Right, so the moment with the ballet guy was awful. I liked girly theatre boys, and so did they. Damn.
I tried to like other boys. I had dated this one boy in early teenhood with whom I bonded over the musical stylings of Meat Loaf. That was almost like theatre. Almost. Not really. Nope. Not at all. The motorcycle factored in too heavily, and would lead my beau down the sordid, masculine path of trucks and guns and bars.
Then I dated a girl. I didn’t premeditate that happening; we fell into it, “practicing” for our future boyfriends, and it turned out that we liked it. The physical part of it. But, as we never discussed it outside of the moment, the arrangement was the opposite of permanent. It was, and then it wasn’t anymore.
But I had two pieces of valuable data: I liked boys who liked boys, and I liked girls who liked boys. Thus, I logically concluded that I should become a boy.
Now that my eyes had been opened, I searched for Tim Curry in other places than that one VHS tape. I learned that I had known him before, in IT and Home Alone 2. He is often so well-hidden in his work and, more, he was always turning up in places I didn’t expect. He did voice-overs for video games and cartoon characters. He read out audio books. He had done a lot, and I perused the body of his work so much that I had most of it memorized; when I would go out to the stores with my mother, I would look for titles in which I knew he’d had a hand.
I even bought the Miss Piggy cookbook for the recipe he had in it: lemon chicken with thyme. Mom and I made it once, together. It was delicious.
Meanwhile, Mom had explained to me that Rocky Horror had a huge following, that people dressed up and shouted out clever or crude things between the lines of the actors. She told me about people throwing rice, hot dogs, and confetti. She promised to take me.
I remember, it was the first time I’d ever eaten Bugles. I thought they were both great and gross, and had been shoveling them into my face ever since Mom called my friend N and me up to the living room. “I want to show you this movie,” she said. It was a musical.
N thought it would be like Cats and was reticent. This was after I wrote a “script” for Cats 2: the Memory Lives Again and forced N to perform it with me while Mom taped us. Thus, out of sympathy for N, I made a great show of reluctance and tried to get us out of watching the new movie.
But Mom wouldn’t take no for an answer. This was nothing like Cats, she said – this was rock n’ roll. “It’s called The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
If you’re wondering how it is I ended up in a throuple with two metrosexual, bisexual men — that part is all my fault. Certain disapproving parties prefer to believe that I have been entrapped, or tricked, so as to allow two gay men to conduct their gay business under my naive (and thus approving) nose while I provide them with love, support, and a beard (if I may). This is not true, and before we go further with this silly post let’s get that much straight: seriously, I’m here because I put myself here.
But free will does not mean you exist in a vacuum, as a philosophy professor of mine would be happy to tell you. You have choices, yes, but the set of these is limited by what has come before you, and what can possibly come after. How ELSE did I get here? Yes, I wanted this. But why?
It’s that cat’s fault, up there in the fancy Leotard. (See what I did there? Leotard. I’ll wait.)