It was the day before my 17th birthday, and I was in the car on my way to school.

“Zohar,” I hesitantly addressed the driver. “I am not going to school today.”

He flashed me a stern and heavily bearded glance in the rear view mirror. My friends and I had always been a little wary of him, mostly because of his unsmiling and deeply religious demeanour, and so we made sure never to involve him in any of our plans, but this time, I didn’t have a choice. So, in what I hoped was a nonchalant, but sufficiently authoritative tone, I gave him the name of the hotel where he was to drop me off instead. He nodded gravely. (I little knew, at the time, that in stark contrast to his appearance, he was carrying on a torrid affair with the maid, who was also, incidentally, the wife of the other driver. Yes, we had a lot of drivers.)

He had taken me to this hotel the evening before, at a more respectable time of day, and with an obligatory female companion – a classmate whom I had persuaded to come along with me to meet the Australian hockey team, in town for the annual Champions Cup. I wish I could remember that evening… but I can’t, because it was eclipsed by what came after. Still, it must have been incredible to find myself surrounded by these rowdy idols of my teenaged years. Just how incredible would be impossible to describe, at least not without going into a lot of extraneous detail (like how I LITERALLY grew up in a nunnery – yes!).

I do remember that they had kind of congregated in two separate groups, and I somehow ended up in the midst of the more raucous group, where I explained to them, as I got their autographs, that I absolutely had to meet David W, because he was my favourite player.

“Why’s he your favourite?” asked the captain, Warren B, who was my second favourite.

“Because he’s cute,” I replied.

“Cute?” he repeated scornfully. “He’s a fucking weirdo.”

Unfortunately, that turned out to be a pretty accurate assessment, as I soon discovered, but I collected my autograph and wandered back to the previous group, where I somehow managed to keep some sort of conversation going, while my friend lurked, completely sidelined, in the background. Finally, though, I had to leave (nothing has changed, you see, since I was 16!), but Warren B, moved by my evident regret, gave me his room number, and suggested that I return the next morning, to wake him up.

One would think I’d have been in seventh heaven upon hearing those words, but I was so naive, ignorant and entirely lacking in self-confidence that I actually thought that perhaps he just wanted to make sure he didn’t sleep too late and miss the game. Which is probably why I don’t remember lying awake all night in breathless anticipation as I usually do before a date (even now!). But my heart was in my throat the next morning as I crept up to his floor and quietly pushed open the door.

He was lying in bed – I still remember the sight so well – and when he saw me enter, he drew back the sheets a little so I could join him. IN BED!!!! He was wearing shorts – thank goodness, for otherwise I think I would have died of shock and fright. As soon as I was near enough, he pulled me towards him and kissed me – a warm, sweet kiss. My first kiss!!!!!!


He was 32 – twice my age – blond, and blue-eyed. And I wanted him madly.

I crawled into his bed; he began to touch me. I was still fully dressed, in my school uniform, but somehow he managed to remove the lower half of it, despite my giggles and involuntary struggles. Indeed, I couldn’t stop giggling, for no-one had ever touched my bare skin before – other than my parents – and I was so ticklish! Every time his fingers made contact with me, I squirmed away helplessly. At one point, he took my hand and pressed it against the bulge in his shorts. I gasped in horror. I had never felt an erection before, and I couldn’t believe how hard it was – like an iron rod! I’d read a few novels and flipped through a Cosmopolitan magazine, so I knew it did get “hard”, but I had expected it to still feel like human flesh – not like a piece of furniture!! How could something like that… go inside me??

“I don’t want to get pregnant,” I gasped.

“We’re not going to do it,” he told me.

“We’re not??” I demanded, crestfallen.

“No,” he reassured me, and, hoisting himself over me, he pulled down his shorts and forced his throbbing member into my open mouth.

I don’t know what it is about it, but to this day, it’s one of my least favourite positions – lying down on my back being face-fucked from above. And, of course, at that time, I was gagging, choking, covered in spit and tears, completely perplexed and helpless. Finally he pulled out and went off into the bathroom to take a shower. I lay on the bed, puzzled and disappointed. I knew enough to know that men are supposed to come, and to know that it hadn’t happened.

“Hey,” a cheery voice addressed me. I remembered then that Warren B. was sharing his room with another player, a younger fellow by the name of Stephen, who had suddenly materialised out of nowhere, and was reaching down under the blankets with alarming audacity. “What have you been getting up to, without any clothes on??”

I was mortified, because he seemed genuinely shocked, but a moment later he was fondling and kissing me! I was confused. This guy was not one of my favourite players, and I felt cheapened and hurt by his assumption that he could just have his way with me, too. But what could I do? I didn’t want to cause a scene. And perhaps I might still lose my virginity, after all! But no, he only wanted to do that same horrible thing. However, this time at least it ended with a comforting eruption of something warm and sticky all over my mouth and face. So I wasn’t a total failure after all! And Stephen seemed somehow more appreciative than Warren B, who was by then sitting on the other bed coldly perusing a fax, totally ignoring me.

I can’t remember exactly what happened next, but I think they let me go down with them for breakfast, in front of a crowd of scandalised hotel staff, aghast and literally speechless in the face of such debauchery. And that was great, of course.

I could never have guessed, in those days, how I would go on to re-tell this story countless times – it’s quite sad, I suppose, that it remained the highlight of my sexual history for so long. But there’s one part so embarrassing that I’ve never repeated it to anyone (and so, of course, I’m now going to broadcast it online for all to see): a few years later, I reflected on this incident with a different perspective, and began to suspect that I had, in fact, been taken advantage of, and I felt so degraded and humiliated by this that I locked myself into the bathroom one day and burned my diary, in which I had described the whole event in great (and glowing) detail. I think I even burned my little autograph book – there were no other autographs in it, anyway.

I regretted it soon afterwards, and thought better of my silliness. I had been crazy about Warren B, and I had wanted so much more – it was only his team-mate who, I felt, had foisted himself upon me, but that guy was just a kid, like me, so how could I really be angry with him? On the contrary, I’m impressed by their bravery, knowing that we could have all been dragged out into a field and stoned to death for adultery. Well, not all of us – just me, really, as they would have been extradited and forced to endure nothing more than a temporary increase in notoriety.‎

Now I know some of you are probably thinking, aha! So that’s why she’s so totally messed up! But I object to that most strenuously. For one thing, I am NOT messed up – no, not at all. And besides, it wouldn’t be fair to judge me for something which was, after all, nothing more than an aberration – a misguided instance of youthful folly. I would NEVER do something like that today…


3 thoughts on “Breakfast of Champions

  1. Yeah, the Aussie players are Not Safe in Taxis, I’m told. Nor hotel rooms. Me, I just wonder about women ice-skaters. The next Winter Olympics I’m going to crash their hotel room and let them have some of their way with me, within reason. Fair’s … No, I’ve forgotten what fair is.


  2. Very good read.

    By the way – I realised I went 6 years after Peter before Gus 1964 to 1970. What’s your longest?


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