Friday Knight Writers' Block

Playing With Fire

© 2003 by Ed Houle

Reposted with permission of the author. Do not repost without permission.

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. Long, 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.

Our relationship deepened. I was utterly smitten, and I think Sharon began to fall in love with me, too. We tried to be circumspect at school, but after enough people saw the way we looked at each other, word got out anyway. By then we didn’t care that we were an “item.” I had found the best thing in the world, and I didn’t need anything else. Most of my close friends were still single, and were more than a bit chagrined at being abandoned.

Mercifully, Sharon’s parents went out often, and her siblings were all older and had left home. So Friday and Saturday nights usually found us alone at her place. She introduced me to the Ewing family of Dallas, and I introduced her to the orgasm. I think our explorations were typical of the times. After allowing me to explore her breasts through the fabric, within a few weeks she was persuaded that skin-to-skin contact would be even better. This night I had insinuated my knee between her legs, and oh so gently begun to pressure her mound. Thus distracted, I was even able to unclip her bra, letting me explore her lovely breasts without having an elastic cut off my circulation. The combination of my hand on the bare skin of her chest, and my knee working on her crotch, brought her to a lovely little climax that seemed to catch her off guard. I held her and stroked her hair as she came back to earth, an enigmatic smile on her mouth and a dreamy expression in her brown eyes. I took her hand and placed it on my crotch, and for the first time she didn’t say, “I’m not ready for that.” Instead, she took a tentative squeeze.

If I’d thought it would have helped I would have offered a human sacrifice. I’d brought her off many times by now, but went home every night with classic blue balls. ‘I’ll come in my shorts if I have to,’ my mind screamed, ‘but please just make me come.’ The answer to my prayer was the sound of the door opening as her parents came home early. I almost cried.

Spring mercifully arrived after a brutal winter. Someone who’s never spent five solid months looking at snow can’t appreciate what green grass means in April. Sharon and I were sitting on the lawn outside the music room one day at lunch. Ever the proper girl, a public display of affection, beyond perhaps holding hands, was out of the question. I guess it was the spring fever, but I wanted to get closer. So I started to tickle her. We wound up with me sitting on her, and she begging for mercy. When I let her up, we all saw the huge grass stain on her white slacks. I had to smirk at all the teasing she got for the rest of the afternoon.

Shar continued to loosen up during our evenings together. Soon I was able to undo the snap on her jeans and get the zipper down enough to let me get my hand into her panties. As much as she didn’t usually want to start, she clearly loved how I could make her feel. I will never forget the first time she let me finger her. I didn’t know the geography at all – I could only let the sounds she made guide me. Fortunately she was willing to give me signals about what was good, and I came to learn how to satisfy her. The smell on my fingers afterward was the most incredible, erotic thing -- a sweet, tangy musk --- I would avoid washing my hands so I could inhale her after I had to leave.

Finally it happened. Sharon was as worked up as I’d ever seen her. As I was moving two fingers in and out, I felt her hand on my belt. Oh God, let this really be happening, I prayed. She opened my belt, and then my jeans. My cock was so hard; it was close to peeking out the elastic of my Jockeys. I redoubled my efforts on her pussy, and was rewarded by skin on skin. For the first time, someone else was touching my cock. I was elated, and terrified. Would she be disgusted? I had made a hell of a wet spot of my own by now – would she find the wetness gross? Her hand began to move up and down, stroking me. Her palms were sweaty, which mixed with all my pre-cum to make for a perfect hand job. I wasn’t capable of conscious thought. At that moment I consisted entirely of senses. Bobby and Pam Ewing were ten feet away in another universe. The only thing in my universe was Sharon’s slick hand exploring the hardest erection ever known. Years of horniness since puberty, months of anticipation (and frustration) while I learned to pleasure Sharon, and now this.

I couldn’t say how long I lasted, since I’d left this space/time continuum. Probably less than two minutes. Of course I’d been masturbating like someone possessed for years, so I knew the end was approaching. Then my brain was seized with horror – we’re about to have a hell of a mess, does she know what’s going to happen, is she gonna hate me…. Too late for that, dummy. All I managed to whisper was, “Oh, no.” A worried Sharon replied, “What’s wrong?” Instantly ‘what’s wrong’ was all over her hand, her arm, her chest, the couch … I waited for the storm, but I guess she’d learned enough in sex ed to know something like this would happen. When she just hugged me tighter, I let the bliss of the moment flood back over me and sank further into her arms.

For a long time after the pleasure became more mutual all was right with my world. Sure Sharon was playing with fire, but she had learned to contain it nicely. Hell, I wasn’t much more than a quivering lump of gratitude. In June after she’d finished exams, she decided to reward herself with a few days of serious sunbathing. This, of course, was in the days when you used sun-tan lotion, not sun block. The results were breathtaking. I loved the tan line. Her skin browned perfectly in the sun, like a Coppertone commercial. Her breasts, of course, had never been seen by the sun, and by contrast now seemed whiter than snow. I think she realized how appreciative her audience was – for the first time I was able to get her completely topless. I brought my lips near, as if to suckle, but instead teased her nipple with my breath, first on one side then the other. I worshipped her breasts for maybe 20 minutes, coming as close to her nipples as I could without actually touching them. When she couldn’t stand it any more, she finally forced my mouth down; at the same time, I slid my knee into her crotch. Instantly her body became rigid, and she made only incoherent sounds. For a minute I was afraid she’d forgotten to breathe. To this day I love tan lines.

We were separated for three weeks over the summer while Sharon attended an advanced music program 200 miles away. She was going to major in music when she started University in the fall. While she was gone I bought my first car so that I could go pick her up at the end of the program. When I got there it was a perfect scene – she came out of her dorm, yelled my name and started running. If I hadn’t been prepared she would have knocked me flying; as it was, I picked her up and twirled her. We must have looked like something out of the movies. There was no question that absence had made the heart grow fonder. So I worried less than I should have about what would happen in the fall, what with her starting University while I was still finishing high school.

We took mutual masturbation to new heights; I was sure we perfected the art form. Naturally my mind turned to the logical next step. I loved her with every fiber of my being. I wanted to give her my virginity, to mingle it with hers. I knew how common it was for teens for the first time to be lousy, but by now I could play her body like a symphony – I could make her first time magnificent. And in so doing it would make mine magnificent. So I didn’t get it when she resisted going on the pill, didn’t seem to be giving an inch on the boundaries she’d last revised maybe six months before.

I have to give her credit. She knew her mind. There were only a couple of weeks where distance seemed to creep in. One night I picked her up after work and we went back to my place, ‘cause my Mom was out. She didn’t pull any punches, it was over. Once again the song on the radio in the background was equally appropriate:

We met again a few months later. We had a shared concert commitment that we had to keep. People were stepping on eggshells around me, offering to get me out of it or her out of it, but I was determined to be adult about the situation. I took her for coffee after the performance. I asked her about school, about the usual trivialities. I asked her if she was seeing anyone, and she told me about her guy. Trying to be mature, I complimented her, saying, “it sounds like you’re very close.”

“You have no idea,” she said under her breath.

It wasn’t just that she’d been playing with fire. I’d started one myself, and hadn’t been given the chance to put it out.

--Fin--

Copyright 2003 by Ed Houle, all rights reserved