Our sex-charged scribe recalls the heady time when a Page 3 girl succumbed to his worldly charms…

 

I’ve only ever slept with one famous person. Sadly, it’s not like she was up there with Britney Spears or Cameron Diaz in terms of global recognition. But she was quite a well-known Page 3 girl back in the ’90s, and had brightened up many a working man’s breakfast by displaying her blonde bobbed hair, her cheery smile and her marvelously perky breasts. If you were a regular Sun reader back then, you won’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out who I’m referring to. In fact, as the old joke goes, you won’t even need to be Eamonn Holmes.

We met when I interviewed her for a men’s magazine. I liked doing interviews. You just got on the plane or took a taxi to a hotel, met the celebrity, then asked cheeky questions for an hour. Back home, all you had to do was transcribe the tape and send in your invoice. It was easier than “proper” writing.

And more fun, too. I got to meet a lot of people I admired, from Hugh Hefner to Elmore Leonard. This was just before the explosion in tawdry gossip mags, so the stars were quite unguarded about their personal lives. Paul Newman told me about a friend of his who had put on a boxing glove and masturbated a horse. Pierce Brosnan went into great detail about his flatulence problems when in bed with glamorous co-stars. Some people pleasantly surprised me – Darren Day was very nice – others were a bit full of themselves. Mind you, it was probably better for them to be that way. Otherwise there’s a temptation to think, “Hey! I’m really getting on with this A-list celebrity. We’re having a laugh. Maybe they genuinely like me. Maybe I should give them my phone number and we can hang out next time they’re in town.”

The truth is, of course, that they are not there to make friends. And I was always careful to fight any delusions to the contrary. So when I was sent to get 1,000 words out of the Page 3 girl, I wasn’t expecting anything more than an hour of anecdotes about lingerie modelling and calendar shoots followed by a brisk handshake. However, during our chat, she happened to mention that she had just joined a snooker club near where I lived and needed somebody to practise with. Although I am no Ronnie O’Sullivan with a cue – in fact, I don’t even know what the chalk does – I casually volunteered my services. When was I free, she asked. I corrugated my brow, as if weighing up the many social engagements crowding my schedule, then suavely replied, “Er… tonight?” She smiled and said, “That’s a date then. See you at eight o’clock.”

Back at the office, I pondered her words. A date. Was she using the term to mean “a precise moment in time”, like 1066 or next Tuesday, or was she hinting that our encounter might have erotic possibilities at the end of it? Clearly, it was vital to work this out before I turned up, because if I misread the signals and started flirting with her, she might be outraged. She could write to my editor demanding that I be fired. Worse still, I might turn up to find her there with a gaggle of her friends, and they’d all laugh at my presumption. I envisaged them in a circle, jabbing their fingers at me and crowing at the idea that such a short-arsed ‘civilian’ thought he had a chance with a beauty who’d been squired by TV stars and millionaires.

But then again, maybe she did fancy me. I knew from my interview research that she’d recently split from her boyfriend, a Liverpool footballer, so she might be looking for some fun on the rebound. I’d often heard models sigh that most men were too intimidated to chat them up, so perhaps she was merely taking control. If that was the case and I was too respectful when we met up, she’d think I was boring or frigid. It was a thorny dilemma.

The snooker scene in north London obviously doesn’t get going until after the pubs shut, because apart from a barmaid we had the place to ourselves. The Page 3 girl was already there when I arrived, looking very sexy in a short blue dress and heels. She was swigging from a bottle of Budweiser, and announced that I had some catching up to do because it was her fourth of the evening. This was promising. After all, she was a slim little thing, no more than eight stone in weight, so the alcohol to body mass equation was well in my favour. Certainly if I had consumed the equivalent amount, I would be well into the stage of singing Irish songs, falling over in the urinals and attempting to have sex with anything on legs, barstools included.

It turned out, however, that she was a talented drinker. She had the capacity of an Oliver Reed, but with none of the unfortunate side-effects. Throughout the evening, she polished off ten bottles, but at no stage did she seem anything more than ‘a bit giggly’. Although this ruled out any scenarios which involved having to take her home and undress her for bed because she was incapable – a result which I would have considered highly satisfactory, of course – it did mean that she was fun to hang out with. We nattered away, laughed at each other’s jokes, and I generally gave quite a good impression of somebody used to escorting national sex symbols.

The only real fly in the ointment was her snooker. She was awful. A tag team of Stephen Hawking and Blind Lemon Jefferson could have given her a 100-point lead and still thrashed her. But wanting to keep her in a jolly mood, I had to engineer some close results. This involved leaving red balls in the jaws of the pockets for her to sink, freeing up the black whenever possible and making deliberate foul shots. If anybody had been watching, they would have wondered how it was possible for a man to be so hopeless.

Ah, but the more she went to the table, the more I’d be treated to the sight of her bending over. I’d either be sat behind her, watching the silk of her dress ride up to reveal the edges of her panties (white, lacy), or across the table, gulping as her cleavage was lowered onto the baize, tanned and tantalising. After a couple of hours we had only managed to finish two frames and I was wondering whether to force the issue. An invite to dinner seemed the obvious way forwards. But when I suggested it, she frowned and said no. Ice ran through my veins: I had blown it! But then she said, in a warm, woozy Derbyshire accent, “Fook it, I’ll cook for you back at my flat. But I warn you, I’m crap!”

Having seen her snooker, which she had claimed to be “not bad” at, I should have been alarmed by this critical assessment of her culinary skills. But I was so aroused by the prospect of going back to her place that I would gladly have accepted an offer to eat shit soup with an appetiser of roadkill. As it turned out, she rustled up some perfectly serviceable oven chips and fish fingers while I browsed around her apartment.

The first place I went to was the bathroom. I didn’t need a pee, I just wanted to catch my breath and give myself a pep talk. After a quick body survey (sniff armpits, check breath, monitor boxer shorts for those unfortunate stains that sometimes appear, as randomly as crop circles, no matter how scrupulously you shake and wipe) I stared into the mirror. “This is it,” I told my reflection sternly, like a football manager before a crucial cup tie.

“A step up into the big league. No dribbling when you kiss her! No nervous emissions of gas! No premature ejaculation!” I halted. On the edge of the bath I saw a razor, and next to it was a single golden pubic hair. I was transfixed. This was like a holy relic. I knew she had done some ‘top shelf’ work but I’d never actually seen it. Well, so what, now I was holding it, a fragment of famous beaver, made precious by the knowledge that millions of other men desired it. Not knowing how the evening would pan out, I made the sudden insane decision to wrap it in a sheet of loo paper and slip it into my pocket. If things went wrong, I would at least have a memento for my efforts.

But things did not go wrong. After dinner we snuggled up on the sofa and began necking. After more beers, we headed for the bedroom. Although she didn’t want to have full sex, she was more than happy to pleasure me and be pleasured. Secretly, I was relieved. If we’d had intercourse I knew I would have popped my cork in seconds and been exposed as a failure. But this way I could simply dive back down between her legs whenever the contents of my testicles approached critical mass. After 40 minutes of teasing foreplay we were both at a peak of arousal and, turning into the spoons position, she slipped my penis between her legs so that the shaft was rubbing against her wet pussy. She slid back and forth and came noisily, shortly followed by me. Although I couldn’t see my climax, I knew it was a ‘ten roper’, like the result of an elephant treading on a family-sized tube of toothpaste. The bed was wetter than Tewkesbury and we huddled together on the one dry patch, like Noah and his wife against the deluge.

After a while, I decided it would be best to go home. I knew I couldn’t manage another orgasm and I didn’t want to risk her finding this out. The footballer, presumably, had been capable of all night heroics. So I made some excuse about deadlines, got dressed, and walked down to the nearest cab office, whistling a happy tune. On the way, I passed a 24-hour shop, and decided to buy a bar of chocolate to give myself a sugar refill. Inside were the usual ranks of porno mags on display, and I saw one – Men’s World – with my Page 3 lovely on the cover. It was like a nudge from God, too good an opportunity to miss.

The next morning, waking with it by my pillow, I flicked through the pages, luxuriating in the knowledge that I had kissed every curve and crevice on display not ten hours before. I felt a powerful erotic surge. I barely had to touch myself before it happened again: a super eruption, a scrotal Vesuvius, with every nerve end in my body spangling in a rictus of delight. I didn’t just feel turned on, I felt like I’d achieved something. It’s a sorry boast, of course, especially as I only saw the Page 3 girl one more time before she stopped taking my calls. But that hardly mattered. I’d climbed my Everest and for many months, whenever I took that magazine to bed, it was like Jumanji – the pages came alive.

I used to think this was because of the sex, but I now think it was actually more to do with death. Just as successful stalkers, the ones who actually manage to kill the object of their obsession, their John Lennon or JFK, become weirdly immortalised by their act, so I had been transformed by mine. After it, I felt slightly less doomed to obscurity, slightly less fearful of facing the Reaper. Though a few hours with a topless model should, I know, mean nothing compared to the proper, loving long-term relationships I’ve enjoyed – should, indeed, be regarded as something inconsequential – I have an odd feeling that when he comes for me with his scythe, I will say, “Do your worst, pal. I’ve shagged XX XXXXX!”