In college a group of us decided we wanted to do the "floor show" at the local movie house's midnight showing of the "Rocky Horror Picture Show". I don't remember why - but I either volunteered or was volunteered to play Dr. Frank N. Furter.
So, the couple of days before the Friday show we ran about assembling our costumes. The stockings and feather boa were easy enough, and the college Green Room had - amazingly - a merry widow that fit (it was red, not black, but, like, whatever. Cross-dressers can't be choosers.). But I have and had size 13 feet. And nobody - and I mean nobody - had high heels that fit.
So I spent the better part of a day in downtown Lancaster, PA - and keep in mind that this is a mid-size city in rural Pennsylvania in the late Seventies - going into women's shoe stores, sidling up to the least-shockable-looking clerk and muttering "I need a size 15 ladies' black patent pump and no freaky questions, okay?"
The typical sequence was a clueless (or cynical) stare followed by the pervert's slinking exit (stage right).
I finally found a pair of men's size 12's that pinched like a son of a bitch. High kicking was murder.
I've suffered for my art; let me tell you. And I'm proud to have passed the ladies' footwear torch to my son. But if you're going to walk a mile in my shoes, boy, just make sure they fit (and they aren't last years'!)
