the result of an incalculable series of decisions taken at each crossroad in life, which secretly steer us towards them. Even the most important of these encounters may not have been consciously sought, or even desired. Rather, each of us proceeds like an artist or writer, who constructs a piece of work through a succession of choices; a gesture or word which follows, but instead confronts the author with a new choice.” –Catherine Millet, Jealousy, The Other Life of Catherine M
After many months of communicating with Tiger Man via emails and telephone, after I finished writing his music reviews, I discovered so much about his intriguing life. He grew up on the Hollywood sets and knew many of the Hollywood celebrities, rock stars and musicians. I immediately became enamored with his talent, his charm, his charisma, and his daring and interesting life. There was something very kind and compassionate about him, yet, you could see that he could explode with a quick temper. We eventually met in person face to face at the Mall of America, months later, near the Lego store, during his first visit to Minneapolis. I found it odd when we ate lunch at the Rainforest Café, when Tiger man observes a gentleman, who appeared to be a tourist, and was taking photos of this imaginative restaurant with his cameras, which seemed to be pointing in our direction.
“Excuse me,” Tiger Man abruptly leaves our table and struts to the table where the man with the camera is.
“Are you taking photos of us?” Tiger Man asked, his chest puffed out like an alpha male bird, his feathers all puffy and ruffled. After he realizes that this camera man wasn’t taking photos of us, Tiger Man felt bad for approaching the camera man’s table and insinuating that the camera man was taking photos of us. So, he paid for this stranger’s meal and paid for his guests which joined him at his table, for being rude when Tiger Man first approached them. This freaked me out a bit. I thought to myself WTF?
When I first met Tiger man, it was early on in my relationship with Mr. C. Even though Mr. C and I sometimes enjoyed swinger encounters, we were unfamiliar with private, intimate rendezvous with others, which might occur separately on our own. For many months, I kept things between Tiger Man and me safe and distant. Although, when Tiger Man played his harmonica for me, for the very first time, during his first visit to Minneapolis, sitting near the Rum River at a park nearby my home, I often thought how a skillful tongue and mouth like that, might feel if it were sliding, darting and playing a passionate song, high between my thighs, as if my sex were his instrument.
2/16/2012 – 6:00 a.m.
I’m stopping for awhile to paint.
2/16/2012 – 8:45 p.m.
When I first began burlesque, it was Tiger Man who helped finance my vintage music CD, classic vintage dresses, and a beautiful, red, ostrich feather, burlesque fan. I lived off a writer and artist budget. I had a family of five to support. Mr. C was beginning in a new career field and working for a very low wage without health insurance. Tiger Man was my burlesque Godfather back when I began burlesque.
In order for Tiger Man to financially survive as a musician, he had to prowl the nights, doing something considered dark and dangerous. I have no clue if he actually did what he told me, which I cannot reveal in this letter, to protect his identity – however I was very fascinated. His story fueled my imagination and eventually my writing.
Over the course of ten years, I have attempted writing letters to you. In some of my very first draft letters to you, I attempted to write letters filled more with fiction than stories based greatly on truth. I will insert a few letters I wrote so many years ago. FYI: I call Tiger Man, Johnny in these letters and me, Mimi Merlot.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007 –Fictional Letter
Early afternoon – San Francisco, Fisherman’s Wharf
Dear Henry Miller,
Johnny didn’t show up. I waited for him for two hours on Pier 39, near the noisy mass of black, fat, hungry seals. My ears still echo with their incessant barks pleading for more fish – for more of their smelly snacks. My eyes scrupulously squint, scanning every inch of the crowd. I don’t see him – only a variety of faces with large, happy grins, as they watch the shiny, slick wet seals beg for more food. My right hand shields the sun from my eyes, which carefully dart back and forth, consuming every inch of busy scenery on San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. Tourists from all around the world snap their cameras at anything that catches their attention. The cold, brisk wind chills me to my aching bones. My teeth incessantly chatter together. My jaws tense, causing a muscle to twitch intermittently on my face, near my taut jaw line.
Johnny never met me at the time we had both agreed upon – 12:30 p.m. near the ferries which take tourists to Alcatraz. We were supposed to tour the island together. We both have a deep passion for the old time gangsters. Especially the ones who used to hide out in St Paul, Minnesota, like Al Capone, Baby Face Nelson, John Dillinger, Doc Barker, and Machine Gun Kelly. A majority of these gangsters I named were also imprisoned in Alcatraz. My heart feels so heavy with sadness, like a ship’s heavy anchor, dropping deeply into the dark, cold sea. I know deep in my gut that I may never see Johnny again. He’s gone! I just know it! He’s fucking, Goddamn gone!
I have a horrible headache. I must rest for awhile. I’m exhausted.
I’ll write more when I can.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Later in the day…
Dear Henry Miller,
I’m generally a woman who enjoys my private, alone time, but not today. I feel so sad and lonely. I think San Francisco’s a truly romantic place for lovers. But, I have no lover to walk with hand in hand, Henry. Johnny’s still gone. I’ve tried calling him on his cell all day and most of last night – no answer.
You are the only comfort in my life right now. I need to write to you, even though your spirit floats upon an invisible eternal path, I swear that I can feel your spirit – especially here in San Francisco. Maybe it’s because you once resided in Big Sur. Whatever the reason, I’m glad that I can purge my emotions in these letters to you.
Where do I begin?
I’m just going to start typing, hoping that my words will make sense.
One week ago, (May 23)
I received an eerie phone call from Johnny. It was well after midnight when the phone rang.
“Hello,” I mumbled groggily into the receiver. My eyelids were stuck together with tiny clumps of sticky sleep and small globs of left over black mascara, which didn’t come completely off when I washed my face before going to bed. I’d been asleep for a couple of hours, when the phone intruded in on my dreams.
“Hi baby,” Johnny faintly replied, his voice trembling and weak. I almost didn’t recognize him. His words generally boomed with an alpha male presence. It was unusual to hear him sound so soft spoken and meek.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded, sitting straight up in bed, prying my eyelids open. I felt a heavy weight of doom thump deep in my gut. A sense of alarm stirred my female intuition. I heard trouble in Johnny’s voice. I knew dread was about to consume my sleepy soul. I also knew that once it did, my life would never be the same again.
“He’s dead,” he sobbed, sounding like a young boy, “he’s dead Mimi, he’s fucking dead!”
“Who’s dead baby? What are you talking about?” I managed to ask, attempting to shake off my sleepy haze.
“The job went bad,” he faintly muttered, before taking another shot of whiskey “the job went really bad – so very bad! He’s dead baby, he’s fucking dead!”
“Goddamnit Johnny! You keep on saying that!” I shouted. Annoyance scratched upon my vocal chords like a cat’s claws upon a wooden post. ”Who’s fucking dead? What the Hell’s going on? Speak to me Johnny; tell me what the fuck is Hell is the matter! What happened?”
“I shot him Mimi,” Johnny confessed, his hands now trembling uncontrollably, attempting to pack the bowl of his small, metal pipe with a large, strong smelling, California bud. As always it was quality weed – the sweet, sticky, aromatic kind that smelled up a room if you opened the baggie. “I fucking shot him twice right between his shit brown eyes – round pieces of fucking shit which Goddamn begged with all their might to spare his life.” I could hear the flick of his Bick lighter before Johnny deeply inhaled thick, smooth smoke from his pipe. “He looked so fucking pathetic when his body crumbled to the floor like a scarecrow without his stuffing,” Johnny managed to say while keeping the clouds of smoke deep in his lungs. “It all feels so surreal Mimi.” He exhaled. “It feels just like a Goddamn nightmare! Oh Jeez Mimi! Jesus fucking Christ! I can still see his brains oozing out if his head like thick molasses, slowly from the bullet wound in his forehead. Oh fuck baby… Oh fuck!”
“Damn Johnny!” I exclaimed with utmost dread, my heart galloping fast like horses on a race track. “How did this begin?”
“I really can’t talk about it. I shouldn’t even be telling you this. But I just had to talk with you. I had to tell someone. I feel like I’m going mad. I had no other choice. I had to kill him. He was a fuckin’ thug who owed me a shit load of money! He was a Goddamn fucking piece of shit I tell ya! A Goddamn piece of shit! Honest to God Mimi, this sonofabitch drew his gun on me first. He told me he wasn’t going to pay up on the bet he lost. He fucking refused to pay Mimi – he fucking refused to pay! Nobody refuses to pay Johnny! No mother fuckin’ body! No one! And get this doll face, the dirty sonofabitch spit on my fucking shoes in total disrespect! He fucking spit on my shoes for Christ sake! Can you believe that Mimi, can ya? The dirty cock sucker deserved to die!”
“What are you going to do, baby?” I asked him; my nerves felt jittery as if I’d gulped several large, deep cups of pitch black coffee. My hands were unsteady, twitching and jerking to the rhythm of my quickened pulse. I could hardly light my long, thin cigarette. “What in the Hell are you going to do now Johnny?” I asked, shocked and dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe that this conversation was really happening. It all seemed to be a nightmarish dream. A shiver crawled down my spine, as if it were an ugly centipede crawling down a cold, dark, dungeon wall. A cool, menthol cloud of smoke trailed thickly behind my words. My world felt surreal. I felt disconnected, as if I were stuck in a drugged daze.
“I’m gonna do what any great gangster would do, Baby doll. I’m gonna hide out with my girl in St. Paul.”
“When are you coming?” I asked, nervously biting down on my lower lip. Fifi Marie, my gorgeous, French lover, had been staying with me for the past few nights. And Johnny is so jealous of her!
“I should be there in four or five days. I’m leaving Vegas late tomorrow night, after Vinnie and I take care of this fucking piece of shit’s body and tie up some loose ends.”
“Oh Fuck Johnny!” I exclaimed before sucking deeply upon my cigarette again, inhaling another thick stream of smoke, and then exhaling before loudly objecting, “Don’t fucking tell me how you’re going to dispose of the body. Please don’t tell me,” I exhaled the last bit of smoke in my lungs before protesting, “Because I really don’t want to know! I mean it Johnny, not another Goddamn word! I absolutely don’t want to fucking know! Call me when you finish your thing.”
End of letter…
I really enjoyed writing these fictional letters. I hope someday these letters will be the beginning of a great play. Even though the letter you just read is fictional, it is based loosely on true events. I will never spill Johnny’s secret. I will never tell.
When I first learned about Tiger Man and his adventures at night, when his band wasn’t playing on stage at a nightclub, stepping into a much darker realm of life, it naturally lured me in, like a naïve doe to a salt lick in an open field.
I can still recall how many long months would go by with no word from Tiger Man. I often thought he was dead, because of our long silences in communication. Sometimes I would get an email from a few of his close friends asking if I knew where Tiger Man was. I didn’t know shit. It was better that way – at least for me. I can’t deny that I didn’t worry about him when I didn’t hear from him, or that I wasn’t worried. However, Tiger Man always floated in and out of my life, like an actor in a movie. He played a small yet significant role each time he re-entered my life. Presently, I have no idea where he is or what he is doing. I have not heard from him in months. Again, I wonder if he is dead or alive.
Good night Henry.
2/17/2112 – 9:44 a.m.
Good morning Henry. I’m feeling exhausted. I worked on the mural project on Wednesday and painted at my loft yesterday. I had dinner with a very good friend last night, Miss B. We tried a new restaurant close by. It’s Caribbean. The food was delicious. I had red beans and rice with pork tenderloins and this delicious coconut cake for dessert. We talked about so many things over wine, after we returned to my loft. She’s a highly talented photographer, who wants to put together a very unique photo book, and is a very good friend. It was so wonderful to spend time with her! I’m hoping that she will find the inspiration to continue on as a highly talented photographer and pursue her dreams to publish.
Over the course of many months, Tiger Man and I continued on talking to each other daily either by telephone or email. He continued to send me flowers or gift baskets on the nights I had a burlesque show, or on birthdays or Valentine’s Day. He would often buy me fancy, vintage dresses or new ostrich feather fans. Sometimes I would call him in the late afternoon, and he would tell me that he would have to call me back, because he had very famous, high profile musicians visiting him and they are jamming out some tunes together. His life has always appeared very fictional in my eyes. Living the life he did in L.A. seems foreign to me.
“Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.” –Anais Nin
The second to the last time I saw Tiger Man, he entered my life again when I was very low in spirits and vulnerable – I had been crying and sleeping on the couch for almost a month, distancing myself from the world. My stepson had cancer, and my two children left me to live with their father and his family. I was in my mid–thirties and feeling devastated and heartbroken. Due to my vulnerable state, it was easy to feel comforted by Tiger Man when he came to St. Paul. We became very intimate and sexual at his hotel room, hours before the wedding I attended, which I wrote about in my last letter. It was nice. It was arousing. But, since it was our first time together and we both were nervous, it wasn’t an extremely titillating encounter. We had not found each other’s groove just yet. I felt guilty because I had never played alone, without Mr. C observing the scene, which also caused quite a bit of uneasiness in me. My head was fucked up with doubting, fearful whispers (I shouldn’t be doing this… this is fucked up…. how will I explain this to Mr. C? Did I really want to take this friendship to this level? Oh fuck… I have to attend a wedding tonight… and I’m here with Tiger Man betraying my marriage) Do you see how mind fucking oneself can ruin a good fuck?
The next time I saw Tiger Man was many months after, late in the summer. He took me to see the Lion King at the Orpheum on Hennepin Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. We had great seats. The production was so ingenious and amazing. I could see everything up close and personal. I had never observed a production this close to the stage. It was such a breathtaking and beautiful production! Tiger Man looked handsome, dressed in a sharp, brown and white pin-stripe suit. I had my hair done up in elegant barrel curls and I was wearing a classic black and white, 1950’s style, vintage dress.
We were having a great time. A wonderful, fantastic time! I was super hungry afterwards. I didn’t get a chance to eat much before we left, because I was so busy getting ready. I wanted to look nice. I lived in Wisconsin and had a long drive into the cities. It was our plan to have a nice dinner before the show. But, that didn’t happen, due to my busy day and our late start driving to Minneapolis. Because I was going through so many emotions with my children, my circumstances, and my confusion about my relationship with Tiger Man, which was now transitioning from a long time friendship into a relationship more complex and complicated, I was very sensitive and reacted impulsive and irrational.
I was young, frightened, and was going through a massive amount of changes in my life, and daringly entering into another chapter of my life, which delves into the darker side of life – a journey which I will never write about. Unfortunately, due to immaturity, I let my emotions get the best of me when Tiger Man pulled up to a McDonald’s drive thru window, after the play, knowing that I was hungry, but thinking about his McDick, and what we might do in his hotel room afterwards, instead of treating a girl with some class. I definitely felt like a very cheap whore and that he was insinuating that I should be rewarding him with a fuck for the great theater seats and an amazing Broadway production, instead of taking this new adventure slowly, and getting something better to eat, like bacon and eggs at a late night diner. It’s not the fancy dinner I originally envisioned, our late night choices were limited, but I expected something way classier than a McDonald’s Drive thru. I felt insulted because I had taken a lot of time to look good for him on that warm summer evening. I had a manicure, pedicure and my hair professionally styled. I wanted to feel more than just a piece of McAss. I wanted more than survival food – more than an ordinary cheeseburger, fries, and his McPickle back at his hotel room. I was pretty pissed off! There was no way that I was fucking him after that. I was confused as it was. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you about an erotic, sexy interlude. I wonder if I will delete this part of the letter. I don’t mean to harm anyone with the truth of this story. However, this is how I felt, and I think it’s an integral part to my story.
I often think that some events in life happen for a reason and no one is to blame. Life is sometimes just a funny or awkward scene from a play or movie – to be observed as it unfolds scene by scene, regardless if it has a positive or negative outcome. I think this uncomfortable encounter had to happen. Shortly after our encounter, I needed to travel down a different path in my life and I knew that I could not have Tiger Man involved in this part of my journey. He can be a very jealous individual with a hot temper. I didn’t want to have that kind of emotional baggage with me as I travelled into a place where this could only bring me down. His energy would not have had a positive effect on where I needed to go next in my life. Regardless of how difficult it was, I had to let Tiger Man go and say, “Good bye,” for awhile. We had an amazing, deep friendship for a few years. I will never forget that. He was one of my best friends for several years. After a few years of silence, we began conversing via emails and on the telephone – connecting again every few months. We never regained our friendship to where it was in the beginning.
I didn’t see Tiger Man again until I went to Exotic World in Las Vegas 2008. We had dinner and spent a few hours alone in the desert. I will tell you more very soon, when I write about my adventures at Exotic World in Las Vegas.
I must get going. I have some more painting I want to get done before I leave the loft tonight.