POPPING YOUR CHERRY AT FRANKENFURTER'S CASTLE

POPPING YOUR CHERRY AT FRANK-N-FURTER’S CASTLE

By Issa Rashid

“Give yourself over to absolute pleasure”. I’ve experienced the cultish phenomenon of Rocky Horror Picture Show in all of its varying forms. My first time was at the ripe age of 14, at midnight, fully virgin-cored. I'lll never forget the time I was sacrificially 'devirginized' by a goth-clown. Furiously wielding a bright red lipstick shade, a capital V was painted onto my forehead, as I was branded a “slut!” in a crowded dimly lit theater. The rogue pushed against my lips, smearing me in lust and shame. It made me feel the way I did getting caught rifling through my mom’s Mary-Kay make-up box.

We were there on a somewhat unauthorized school field trip. Our highschool drama teacher directed the production and had us swear not to tell our parents or faculty that we attended. 

I sat in the worst and best possible seat in the house--front and center. I don’t need to serve you details on the play, it is almost exactly to the film, although I had never seen it at the time. Nothing could have prepared me for the gender-bent revelation. 

Telling a virgin the doings of what went down on that stage violates the sacred traditions of the midnight mayhem. You must go into it blindly. What I will say is: there is absolutely no way to readily admit how I felt in that seat. I felt bad, but good bad, like the kind of excitement and lowkey first hand religious guilt you might have felt your first time in an adult video store. 

Experiencing such an exhilarating display of sexuality and gender was not only freeing but truly informed the person I would eventually become as I began to discover parts of myself that, till then, had  always been in the dark. I didn't have the new wave of advanced queer cultural terminology to explain my trans non-binary identity. Although I knew that I was not a “sweet transvestite, from transexual Transylvania,” I felt seen. 

At that age, the exposure meant a great deal to me. It supplied me with the idea that love, sex, desire and intimacy could and would be limitless. That my attraction, my sexuality and gender were open portals for expansion and exploration. 

There is a pivotal scene in which Dr. Frank-n-furter unabashedly proclaims their love for themselves, shouting an almost trance-like mantra that provides the audience a hint into their inner gender dysphoric yearning. “Whatever happened to Fay Wray? /That Delicate satin draped frame/ As it clung to her thigh, how I started to cry/ cause I wanted to be dressed just the same.” A deep feeling that still resonates with the constant realities, push and pulls of my personal gender expression. 

The spell continues, “Give yourself over to absolute pleasure /Swim the waters of sins of the flesh /Erotic nightmares beyond any measure and sensual daydreams to treasure forever. Can’t you see it?” In a flash of joy and euphoria Dr. Frank-n-furter extends their arms out like a bird ready for flight and jumps into a steaming pool of magical self-realization. 

Furter floats in the waters of a metaphorical baptism. They look up and say, “don’t dream it, be it, “ as mascara drips down their face. “Don’t dream it, be it!.” The incantation takes over as if aware of the metamorphosis, “Don’t dream it, be it.” The chorus begins to sing, and the cast of now loyal followers dive into this whirlpool of love and inner acceptance. Skin to skin they become one, an ideation of queer existence. 

Whatever arguments are made against the characters and themes of the show, are valid to each’s own experience, though I would say I am personally indebted to an entire scenario presented in a somewhat fictional liminal space of time, at the Frankenstein castle.