'I know one day my daughter will have sex. But please, not yet ...'

I’m a 49-year-old father to three teenage girls. The oldest is 16, soon to turn 17. Sweet 16.

I remember when I was 16. Hell, I’ll never forget being 16. It was the single greatest year of my life. Although, truth be told, its immortality boils down to just one night. And not even a whole night at that. In fact, I’d be lying if I said it lasted more than 10 minutes. But what an amazing 600 seconds they were.

I lost my virginity at 16. And it’s hard to believe you can lose something you’ve had your whole life so quickly – you’d think you;d keep better tabs on it. I remember thinking, true story, “I can die now”.

We were in the back of my parents’ car – well, not a car as such, it was a Starwagon, a Mitsubishi Starwagon with two rows of bench seats at the back and a sliding door on the side. Oh, the romance.

It was just me and … me and … hell, I can’t remember her name! I think it could be Chrissie, but can’t be sure. Anyway I remember she looked like Edith Bliss, that reporter on Simon Townsend’s Wonder World with the blonde curly hair. Edith Bliss, the single hottest woman on TV at that time, and there I was with her 15-year-old doppelganger in the back seat of my parents’ Starwagon. Bliss? It doesn’t even begin to describe it.

And then the deed was done.

I used to wear the fact I’d lost my virginity young like a badge of honour. I almost always won the “when did you lose yours?” competition. Not any more. Because now I have a 16-year-old daughter.

The day she turned 16 was the day I lost perspective about anything and everything to do with her. My past not so much caught up with me as ran right over me, like I was an extra in Fury Road.

Because, well ... virginity. There’s nothing like it, really. You couldn’t lose yours quick enough, but your daughter’s … you’d go all Game Of Thrones to keep in intact forever. Yet there’s not a thing you can do. Helplessness is hard to get your head around for anyone. Especially for a dad. Double especially if you’re a dad with daughters.

Have you heard what she’s listening to? (Rhetorical question, obviously). Actually, you don’t want to know. Trust me, you really don’t want to read, much less hear, what’s coming out of the speakers every time she puts her music on (which is every time we get in the car).

Remember when you were 16 and a song that vaguely suggested sex came on the car radio and your pimply face recoiled in awkward embarrassment? Even though the sex was implied, like in Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer: “Show me round your fruit cages/Cause I will be your honey bee/Open up your fruit cages/Where the fruit is as sweet as can be.” Or Anita Lane’s Ring My Bell: “Well lay back and relax while I put away the dishes/Then you can rock-a-bye/You can ring my beeeee-eeeeell.”

I honestly thought she was talking about a doorbell. Hand on heart.

There’s no such thing as 'subtle' now. Not on the Planet 16 occupied by my daughter, at least. It all bump and grind and lets-get-dirty.

So there are a hell of a lot of bells going off – and I’m talking alarm bells now.

I had cause to pause recently and reflect – again – on my 600 seconds of fame. Only this time, it was with a toxic knot in the pit of my stomach. My daughter was online, looking for a dress to wear to an upcoming formal. She goes to an all-girls college so I didn’t even know the formal was on the radar. Turns out it is – big time. It’s all she talks about.

My daughter has good taste, so I wasn't worried about how she’d look … actually, hang on, that's a Belle Gibson-sized lie. My anxiety stemmed directly from the fact I knew exactly how my daughter would look. She would look beautiful. Stunning. And covetable.

And I'm not comfortable with covetable.

Of course, from the moment she was born I knew one day I’d have to address the issue of sex, i.e. my daughter having sex. But now the prospect looms larger by the day, I want to shove my head deep in the sand. She’s forever telling me about her friends, their boyfriends, their parties, their drinking, their "munting" (that’s vomiting, btw) but always with the rider: “Don’t worry dad, I’m smarter than all that”.

The thing is, 16-year-olds lie. They look you in the eye and lie through their teeth. They know it, you know it and yet you believe them every single time. Goddammit, you said you were going to smarter than that, you promised yourself you’d be smarter than that, but look at her – she’s not lying! She’s telling you everything you want to hear which, your pitiful dad mind tells you, equates to the truth.

So as the big night gets closer, my blinkers are on.

She’s chosen someone to take her. That’s right, she asked him. And he said yes. YES. Of course he said yes, have you seen the dress she’s going to wear? And the makeup she plans to pile on? And the hair? A hairdresser was booked weeks ago.

I haven’t met him yet. Michael’s his name. But Michael, mate, we’re in uncharted territory here. You are going to be the first boy – a 17-year-old is still a boy, isn’t he? – to take my daughter out of my front door with my (supposed) permission. That’s a hell of a lot of responsibility, son. I think we need to have a chat.

But we all know there will be no chat. He’ll bowl up to the front door, knock and stand there bold as brass, and when the door opens he’ll look me up and down, shake my hand firmly and smile. Smile that smile that says I’m-taking-your-daughter-out-pal-and-there’s-not-a-thing-you-can-do-about-it-and-have-you-seen-what’s-she’s-wearing-tonight-and-the-hair-and-the-makeup-she-looks-20-plus-doesn’t-she-hell-you’re-worried-aren’t-you-and-you-oughta-be-because-shoe’s-on-the-other-foot-now-Frankieboy.

I know the smile. I used to have it. I was one smug sonofabitch. Not any more though. I’m a dad now and I know it’s coming and it’s why there won’t be a chat. How can you have a chat if one party – me – is rendered mute by comatose anxiety?

I need some relief. I need to change the tune in my head. It’s filled with my daughter’s songs. Dr Dre’s got to go on a lunch break. Tyler The Creator, too. And you Kendrick Lamar. Just give me five minutes of downtime. Dad time.

I’m in the car, alone, so I have the stereo to myself. There’s one particular go-to song I have for these moments. My daughter won’t let me play it when she’s with me (yes, that’s right, I’ve surrendered ownership of the car stereo, too). But she’s not here, so here goes:

"May God bless and keep you always, may your wishes all come true …
May you grow up to be righteous, may you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth and see the lights surrounding you …
May your hands always be busy, may your feet always be swift
May You have a strong foundation when the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful and may your song always be sung
And may you stay forever young.”

That’s not too much to ask for. It worked for Bob Dylan, didn’t it?

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