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Aaahhh yes... The Rocky Horror Show, live on stage in Zurich, and my wife Sandra and I warmed up two seats in the ninth row.

I was surprised and excited to see the hundreds of huge black and red posters of those unmistakable lips covering all the available flat surfaces of the city - the last tour of the London Rocky Horror Show was coming to corrupt and defile sweet Switzerland! I definitely needed to have this event included in my to-do-before-I-die list. Ticket price was absolutely no concern, I just wanted to be close enough to be pelted with rice, toilet paper rolls, stale toast and soaked with fake rain water squirted from plastic water pistols. I've always been fascinated with this sex musical, ever since I would watch my older sisters and their hot girlfriends prepare themselves before going to the theatre for a night of transsexual mania. In the late seventies, I used to listen to the vinyl album over and over, looking at the strange sexual images on the worn sleeve, wondering what the hell it was all about. Singing along with all the odd lyrics and thinking to myself, what does 'heavy-petting' and 'seat-wetting' mean, and what the hell is a transvestite, and why can't I find Transylvania in my junior school atlas? Dressed up in garters and skimpy outfits, their faces white and black and red, my sisters and her friends ventured out into the night with their bag of props to throw back and forth at the rest of the cult theatre crowd.

I had my first Rocky Horror halloween party in 2003, and it was also my first experience wearing fish-net stockings, garters, PVC, and little leather underwear. Oooohh, I felt sexy. I attempted the high-heels, but opted for the contrast of ominous black motorcycle boots to help tip the scales back towards masculinity. I think it worked. I felt so sexy, dainty, and experienced an aura of beautiful feminine softness while still able to crush skulls under my dirty black knee-high death boots. My hair was dyed black, thick makeup was caked on my face and a full martini glass placed gently into my moisturized and manicured satin-gloved hands. I was ready to be it, not dream it. I wrapped my eight foot long feather boa around my bare shoulders and I practiced my bored lipstick sneer in front of the mirror for when my guests would arrive. Of course I was Franknfurter - I was the party host, I had to be him.

At the end of the long night of sexual debauchery my castle from Transsexual was trashed, there was broken glass everywhere,

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