Rocky Horror, A Personal Memoir And Tribute To The Original Frank’n’furter, Tim Curry

CHAPTER ONE

The coach had descended into a teenage riot.

We were returning home from the best night out of our early adult years.

Thirty-seven sexually frustrated geeks, nerds and loners had just got their collective rocks off at the live and on-stage production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Wythenshawe Theatre in Manchester.

Day by day at college, we may have been the weird kids, the drama kids, the music kids and the art kids.

But we owned the night.

Rainy and cold as it was.  

And on this night we were fucking glorious Queens.

Every. Last. One of us.

Out and proud, and brimming with swagger.

Like all the mums and dads of the kids on this coach, mine were mortified that their son was out, at night, and in dressed in ‘such a state!’

Black fishnet stockings, custom made fake leather corset with studded suspenders, all completed by a drag queen make-over and long black wig.

And so a responsible adult was sent with us.

My sister, and her girlfriend Ruby, had been sent to act as chaperones.

Actually, chaperone everyone.

Except, no, they were not responsible nor adults.

They sat at the front of the coach, snogging most of the time. Usually, I would have been jealous as I had a massive crush on Ruby.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I was Frank-N-Fucking-Furter.

In mind.

In body.

In soul.

And, in six-inch red platform heels.

Tonight, every hot-blooded male in my path would shrink into the shadows as I approached. Their girlfriends, who usually didn’t know I even existed, hypnotically gazed, unsure of how to feel as I passed.

Was I repulsive to them? Or maybe, I was just too freakishly sexy and kinky, unlocking a gateway to their unconscious, forbidden and carnal lust. I could tell from their faces that more often than not, it was the latter.

Nice!

Along with my freaky friends, we dominated that pavement walk. All the glorious way from the coach park to the theatre on that cold November night in drizzly Manchester.

Our makeup was wild, each of us with massive hair and ridiculous costume jewellery stolen from old aunts and big sisters. All adorned in stockings, corsets, suspenders, boots, platform heels, long gloves and capes, we must have been an intimidating sight to the uninitiated. 

We collectively strutted that pavement like a super-bitches on a catwalk.

Heading the pack, I breathed in the cold air and threw back my black nylon cape to fully expose my corset, black lace panties, stockings and red high heels. My chin up, taking long strides, I had never felt more confident in my entire life.

In tow was my best friend, Melanie.

And she had her suspicions too, about how much I was enjoying my ‘costume’.

She could sense how something had changed in me, now that I was wearing a black lace corset, fishnet stockings, a cape and THOSE red high heels.

She had also seen, in the past, how I had shown interest in her clothes too. She had dropped hints at the time, and more than once, she playfully confronted me with the direct question, ‘Are you a tranny?’

Not the politically correct way to discuss today, but back then perfectly acceptable.

I denied it of course.

Always.

Because, I was in love with Melanie.

And I knew that she would never love me back if she thought I was a cross-dresser.  

Funny thing though, she was in love with me too. In her way.

The angst of teenage life and trauma in both our lives ensured that our love was never fully consummated. We nervously orbited each other in a frustrated and platonic friendship that was always in danger of getting hot and heavy at any moment.

It just never did get that hot and heavy.

And she was sexy as hell tonight. High heels, stockings and a black corset with panties.

And nothing else.

She must have been freezing, and yet, she glowed with fizzing and feminine energy. As much as she was a playful and kinky minx tonight, what really lit up my soul was how she smiled at me. She often gazed at me, unflinching, mouth slightly open, head tilted down.

Oh my! She always laughed when she did this, and I smiled too. We were so deeply connected.

Malenie ruled the girlies on the coach too.

Of course, the girlies adored the fact that on this night, they had a legitimate excuse to dress up in sexy lingerie and go out too, showing off their bodies like never before.

Tonight, Kezzie who would normally have been wearing a frumpy jumper and jeans while playing clarinet in orchestra practice, was instead, wearing a black silk camisole and stockings, beaming at her unleashed femininity and roaring with laughter as she gyrated her ass on the boy’s crotches.

Steve, he should have been in rehearsals for the local theatre, running around backstage while dreaming of being centre stage himself. He was as bent as a six-pound note. That was the common vernacular of the day. But no one ever talked about it him being gay. He was just Steve, and we just accepted him. His lavish fake fur coat, black stockings and outlandish makeup suited him perfectly. He slapped Kezzie’s ass hard, and she screamed in faux shock.

She was in love with him too. We all knew it. And the silk black camisole he wore revealed that he must have a huge member as it flopped around in there like an elephants trunk.

I think Steve was in love with Kezzie also.

Kinda.

But, as I said, he was gay. So, yeah.   

Jo, who volunteered at the library at weekends, was all underwired with her voluptuous boobs out. My god, I never knew her boobs were so fulsome.

The token alpha male, Pete, usually would have been at football practice. He hung back in the shadows and watched the show, nervous, excited, and captivated. I could sense that something deep inside him was finding its way to the surface with us tonight. And we just allowed him the space to do it. With an occasional jab and a sprinkling of encouragement of course.

Then in the shadows, was the enigmatic Sarah.

Tomboy by day, bald cap and Riff Raff this night. We got on well, and I am sure had Melanie not been around, we would have been pulled together. Occasionally I would catch her eye, and she was always watching me.

Our kinky tribe welcomed everyone, and on their terms, not societies norms. Fuck society we thought.   

All around me, the freaks and geeks were letting it all hang out.

And for every straight guy like me, there were around six or seven girls.

It was intoxicating.

Melanie could sense this. That I loved this closeness to the girls in their knickers, and not just because I was horny.

I loved to be around femininity.

I loved to be with the girls while wearing sexy lingerie myself.

I loved to be seen by them, to be accepted into the group, while wearing lingerie, stockings and heels.

I loved that they accepted it. Accepted me. No. They encouraged me.

I adored how the fabrics felt on my skin.

I was becoming overwhelmed by this closeness and acceptance, the feminine sensuality, and all while being flooded by hedonistic and erotic energy.  

Most of all, I adored that Melanie was with me for all this.

Now.

While Melanie was the kinky queen of the girlies, I was definitely the tranny in charge of the handful of boys in pink feather boas.

In some way, this cemented our status as some demented and inverted prom King and Queen for the night, roles we only ever saw in American movies.

But it felt right.

No, it felt fucking fantastic.

Looking back now, I can see how innocent we all were.

No booze.

No drugs.

Just raw teenage sexuality mixed in with a joy and playfulness that we could just be ‘us’.

And no one was getting up to anything very naughty, either. This was TOO MUCH FUN to allow that to get in the way. Getting fully turned on would, in a weird way, kill the energy. So, we all held back.

Except that is, for one girl.

Pippa.

Pippa was the Alpha Geek Girl of our clan who now, for this one night, had been dethroned by Melanie.

She also played trumpet in the band.

While that seems random, it is not.   

She also had a rampant sex drive.

Back to the coach.

Only the cool kids ever sat on the back row of the coach on trips.

Tonight, and only tonight, that was me, Melanie and the gang.

A natural leader, Melanie had been checking in with the driver that we were on time for our return. She knew that there was a fleet of worried and embarrassed parents waiting to collect us when we arrived back at the school.

Secretly. Well, no, not secretly, she adored strutting up and down the entire length of the coach in her high heels and knickers. And so, she would regularly check in on our progress, making that swaggering journey in her underwear from one end of the coach to the other.

Having just checked in, she grinned at me as she headed back down the aisle, giving me the thumbs up that we were on time.

She threw herself into her seat beside me, immediately babbling, shouting above the chorus of ‘let’s do the time warp again’ from the smutty mob of teenagers.

‘I can’t believe we got on stage! And we sang with Frank-N-Furter! Stu got some photos too. I will get them processed at Super Snaps on Saturday.’

‘Yeah. Amazing, right?’ I replied.

A sudden pain of realisation shot through me. I  wanted this night to never end.

I looked around at Melanie, who was close to me now, looking me directly in the eye. She hesitated, looked down, and then with a wicked grin, asked the question.

‘Tell me the truth. Go on, you can tell me.’

I hesitated.

She playfully pushed her chest out. Her black lace bra was just see-through enough for me to see her nipples, hard and erect from the cold.

‘Is a B cup a perfect handful, or are my boobies too small?’

I guffawed.

I pushed her hard, adding, ‘Put them away, you slag!’

She roared with laughter and relaxed back.

Without looking up at me, she asked again.

‘No, seriously though, you can tell me the truth.’

‘What? Your boobs? Yeah, they are, they are, er…’

‘No. Not my boobs, you idiot. You. Tell me the truth.’

She gazed up at me, her eyes wide.

My mind raced. What truth did she mean?

I mean, there was so much I was desperate to say to her, but I was also terrified.

‘I love you’, I wanted to say. But didn’t.

‘Do you love me?’ I wanted to ask. Even though I knew that she did. But I also knew that something was also, well, just off.

I wanted soooo badly to share my deepest and most shame-filled secret and tell her, ‘I think I am a transvestite’.

But if I did tell her, I was then terrified to ask, ‘Would that be a massive turn-off for you?’

That entire conversation happened in my head in a second.

Melanie pushed, coaxing me out, ‘Go on, say it. Tell me.’

No matter what I wanted to say, nothing could tempt my mouth to utter any of those words.

A ruckus at the front of the coach exploded. Ruby was arguing with one of the boys, who I suspect had dared to try it on with her.

‘Now what?’ Melanie uttered and immediately got up to go and deal with the altercation.

A reprieve to gather my courage.

Melanie made her way down the aisle, passing Pippa as she went.

It seemed fate was not going to allow me the reprieve I needed.

Where Melanie was curvy, fun, all smiles and laughter, Pippa was diabolically sexual. Tall, angular and skinny, she was cloaked head to toe in a long black silk cape. She had kept herself hidden all night.

While all eyes were drawn to the front of the coach, where the verbal sparring match was being broken up by Melanie, Pippa had fixed her laser vision on me.

She floated my way without breaking her gaze.

Stopping just a few feet from me, she towered above, a wicked smile breaking across her vermilion lips.

She opened her cape to reveal herself fully.

She often wore tight clothes, so I kind of knew her figure. But OMFG, I was not prepared for her toned, lithe body. She wore a red lace camisole that was entirely see-through, and I could see that her nipples were pierced, and she wore a belly button ring.

Her panties were matching red and also see-through, her trimmed pubes neatly contained within the smallest lace package I one could buy at the market on a Saturday morning. Suspenders held up her black stockings, and while I could not see them, I knew she was wearing black patent high heels too.

She leaned in slowly, taking her time to ensure her camisole dropped down just enough for me to see her pert breasts.

Then with a breath, she was at my left ear whispering.

‘You know what they say about girls who play brass instruments?’

I didn’t answer.

‘They can suck a golf ball through a hosepipe.’

She pulled back, a demure grin splashing across her face.

She fanned herself with a black lace fold-up fan, then purposefully dropped it.

‘Ooops!’ she faked.

A moment later, she was crouched between my legs, fumbling for the dropped fan. She looked up at me, all huge eyes and inviting lips. Her left hand, wearing red lace fingerless gloves, ran up my thigh, across the material of my stockings, her fingers meeting the clip of my suspender belt. She glanced down at my crotch, her mouth opening wider, then back up at me, her tongue teasing the side of her lip.

Abruptly she stood and, in the same movement, perched herself on my lap.

She smiled and waved to the girls down the coach with a dramatic but fake laugh. She was diverting attention from us.

What I hadn’t noticed was that she had sat on her hand, which now began to gently squeeze my cock, which, unsurprisingly, was hard as polished oak. Her fingers began to work the tip with surprising expertise. Easy enough, as I was so wet from my arousal.

My mind began to spin.

This was the first time a girl had touched my cock.

And Pippa was a vixen too.

Shamelessly, she looked directly at me and asked loudly, ‘Do you like that?’

No one noticed what she was doing to me.

And she knew it.

And she loved it.

She began to wiggle her ass in time with the music, allowing her to start to play with me fully.

Then she leaned in and breathed in my ear, ‘Do you want me to carry on wanking you off? I can make you cum if you want?’

I couldn’t breathe.

I was spiraling into deep arousal.

Pippa was so overtly sexual I had no chance.

And her body felt so soft and warm, so feminine.

And then I was also dressed in lingerie and stockings. My ultimate fantasy.

‘Hey!’

A shout broke the hypnotic moment.

Melanie had returned, and she was not happy.

Glancing at me, Pippa grinned wickedly and stood, allowing Melanie to drop back into her seat.

Seconds later, Melanie was by my side, her legs up and on my lap, laying claim and shielding me from Pippa.

Nothing was said.

Pippa smelled her fingers, grinned, then slinked away.

Keeping her eye on the retreating Pippa, Melanie whispered, ‘Are you OK?’

I didn’t know what to say.

Embarrassed, I looked down.

Perhaps it was the flush of endorphins or that I was sexually triggered and overwhelmed, but it was a moment of truth for me, and I blurted out.

‘I love you.’

Melanie looked at me and hesitated.

‘I love you too’, she replied carefully.

I moved in for a kiss, but she backed away.

‘I can’t’, she uttered.

‘And I can’t explain either. I am sorry, but I can’t. And it’s nothing to do with you being a tranny.’

That landed like an atom bomb.

‘Yes, I knw about you dressing up. And I don’t care. And I do love you. But. I just can’t.’

I was crestfallen.

Melanie took a deep breath, then taking my head in both hands, she moved in for a short and passionate kiss.

Just lips. 

It was a kiss filled with pain but also love.

It was the kiss of compassionate rejection.

‘I do love you. But you need to let me go. I just can’t.’

I nodded.

Walking her fingers up my inner thigh, she grinned, ‘Hey, tonight, when you get home, keep these stockings on and have a good wank. What am I saying? I know you will.’

She snapped my suspender and chuckled. Then paused, her energy shifting, and said, ‘You know, you are better than Pippa, don’t you?’

Again, I nodded.

The music on the tape player changed to the next track.

Melanie lit up, ‘It’s your anthem!’ she announced loudly.

‘Sweet Transvestite’ blurred out of the tiny coach speakers.

Fuck it, I thought.

I stood, embraced my inner Frank-N-Furter and led the chorus of voices as we sang our way home to our waiting parents.

Later I watched as Melanie opened her mums’ car door, an old, beat-up brown Ford. Before climbing in, she glanced over to me and blew me a kiss, waving goodnight.

She knew, and I knew, that we had confronted a truth tonight.

And my heart was broken.

I felt someone take my arm. It was my older sister. Somehow, she had sensed what had happened and said softly, ‘Let’s get home now?’

I nodded and looked up, right into the eyeline of Ruby.

Standing ten feet away, a lit cigarette hanging from her mouth now, and looking directly at me, Ruby strutted over, dragging hard on her fag. Where Melanie was loveable and sexy, and Pippa was a nymphomaniac in red lace, Ruby was just cool in that older girl way. She was all pierced, with short jet-black hair cropped on one side and wearing a leather biker. And she gave zero fucks whatsoever.

She looked me up and down, then without breaking eye contact with me, said to my sister, ‘Who knew your brother would be the sexiest girl on the coach?’

She took a step closer, speaking to me directly now.

‘Just do you, you slutty girl. And fuck the rest of them.’

With that, she spun on her heel and headed for my sister’s car.

‘Let’s go!’ she shouted back, and with a smile and giggle, we followed.

Years later, I had a heart-to-heart with Melanie.

I shared my life and the depth of my sexual deviance if deviance is the right word. It’s not really the right word, but I do like the way that it sounds. I also shared my success in my new kinky world too.

She finally explained why, with me at least, it had never happened between us. It’s not for me to explain here. But yeah, we were in love. And we still love each other today, even though we both have happy family lives on opposite sides of the planet.

Ruby, of course, you know all about from my other books.

I am Facebook friends with Pippa too. And I have the photos from that night. Every so often, I wonder, should I scan and share them?

At that moment, I made a decision.

I reached for the file crammed with negatives from those years and fired up the scanner. Everyone was about to get a photographic, private, blast from the sexually angst past.