Sharon was the kind of girl who treated the disco like it was her natural habitat. The rest of us were still learning how to point vaguely in time with the Bee Gees, but Sharon? She was up on a chair before the lights had even warmed up, hips moving like she was trying to get reception for Radio Luxembourg.
The Rugby Club smelled like sweat, Brut aftershave, and someone’s half-deflated Lilo. I was there in my best “brace-free” smile, freshly liberated, hoping for romance. Sharon grabbed me by the collar before I’d even finished my Newcastle Brown, pulled me into what I can only describe as a friction experiment. Elbows. Knees. Polyester against denim. It was less dancing, more like being tumble-dried with a stranger.
Then “Baker Street” came on. You know, that sax riff that makes you feel like you’re starring in your own kitchen-sink drama? The crowd whooped. Sharon looked me dead in the eye. And then she kissed me.
It was like kissing an ashtray during a heatwave. Benson & Hedges breath, lip gloss of unknown origin, and an upper lip that, I swear on my mother’s knitting needles, felt shaved. Just enough stubble to give me goosebumps in places goosebumps don’t usually go.
The crowd actually clapped. Not because we looked good — but because Trisha chose that exact moment to throw up, mostly on me, partly on a decorative pineapple.
Sharon didn’t care. She barked a laugh, spun away, and was dancing with someone else before I’d even wiped the sick off my shirt.
I walked home alone, jeans squelching faintly, shirt glued to my chest like papier-mâché, and lungs wheezing like a rusty accordion. The moon shone down, full of judgement, and I thought: “Well Robbie lad, you’ve been kissed. You’ve also been marinated.”
And that was Sharon Fox. Brief, dazzling, disastrous. Like a nightclub firework: loud, smoky, and guaranteed to set something on fire you didn’t mean to.
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