Stripped In Pornland: Tigre

Hot pink curls frame Tigre’s pockmarked face and match her Julia Roberts lips. She unties the top of her flame dress and folds it over her midriff. Not because she’s overweight—if anything, she’s underweight—but, to hide the child-bearing stretch marks.

She can’t wear her perpetual grin when a crusty custy poses 20 questions about the kid she may or may not have custody of at the moment, so she avoids the whole depressing ordeal and just covers her damn belly.

"Talk about my actual life with these freaks? No fucking way, so I hide it," she once told me, when I had the gumption to inquire.

Her second song is almost over. I’m up after her, so I sit nearby and convince a dude to sit with me at her rack; it’s a favor we vowed to do for each other when we first met last week. It’s how we became friends—a rare thing among strippers, in my experience.

The middle-aged guy I’ve dragged to the rack doesn’t talk much, which makes it so I don’t feel like throwing up in his face or poking his eyes out. I’m grateful for the small victory. He sits, tips and smiles. He’s a dream client, if there ever was one. I wish more of these guys would just shut up, observe and shell out money—without the small talk and flirting. But, I’m a professional and keep my thoughts to myself. I give great customer service with an ass shake and a smile—not like Tigre’s smile, though. Her lips stretch from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Her teeth mock the Milky Way. Her smile lures in regular after regular, table dance after table dance. That smile deserves an Oscar for hustling.

The stage fountains gush all over her centerfold-quality breasts and sprays her face. She whips her hair around and splashes Mr. Middle Age. He loves it. She almost puts her nipple in his mouth and moves back, just as he blushes. She bops his nose with her finger and struts back to the water. She arches her back, tilts her head and straddles the stream as it dies down.

Her set’s done, so I meet her to switch. I offer my hand, as she descends the aqua stage in the center of the club. Her hair drips wet, but her makeup stays intact. She thanks me in a deep voice. She sits with Mr. Middle Age, while I dance. Rinse. Repeat. My set ends.

Tigre and I laugh back to the dressing room—counting the soaked dollars we just earned. She lights a joint as soon as we walk through the door. She passes it to me.

"Aren’t you worried the bouncer will catch us and eighty-six us?"

"Not really," she says, still holding the joint toward me.

"Fuck it," I say, and puff hard.

The bouncer flails open the door. I gulp in the weed smoke to hold it. He intimidates me in suit and tie—unusual strip club security attire, at least in the places I’ve worked. I practically swallow the hit.

"Tigre Marie, I told you a hundred times: no smoking weed inside!"

"Dad, I don’t want to put on more clothes to go smoke outside. Can’t you just act like you didn’t notice?"

"To get us both fired? I don’t think so, little girl."

My throat and upper bronchi singe a little, but I draw in the smoke even deeper. The room blackens, as I squeeze in more air to keep the smoke inside. I teleport to all the times parents caught me and my friends smoking weed as teenagers.

"Put. It. Out. Now," he says, then slams the door. I flinch. He moves in closer. She listens and puts it out while mumbling obscenities at her dad.

"I heard that. No more weed indoors. Period," he says.

"What’s the magic word?" Tigre says, with that hypnotic smile.

"Please. Now, cut it out," he says, then leaves.

I finally exhale. Face blue. Lips numb. Ears ringing.

Tigre relights the resin-ated joint. It browns the middle of her puckered lips. The resin goo oozes, as she passes the J my way. I wipe off the end and suck. She lights incense.

"Wait a minute, dude. Did you just call him Dad?" I ask.

"Yeah. That’s my dad. What a dick. We’ve worked together here for about two years. It’s a nightmare."

I keep quiet. A million questions zoom through my stoned brain, but I don’t have the nerve to ask any of them. I take another hit of the joint and pass it back. We finish it in silence.