The Luv Doc: Softly. Slowly.

Dear Luv Doc,

I considered asking AI but then decided for a real intelligent answer. Is the song “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John about masturbation?

– Mae B. Hai

After giving this careful consideration, I thought, “There’s only one way to get a definitive answer. I’ll just telephone Bernie Taupin and ask him myself.” That, of course, turned out to be an idiotic idea – maybe even more moronic than telephoning Elton himself. Don’t get me wrong: I considered texting my friend Alex, who knows Kiefer Sutherland (Lost Boys, anyone?) to see if he could ask Kiefer if he has Bernie Taupin’s number, but that seems like a big lift for a question you surely dreamed up while experimenting with cannabinoids. Besides, Bernie surely has better things to do with his time … like … for instance: trying to dream up how to spend the roughly $200 million in net worth he has amassed over the years. To me that sounds like something a person could probably wrap up by midafternoon, but I’m feeling pretty confident I will never have the opportunity to test that theory. The advice game, I have learned, is long on spiritual recompense but short on actual remuneration.

Here is something I do know, however, and I used to find it infuriating. When you put a piece of art into the world – and trust me, I have arted an embarrassing amount of times – you no longer retain full intellectual ownership of that art. Let me be very clear: That’s not a legal opinion. I am not a Supreme Court justice – even though I look exactly like 93% of all Supreme Court justices, historically speaking. I am not talking about the ability to cash Spotify checks, or any other mythological monetary instruments. I am talking about being able to control how that art is perceived and enjoyed. Once you put a piece of art out into the world, the meaning you think it has becomes one of many. Sure, you know the intent. You might know what you were trying to say; the emotion you were trying to convey; the mood you were trying to set; but y’all, people are freaky. They are going to twist that meaning a thousand different ways … well … if you’re lucky. For me it’s usually something in the low teens. That’s probably why I don’t own an equestrian ranch outside Santa Barbara like Bernie.

So, even though the interwebs seem solidly convinced that “Tiny Dancer” was written about Bernie Taupin’s first wife, Maxine Feibelman, a former ballet dancer and seamstress for Elton John’s backing band, your interpretation, of course, may vary. I’m guessing you’re leaning hard into the last line of the first verse, “Tiny Dancer in my hand.” Textually at least, not much else supports your assertion. For instance: You could make a similar claim about “Bennie and the Jets.” They’re weird, they’re wonderful, Bennie she’s really keen. Buh-Buh-Buh … whoopsie … cleanup on aisle 6. And I’m not even high right now.I’m betting that Bernie long ago made his peace with the multiverse of meanings people derive from his multiplatinum lyrics. He might even muse about them while he trots his expensive cutting horse down to the mailbox to pick up his checks. Now I’m thinking maybe I should get Alex to call Kiefer and beg him to call Bernie and ask him about the “Tiny Dancer” masturbation thing. After all, Elton John did once say that his songwriting process was “a bit like having a wank.”

This article appears in June 12 • 2026.