I didn't know about the Rocky Horror Picture Show until pretty late on. I had heard the album, without knowing where it came from, but hadn't seen the film. As a result I missed what all the sly grins were about that passed between my friends.
"Have you seen this?" asked Martin, whilst playing the soundtrack.
"No, but I've heard a lot about it."
That was a lie. A stone cold lie. I knew nothing about it other than there was a guy in it called Frankfurter or something similar. It wasn't until much later that I happened to see the video on sale in a second-hand shop and bought it on impulse.
"Bloody hell!" I exclaimed upon watching it.
The idea that all these people were cavorting around in drag—I mean, sexy drag that got me somewhat hot under the collar—was just a bit more than I was expecting.
The music was good though—catchy.
"What're you watching?" my then girlfriend, Sue, asked.
"Rocky horror," I replied, giving the film its pet name.
"Ugh! You don't actually like that do you?" she asked, looking as if she was about to throw up.
"Well, it's a lot of fun. I don't think it's supposed to be taken seriously."
"Bloody weirdoes," she spat and left the room.
"Perhaps, but the music's good," I offered, lamely.
The video was then consigned to the bottom of the pile and largely forgotten about.
Fortunately, she and I didn't last too much longer as a couple. With hindsight, I have a feeling that her finding out that I actually enjoyed a film about a man dressing up in women's clothes and prancing around singing "I'm just a sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania." was at least a contributory factor.
It was nearly true. I did like the idea, but my more sensible side—as I thought at the time—still had serious reservations.
Seeing Tim Curry on the screen being as outrageous as he was—and apparently getting away with it, was a turn on. However, I will admit, it was more than a little disturbing.
As I said, the video then got moved to the bottom of the pile and didn't get taken out for some considerable time, but meanwhile, I had some sorting out in my head to do...
We all fantasise don't we?
Whether it's a simple fantasy like that house in the country, driving or owning a Ferrari or winning the lottery—perhaps it's a sexual fantasy like going to bed with Sasha Alexander, Summer Glau or Jewel Staite. We all have them.
Mine however seemed to centre on being a character in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
I didn't mind which one—as long as it wasn't Christopher Biggins or Meat Loaf. Frank, Columbia or Magenta would have done—even Janet, dammit.
After Sue left, I'm afraid I rather descended into a fantasy that almost exclusively ended up with me being either Magenta or Columbia, though I never did dress the part. It was much too much for me to get ladies underwear—especially the sort that was worn on that film.
Sara's arrival in my world was to be a real eye-opener. We met in the pub and it was lust at first sight.
Goody-two-shoes she was not. I don't think I had ever met anyone as uninhibited as her and it was just so good.
She would tell me what she wanted, which took the guess-work of whether she was enjoying herself or not, out of the equation. I sometimes got step-by-step instructions, which far from detracting from the mood, upped it by several notches. She was actually the one who stopped me biting, nibbling or blowing in a girl's ear.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she asked.
"I thought you like it—girls like it, I mean," I replied.
"Why?" she asked, looking completely bemused.
I didn't know, but that was another Playboy myth shattered.
By about day three of our relationship, I actually started to loosen up and began improvising, purposefully not doing what she asked and things started to take on a really interesting twist.
Who says learning isn't fun?
One evening whilst out and about, we bumped into a few of her friends, some of whom were straight, some gay, some bi and others—well, I could only surmise that they were undecided.
We were told that the local cinema was putting on a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the weekend and it was half price entry, plus a free drink if one went 'in costume'.
"You coming, Sara?" asked Nigel. "Ben wants to go and you know what he's like once you get him in stockings—don't even mention the corset." Nigel's lisp put him directly into the category of gay as far as I was concerned. The big giveaway though was the way he and Ben went everywhere arm in arm, so it wasn't much of a conclusion to jump to.
Sara looked directly in my eyes and asked "Would you like to go?"
Knock me down with a feather, why don't you? I thought and didn't know which way to look. I know I had become a heap less inhibited in the short time I had been with Sara and had harboured these dirty, dirty, fantasies about—well, you know; but to suddenly go out on a Saturday night in stockings, suspenders, basque, makeup, heels ... and panties of course. Sweet silky panties...
Anyway, I thought that was pushing boundaries.
"Um, can I get back to you?" she asked of Nigel and I know she mouthed something because Ben looked straight at me and did that nodding thing accompanied by an "oh".
I knew exactly what that meant.
"It'll be fun," she said, batting those long eye lashes at me, whilst running her hands up my naked leg when we were at home.
"It's alright for you, you don't have to go in drag," I said, worried that if she tried any harder to talk me into it, any reasons why I shouldn't go would just melt away anyway.
"It'll certainly be fun afterwards..." she said in a very seductive way and finally, what little resolve I had left crumbled.
By Saturday afternoon, I was like a cat on a hot tin roof. I didn't know which way to turn, what to do or what to think. I must have lost pounds in nervous energy just thinking about 'later on'.
"Relax," she told me and whilst I would have liked nothing better, I didn't see how I could. I was nervous at the best of times and right now, this time couldn't be termed as 'best' in my opinion.
"Look, once you're ready, no-one will recognise you anyway. I think you'll make a good girl ... and you know what good girl's get, don't you?"
There was no getting away from her line of reasoning or persuasiveness.
The "anyway, you promised" kind of sealed it.
I was being told to bathe and given a pink razor.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Your legs, chest and under your arms—oh and anywhere else that might be covered in that rug."
"What do you mean, rug?"
"You look like a bear and even though this is just a bit of fun, no girlfriend of mine goes out looking like that."
Girlfriend? I thought. That's taking it a bit far.
Regardless of her thoughts on the matter, it had been the best week of my life so far and if it meant I needed to make a fool of myself for a couple of hours, I thought that was a fair exchange.
I set about performing my ablutions and shaving in places where I never thought I would be shaving—some places extremely carefully.
It took ages and I mean ages. By the time I'd finished, the bath water was cold and it looked as though I was sitting in a door mat.
The blasted razor kept clogging, which was why it took so long and by the time I was done, it took nearly as long to unblock the plughole and clean the bath as it had to shave. The result though—even if a little amateurish—was something else.
I had only ever felt soft smooth skin from the toucher's side—I mean from touching someone else's smooth skin, but this time the feeling was doubled, if not quadrupled. Not only could I feel smooth skin beneath my fingers as I touched myself, but the skin I was touching responded differently too.
.... There is more of this story ...