The following is the prologue from “Tough”, the memoir of my co-author, Playboy Playmate Kelly Tough (Miss October 1981):
For an eight year old, it was hard for me to understand why Don Kirby had his tongue down my throat, right?
I sat on the kitchen counter in my flannel nightie, bare legs hanging over the edge. Pushing the buttons on the phone while holding the receiver thingy down. I didn’t want to make a real call, because Mum would get mad. The phone was cool because it had this long, long cord so you could talk and even be in another room. I don’t know why I was playing with the phone that day. Maybe I hoped someone would call me, but I knew that wouldn’t happen because I didn’t have one friend.
There wasn’t anyone else in the kitchen. Mum was working late and my little sister was in our room, probably looking at herself in the mirror. I always played in the kitchen, mostly to avoid my sister, but also because it looked like the kitchen from Happy Days. That’s how I always think of that kitchen, even though I now know Happy Days didn’t start until later. But it was a ’50s kitchen, with an Arborite counter and a tired, pink and grey linoleum floor. The table and chairs had shiny chrome frames. The chairs were covered with plasticky seats, the kind that stuck to your legs in the summer, and the table top was off-white with worn stars on it. Mum had covered the fridge and stove with gold-patterned Mactac; she covered everything in Mactac. Above the sink, the window was made of a lot of little windows side by side, like in a barn. Some of the window frame paint was peeling. Each little window looked like a black square because it was evening, after dinner.
“Oh, hi Kelly.” Mum’s boyfriend Don Kirby walked in, and used that really low voice of his, smooth, like he was Tom Jones without a Welsh accent. We always called him Don Kirby, both names, in full, because my sister’s name was Dawne. Don Kirby was tall, much taller than Dad, with wavy orange hair, like flames sticking up. He wore super sharp slacks, polyester green, with a brown vest and a peach-colored shirt underneath. Don Kirby never wore jeans or sweatpants. He always looked dressed up, with his shiny shoes, thinking he was Dapper Dan. I felt a little bad inside when I saw Don Kirby, because I hated him for so long and didn’t treat him very well. But now he was a nice guy, and since I hated him for so long I felt like I owed him something, right?
“How was school today?” Don Kirby had started taking interest in what I was doing, making an effort to do more dad things with me. I lied, of course, telling him I hung out with lots of friends at recess. It felt good to talk to Don Kirby, to talk to anyone, even though I had to lie to keep the conversation going the way I wanted. While we talked, Don Kirby clenched his jaw, biting down hard like he was trying not to cry. I pretended not to notice, but his eyes were all watery, and then a couple of tears slid down his face.
“Why are you crying? Did you have another fight with Mum?”
“Well, Kelly, sometimes with your mother…” Don Kirby wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I love your mom. I love you girls. Sometimes it’s just…” He stood there, stiffly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. I felt really sorry for him and reached out my arms to give him an almost-daughter hug. Don Kirby stepped over, and since I was sitting on the counter we were close to the same height. He pushed my knees apart and moved in between, pressing his chest against mine and hugging me pretty tight. Something inside of me, just for a second, felt a little bit weird. But it was only a hug, so it was OK. It got really not OK real quick. Don Kirby pulled his head back and I thought he was going to kiss me on the cheek like he often did. He held my chin, put his lips on mine and suddenly his fat tongue filled my mouth. It was huge, it was all gushy, it was insistent, racing around the inside of my mouth, the whole nine yards. I kind of gagged a bit, but he just pushed in harder. I was paralyzed. When I think about it now, I assume Don Kirby had an erection, but at the time I didn’t even know what an erection was. It felt like thousands of years Don Kirby kissed me like that, but it was probably only ten minutes.
Slam. A car door slammed and we both knew Mum was home from work. Instead of jumping back like he was doing something wrong, Don Kirby released me and sat at the kitchen table, lighting a cigarette. He didn’t say anything, didn’t tell me to keep our secret. Don Kirby didn’t look sheepish, and wasn’t crying anymore.
“You’re still sitting around doing nothing?” my mother said, banging the kitchen door behind her. Don Kirby started to answer, but Mum cut him off. “Don’t give me that shit. I’m tired of it. And what’s wrong with you? Why do you look like that?”
That last part was directed at me. How did I look? I tried to look like nothing. I was in shock, confused. I couldn’t respond. Don Kirby and I had finally established a friendship after a couple of years of me not liking him, but this was different. This wasn’t a normal friendship thing, I was sure of that.
“You’re just going to ignore me?,” Mum said, heat rising. “Why aren’t you answering me? What’s wrong with you? GET YOUR ASS IN BED.”
I couldn’t wrap my head around what had just happened to me, but I knew I felt like a piece of garbage.
