Good Vibrations Magazine

When Brooke saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show poster on the wall, she knew she was going to wank. It’s not like it should have surprised her; after all, she had spent her last two years in this house fetishizing that image, dreaming about that pout on Tim Curry’s face coming wickedly close to hers. She’d also spent a substantial portion of her last two years in this house fighting with her supposedly libertine mom over that poster (”It’s not that I object, I just don’t understand why you would want to look at a picture like that every day!”) Mom had finally given in and shut up about it, but to the day Brooke went away to college, she’d avoided coming into Brooke’s bedroom.

Brooke dropped her bags by the door and climbed onto the single bed, inhaling the clean scent of fresh sheets and looking around her room at the memorabilia of her late childhood: Edvard Munch blow-up doll; postcards from London, Prague and Amsterdam; Senior Civics final project collage of abortion clinic bombings. She kicked off her running shoes and stretched out, staring up at the Rocky Horror picture. It had been a full year since Brooke had been home, having moved cross-country for an internship right after college, moving permanently when the internship turned into a job, skipping Thanksgiving and Christmas because Mom was in Jamaica with her new boyfriend.

A year was a long time; maybe that’s why the image of Tim Curry decked out in fishnets, corset, makeup and a lush mane of dark hair had such an effect on her. But she couldn’t help but think how that poster had been such a bone of contention between her mom and her. In the year since she’d been gone, why hadn’t Mom taken it down? Could it be that she’d finally gotten over herself, maybe chalked Brooke’s late-teen fascination with crossdressing men down to some harmless hobby like repeated viewings of Some Like it Hot? Lucky she’d never found out about the drugs Brooke consumed at her 24-month binge of weekly midnight movies — weed, vodka, Zima, Boone’s apple wine, generic tequila, nitrous oxide and cocaine. That, or the sex. Could you even really call it sex, Brooke wondered? She thought of it more as drunken recreation, and it never went very far. At least, not as far as her fantasies did.

Brooke remembered her adolescent fumblings with Tim, who played Frank-N-Furter in the cast that re-enacted Rocky Horror every Saturday night in the flickering light under the screen. In her postpubescent hormone-drenched fervor, she’d thought it was the coolest thing in the world that the 19-year-old wannabe actor was named “Tim,” just like Tim Curry, who played the character in the film. But what really fascinated her was the way his legs looked in fishnets, the way his lithe body moved in a corset. Tim had been a pretty mediocre kisser and too drunk to do much with those long-fingered hands, but their three heated makeout sessions remained some of the most intense sexual memories of Brooke’s life. She would have lost her virginity to him in a minute if the idiot hadn’t always been too drunk. She wondered if the real Tim Curry would have been a better lay.

That thought sent a surge of pleasure through Brooke’s body. Suddenly inspired, she squirmed out of the jeans she’d worn on the plane, slipped off the baggy sweatshirt and unhitched her bra. She stretched on the bed, vaguely annoyed at the fact that there was so little room to stretch out — she’d invested in a queen bed a year ago and had been enjoying it thoroughly. But then she got a wicked smile on her face and felt more than a little titillated, remembering all the times she’d wanked in this very bed thinking about Frank-N-Furter. Staring up at Tim Curry, Brooke casually slipped her hand into her thong and gasped as she felt her finger slide easily into her. Either Tim and his fishnets still carried an intense charge for her, or her mind had been wandering on the plane more than she’d noticed. She suspected it was a little of both. Then she was seized with a sudden powerful, erotic thought that sent a wave through her body.

She bounded off the bed and dug through her backpack, pawing clean underwear and dirty magazines out of the way. She ran across her pocket vibrator and tossed it onto the bed for later reference. Near the bottom she found her portable MP3 player. It took her a few minutes of scrolling through songs before she found it. She’d downloaded it months ago in a fit of nostalgia, then promptly forgot about it until now: “Sweet Transvestite.” She set the player on repeat, put her headphones on and returned to the bed.

Normally Brooke masturbated on her stomach, but this time she wanted to stare Tim Curry right in the face — and be able to run her eyes over the line of his legs in those fishnets, so she stayed on her back. The way he was positioned in the poster, she couldn’t really see his crotch, but no matter: in her fantasy, the fantasy she’d had what seemed like a thousand times since she first saw the movie, her imagination filled out Tim’s crotch quite nicely. That pair of bulging black lace panties held a long, thin cock that sent Brooke’s head into a spin. She pressed “play” on the MP3 player and twisted the vibrator’s control.

“How do you do? I see you’ve met my faithful handyman,” crooned Frank-N-Furter privately into Brooke’s ear as the vibrator slid easily into her thong and touched her clit. Her response was immediate, faster than it almost ever was: power coursed through her body, her stifled gasp sounding loud in the small room even over the breathy voice singing “…he thought you were the Candyman…” as she bucked and arched her back, her buttocks leaving the bed. Staring at the poster, she imagined herself dropping to her knees in front of that crooning diva, slipping her hand into his lace panties and tugging them down to reveal his long, hard cock, the tip glistening with pre-come. She could almost taste it as she changed hands, opened her mouth and slipped a finger in, licking her own juices off and imagining that Frank-N-Furter’s pre-come tasted like her pussy. She imagined her mouth on his cock, sliding easily up and down with her hand cupping his balls as he sang to her: “I’m just a sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania…”

Now she was climbing to her feet, bending over one of those antique couches and putting her ass in the air as Tim kept singing flawlessly, never missing a note as Magenta guided his cock between Brooke’s legs, tugging her thong out of the way. Brooke’s body responded almost viscerally as she imagined his long, thin cock parting her lips and sliding into her, finding her pussy as wet in the fantasy as it was in reality. She pressed the vibrator harder against her clit and rocked her hips in time with Tim Curry’s cock as it slid all the way into her, her hand lingering around the entrance to her pussy so she could feel his balls gently rubbing her clit. Tim kept singing as he began to fuck her in long, rapid, even strokes: “…stay for the night? Or maybe a bite?” She could almost feel his cock hitting her G-spot as she smothered herself in Magenta’s cleavage. She slipped two fingers inside her while the vibrator worked her clit, and opened her eyes wide to look into Tim’s beautiful face as she approached her orgasm.

But one thing still remained in Brooke’s fantasy; it was something she’d almost forgotten, maybe in a fit of adolescent embarassment. She had spent so much time during her Rocky Horror days worrying about getting pregnant — even though she didn’t lose her virginity until the year she left for college — that even in her fantasies she could never let a guy come in her pussy. Maybe that’s why, in her vivid Tim Curry fantasy, Dr. Frank-N-Furter always pulled out just before he came. Pulled out, and slid into her ass.

She’d never done it in reality, which is why she was so shocked when she felt one finger trailing down her pussy, felt the sudden pulse of bravery that told her she was going to go further than before. She knew you were supposed to use lube and everything, so she never would have actually put it in, but of course in the fantasy there was no lube involved. She touched her slick finger between her cheeks and, without pushing at all, felt an avalanche of sensation that set her off into an orgasm as she imagined Tim Curry’s cock sliding smoothly and repeatedly into her ass, his singing finally faltering as he exploded inside her, flooding her with his thick come.

Brooke could feel the lingering spasms of her fading climax as she sang along softly with the MP3 player. “I’m just a sweet transvestite…”

Brooke smiled. It was going to be a long week at home.