truly understand. My passion then (as now, if truth be told) was for the actor Tom Cruise who had just shot to sexy stardom in the film Risky Business and whose forthcoming role as a raunchy Sex God in the movie Top Gun was already being trailed in teen magazines and television shows. I loved Tom with a passion and had spent a good part of the evening proving my devotion by engaging in a kissing contest, competing against the smooching abilities of my equally-besotted friend. The game was simple: we each had a photograph of Tom Cruise and the winner would be the one who could kiss his image for the longest time. It truly was ‘no contest’ and I think I can still claim that 21 minutes is the world-record for ‘Cruise-kissing’ if such an achievement ever enters the record books.
The competition in my friend’s bedroom was followed by all of us sharing a whispered, graphic account of what we thought we might do to attract Tom’s interest were he to stroll in through the bedroom door. We none of us knew much about sex but could all imagine a few of the sexy delights wemight offer him. (With the experience I’ve since gained in the adult industry, I could offer him an even better time now, should he ever wish to take up the offer.)
With Tom’s, lip-dampened photographs safely put away for the night, all three of us had settled down to sleep on a couple of mattresses spread out across the bedroom floor. The house was already quiet: my friend’s mother had gone to bed and her father was in the habit of staying up alone until the early hours downstairs. I snuggled down under the sheets in the middle of the group and, with our bedtime much later than usual, we must all have fallen quickly off to sleep. I don’t really have any idea of what time I woke up, but I was conscious of this sudden, freezing cold sensation on my legs; it was utterly ice cold. I woke up with a thudding heart, which is a bizarre experience to have, and was aware of someone else in the room. I was wearing just a short nightshirt and knickers and, kneeling at the end of the bed, lifting up the hem of my nightie and staring intently at my pants, was my friend’s dad, Ian. Even more disturbingly, he was wearing nothing except his underpants.
He looked more terrified than me when I spun around and saw him. He was mouthing the words ‘sorry, sorry, really sorry’ as he jumped up and sped out through the bedroom door and off down the stairs. By then I was screaming; it was such a shock and it took me a moment to realise that he must have been looking under the covers for a while before he disturbed me by actually touching my clothes. With my friends now awake and asking what had happened, my would-be voyeur’s wife came sleepily into the room.
‘He was going to touch me, he was going to do something to me,’ I gasped.
‘What on earth do you mean? Touch you? Who was touching you?’
‘Ian. He was lifting the quilt up and looking at me; he was looking at my pants, he was going to do something…’
The words tumbled out in a jumble because I was truly upset and frightened. It was the first time that I had ever thought that somebody was going to touch me like that. It dawned on me that I could have been raped and I was shaking with fear. My friend’s mum looked shocked and called downstairs to her husband: ‘Ian, Ian, come upstairs would you?’
He wandered in to the room as cool as a cucumber, and by now fully dressed. ‘What? What’s going on, what’s the matter?’ he asked, his face all puzzled innocence. He listened, and did a good job of appearing to be horrified, as his wife explained that I was ‘making accusations’ that he had been in the bedroom.
‘But I’ve just been downstairs watching the telly,’ he protested. ‘What’s she on about?’ And then he turned directly to me, still cowering under the bedclothes: ‘What are you talking about; I haven’t been near you.’
Faced with a blatant lie, I pleaded to be believed: ‘But
The competition in my friend’s bedroom was followed by all of us sharing a whispered, graphic account of what we thought we might do to attract Tom’s interest were he to stroll in through the bedroom door. We none of us knew much about sex but could all imagine a few of the sexy delights wemight offer him. (With the experience I’ve since gained in the adult industry, I could offer him an even better time now, should he ever wish to take up the offer.)
With Tom’s, lip-dampened photographs safely put away for the night, all three of us had settled down to sleep on a couple of mattresses spread out across the bedroom floor. The house was already quiet: my friend’s mother had gone to bed and her father was in the habit of staying up alone until the early hours downstairs. I snuggled down under the sheets in the middle of the group and, with our bedtime much later than usual, we must all have fallen quickly off to sleep. I don’t really have any idea of what time I woke up, but I was conscious of this sudden, freezing cold sensation on my legs; it was utterly ice cold. I woke up with a thudding heart, which is a bizarre experience to have, and was aware of someone else in the room. I was wearing just a short nightshirt and knickers and, kneeling at the end of the bed, lifting up the hem of my nightie and staring intently at my pants, was my friend’s dad, Ian. Even more disturbingly, he was wearing nothing except his underpants.
He looked more terrified than me when I spun around and saw him. He was mouthing the words ‘sorry, sorry, really sorry’ as he jumped up and sped out through the bedroom door and off down the stairs. By then I was screaming; it was such a shock and it took me a moment to realise that he must have been looking under the covers for a while before he disturbed me by actually touching my clothes. With my friends now awake and asking what had happened, my would-be voyeur’s wife came sleepily into the room.
‘He was going to touch me, he was going to do something to me,’ I gasped.
‘What on earth do you mean? Touch you? Who was touching you?’
‘Ian. He was lifting the quilt up and looking at me; he was looking at my pants, he was going to do something…’
The words tumbled out in a jumble because I was truly upset and frightened. It was the first time that I had ever thought that somebody was going to touch me like that. It dawned on me that I could have been raped and I was shaking with fear. My friend’s mum looked shocked and called downstairs to her husband: ‘Ian, Ian, come upstairs would you?’
He wandered in to the room as cool as a cucumber, and by now fully dressed. ‘What? What’s going on, what’s the matter?’ he asked, his face all puzzled innocence. He listened, and did a good job of appearing to be horrified, as his wife explained that I was ‘making accusations’ that he had been in the bedroom.
‘But I’ve just been downstairs watching the telly,’ he protested. ‘What’s she on about?’ And then he turned directly to me, still cowering under the bedclothes: ‘What are you talking about; I haven’t been near you.’
Faced with a blatant lie, I pleaded to be believed: ‘But
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