The Rocky Horror Picture Show (With My Mom)
The love affair of a single mother of two and a raunchy cult classic.
The ticket checker was shirtless and braless, pale skin visible beneath her cropped black blazer.
A rainbow tulle tutu surrounded her willowy waist, and beneath it a tiny pink thong left nothing to the imagination. “It’s your first time seeing a live show, right?” she asked expectantly, towering over me in her clear rubber stiletto heels, blue eyes blinking and full of guile beneath the shade of false black lashes.
I met my mom’s eyes, frantic, and sputtered out a yes. The tall woman drew a large “V” in bright red lipstick on my forehead. Immediately, alarm bells began ringing in my perpetually-anxious brain. Some underdressed and absurdly tall woman was writing on my forehead in lipstick. I couldn’t see the mark, but I knew it couldn’t be good. According to my overactive brain, this weird occurrence immediately sent me into flight mode.
My mom groaned, and my sister suggested we step outside until showtime once she saw my crestfallen face. I quickly complied, trying and failing to hide the uneven breaths that burst from my mouth and nose in a snorting, coughing display of total panic meltdown.
