TIFU by forgetting where I put my phone

Last year, not today blablablah.

Some bits of context: For a good chunk of the pandemic, I was living back at my parents' place, which at this point was on the outskirts of a big city in England. My parents are chill on many things but still somewhat old school. Case in point, during the pandemic, when my boyfriend would come to spend a few days at our place (he did a few days at a time because the commute was long, everyone was WFH, etc.), he slept in the guest room rather than in my room, even though all parties involved knew we were having sex. This was mostly for the benefit of my dad.

This was still a relatively chill arrangement as my bf and I were still in uni at this point and would stay up a lot later than my parents, so we used that time to get it on fairly regularly. So, one evening, that's what we're up to, and the vibes are hot, we're into it, probably making some noise (but very far from my parents' room so NBD) and we peak and start to come down when my bf says 'What's that noise?'

I'm confused and not yet fully functional but then I pay attention and I can hear a little robotic woman's voice. Freaking out a little, I scramble around and find my phone underneath the pillow.

On a call.

With my dad.

The call has been running for six minutes so I shit myself and put it on loudspeaker, and say 'Dad?' but mercifully the voice we heard was voicemail lady reading out the options for what to do with the voicemail. The six-minute voicemail of my bf and I having sex in my father's home. I immediately panic and hang up the call, sending my boyfriend into an eye-twitchy frenzy about why the fuck I would do that when it was giving the option to delete the voicemail, and I realise that I have just added a new layer of fuckduggery onto my FU.

He begins pacing and looking up the first train back into the city -- "I refuse to be here when he wakes up" -- and I am rocking back and forth hugging my knees, no thoughts, head empty. But there's only one thing to be done. I have to delete it. The rest of the FU was more existential, thoughts that came to me in the dead silence in which I navigated my parents' room at 3.45 AM, wondering how I could possibly have left, of all people, my father, a six-minute voicemail of, of all things, me having sex.

Miraculously I managed to slip the phone off its charger, get his password from my brother, and delete the phone call and the cursed voicemail that followed it. Yes, I had to hear it in order to delete it. Yes, it would have been very, very bad. Went to sleep shaken and our foreplay is now punctuated by a quick scramble for phones to make sure they're out of reach and sight.

TL;DR Didn't realise my phone was hidden in the sheets during sexytime, left my dad a six-minute voicemail of me getting it on with bf.