© Copyright Ed Houle 2003

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I knew I was kidding myself. The divide in high school between grades is just too vast. She was a year ahead of me. She wasn't among the popular crowd, particularly. In fact she seemed more studious. Since the only class we shared was music, I assumed that she was as good at her other courses as she was at playing her instrument. Sharon was first clarinet. That cloistered little suburb of our high school that was the concert band had its own marks of favour - playing the tuning note at the beginning of the class was one of those marks, and Sharon was regularly accorded the honour. Little by little my infatuation grew.

It was 1978. I'll never forget the shirts she used to wear, the stripes accentuating her petite bust. The flared pants that climbed her long legs up to her gorgeous behind. Straight brown hair hanging past her shoulders. I watched her from my vantage in the back row, among the other trumpet players. Of course in time my mooning was noticed, and the guys in the brass section (and for some reason it was only guys, just as almost all the woodwinds were girls) started ribbing me. I could deal with that, as long as they never teased me within earshot of Sharon. I would die if a grade 11 worm like me were ever exposed as having a crush on a grade 12, and someone who was clearly a goddess to my hormone-addled brain.

After all this time I don't recall how it started. I supposed I must have contrived situations where we would have to at least exchange a few words. Since she was such a strong player, I got serious about practicing myself. Sometimes Sharon would stay after school to use one of the practice rooms, and I might arrange to stay and use the one next door. Eventually she knew who I was, although I never saw any sign that I was acknowledged as anything other than a lower life form. There was chemistry, but the chemicals all seemed to be on my side of the beaker.

Clueless, of course, is the natural state of the adolescent boy. My mooning was noticed by more than just the rest of the trumpet section. Some of Sharon's friends picked up on it. As time wore on, it occurred to me that there didn't seem to be signs of a boyfriend in her life. Possible confirmation of that came one day when one of her friends told me that their gang was going to a movie on Friday night, and would I like to tag along?

January 26th, 1979 is a day marked forever in my mind. It was cold - 20 below on the old Fahrenheit scale - with snow piled high along the streets. I couldn't have cared less. There were three other couples, and we piled into someone's car. Five of us in the back seat. Being the youngest there, I was surely the most shy and awkward. Trying to press into that crowded space next to Sharon. We all realized what had to be done, and the girls climbed onto the guys' laps. Thank God for heavy winter clothing, I thought, as the padding concealed the inevitable response to the ass of my dreams as it nestled onto my lap. I knew I'd died and gone to heaven - the most perfect, innocent excuse to touch the girl who had become my obsession.

The movie was Halloween, the first one. To this day I get nostalgic when I hear Tubular Bells. I don't know who chose that movie, but I should have built a shrine in their honour. What could be more perfect for a first date than a horror movie? As the tension rose and the director's gratuitous frights burst on the screen, what more natural thing to do than to seek comfort from the person next to you. By the end of the movie, even my addled 16-year old brain realized that some of the chemistry might have seeped over to the other side of the beaker. Sharon and I left the theatre holding hands, to the titters of the other couples.

We went to a pizza place - oddly enough, just down the street from where my office is today, almost 25 years later. I don't remember much of what went on around the table; my head was spinning. Sharon had borrowed her mother's car, an ancient white Datsun. I was used to walking everywhere, even in this cold, but I gladly accepted her offer of a ride home.

She parked in front of my house, and we talked a bit. The Japanese hadn't yet figured out how to make a heater that was any use in a Canadian winter. It put out enough heat to leave a peephole through the frost on the windshield; not enough to keep the chill away from us, even with our parkas. Feeling brave, I leaned over to wrap my arm around her, ostensibly to keep her warm. I knew I was supposed to kiss her, but I wasn't sure how I'd be received. Then I looked into her eyes, and I realized I didn't have to worry. It was inevitable, and her eyes told me that the inevitable was also welcome.

It was far from being my first kiss. It was, by far, the best I'd ever had or even imagined. Sharon responded, and not just with enthusiasm. It seemed as if something broke inside of each of us, and at the same moment. My tongue set out on a tentative expedition in search of hers. Her mouth opened wide in welcome. With typical adolescent inexperience, our teeth crashed together, and drool coated both our chins. Neither of us cared, caught up in that exquisite moment, little moans escaping both of our throats. When we came up for air, I realized that the song on the radio was the new one from the Pointer Sisters: "... and when we kiss,... Fire." It couldn't have been more appropriate. It might as well have been 90° above in that car, not 40° below.

My first real experience with necking didn't cure my stupidity by any means. Always on the fringe of the in-crowd, I knew in those circles that you couldn't take anything for granted. OK, Sharon'd kissed me - she'd kissed me good - and she'd seemed to enjoy it. But surely I'd look like the kid I didn't want her to see if I assumed this meant we'd be 'going out.'

The next night, in the basement of the old house she lived in with her parents, I took the bull by the horns.

"Sharon, is there anyone else... ?"

"How could you say that, after last night?" she almost yelled, hurt colouring her voice. "What do you think I am?"

"Oh God I'm sorry. I knew when I stepped out of your car last night that nothing better had ever happened to me. I thought it had been important to you, too, but I was so afraid to take you for granted."

Ahhh, I'd said the right thing for once. The anger left her eyes, and we settled back into the couch, the TV serving as our chaperone. At the end of the evening, half way into the 2 mile walk home, I came to a park. Arcing through the air on a swing, oblivious to the frigid night, I tilted my head back at the stars and laughed, laughed like a crazy man, thanking God for the glorious, wondrous thing that had happened to me this weekend. I had never been more grateful for my life that I was that Saturday night.

Needless to say, I was a virgin. As was Sharon - in fact, I was her first boyfriend, period. Looking back, I can't believe how naïve I was. I loved necking with her, cuddling with her. I could have lived my life content in her arms. But a little voice in the back of my head told me I was supposed to be trying to do more. Lord but adolescent boys are stupid. On about our fourth 'date' (more of a make out session really), I decided I had to find out where the limits were. I slid my hand from around her waist, up over her shirt to her breast. A sharp "No!" told me all I needed to know about the limits. Frankly, I was relieved.

At least I was relieved at first. As Sharon and I became more comfortable together, the weight of our age and grade difference lifted. I came to know her more as a person, and the unapproachable goddess from first chair faded away. Sharon was my first love. She was also exposing herself to a bottomless well of testosterone, a well being dipped into for the first time. Like the Pointer Sisters tried to tell her that first night, she was playing with fire.

I learned that my shy, studious, nerdy girlfriend was hiding passions underneath. Sharon was a "good girl," bien élevée in our little Canadian backwater. It became obvious what had been discussed in her "talk" with her mother when I heard for at least the third time that something was "dirty." Nevertheless, as we became more comfortable with each other, I became more and more interested in persuading her to move the limits. And she became more receptive, too.

Sharon was not voluptuous -- she wouldn't have been a shoo-in for Playboy. But I loved everything about her - to this day I'll take small, firm, natural tits over anything huge or silicone. One night as passion mounted my hand again began an expedition north, this time with more assurance. Rather than a direct assault on the modest peak, it reconnoitered base camp carefully. Having established base camp a slow climb ensued, tracing a circular path around and around. Sharon's breathing told me that this time it was Hillary's expedition, not Mallory. As the summit was reached she shuddered and hugged me tight. Hillary could have his knighthood.