On a sunny autumn day many years ago, I overheard some boys next door gathering outside my bedroom window. One of them exclaimed, "I saw her nipples through her shirt," and the group erupted into childish laughter.
Another chimed in confidently, "I can't wait to wrestle her again; I'm sure I'll get to feel them." Their conversation faded as they walked away, leaving me curious about whom they were talking about.
On another occasion, I noticed two boys sneaking into the neighbor's backyard, giggling as if they were hatching a secret plan. After a while, I heard the unmistakable sounds of rowdy play. About an hour later, they gathered outside my window once more.
"I did it," said one of them, and the other followed with, "I did it too."
It was clear they were up to no good, but I had no idea what they were referring to.
"Did you see me dry hump her when I had her pinned?" one asked.
"Yeah, but I got to feel her nipples," replied the other. It sounded like they were using wrestling as an excuse to feel up a girl. Both admitted that Terry was giving them a tough time, as her goal was to pin them down until they said, "Okay, you win"; Terry didn't seem to be playing the same game as the boys, and I wondered who this Terry was they were wrestling.
When I brought home my new Fiat X1/9 and marveled at its sleek design, I couldn't help but appreciate its Italian craftsmanship. The X1/9 was a two-seat sports car with a mid-mounted inline four engine, a removable hardtop that could be stowed under the hood, and a five-speed manual transmission. Though it looked and sounded fast, it couldn't compete with the American muscle cars of its time.
One day, as I began washing the X1/9, a neighbor kid from next door came over to admire my car.
"Oh, nice car, Mr. Truman. I'm Terry from next door," he said while running a hand over the roof and down the hood. Terry had a tanned face from spending time outdoors, and my initial impression was that Terry was a boy, despite having some feminine characteristics and a girl's voice. She had a lithe and muscular physique, not the bulky muscles of a boy but the well-toned muscles of an active young lady. Her long legs, flat waist, and round, tight rear suggested she was in excellent shape from wrestling with the boys. She looked like a tomboy with short hair and a small chest, resembling a boy in a white T-shirt with puffy nipples.
Terry proposed helping me wash the car in exchange for a ride, even though I could easily manage it on my own. For some reason, I found her intriguing and agreed. While washing, Terry "accidentally" rubbed her shirt against the car, making it increasingly transparent. To play along, I began spraying water on both her and the car simultaneously. Terry seemed to relish the attention, and before long, her shirt became completely see-through, revealing her hard nipples poking through the wet fabric. She laughed at my antics and continued washing the car.
After a playful water fight, Terry felt the cold. I could see her shivering. I said, “Terry, go into the garage, get out of the wind.” As she entered, I suggested, “You should go home and change into some dry clothes.”
She asked if she could use my dryer, explaining, "My mom would freak out if I came home soaking wet."
Before I could respond, Terry turned away from me and stripped down to her jockey shorts, revealing herself without hesitation. I offered her my old army fatigue jacket to cover up, and she took it, using it as a makeshift garment while removing her jockey shorts as well, hidden from view.
As Terry stood there, partially covered by the jacket, Dave the mailman pulled up to deliver a package to the garage, acknowledging Terry's presence. Without prompting, she reached out, taking the package from Dave, and as the jacket fell open, she briefly flashed him a glimpse of her naked body. I was certain.
Dave must have wondered why Terry was naked in my garage, but he simply shook his head and left.
Once inside, I placed all of Terry's wet clothes in the dryer and fetched a robe for myself. I added my own clothes to the dryer and struck up a conversation with her.
"So, Terry, what school do you go to?"
"I'm at the city university, and I'm on the varsity wrestling team, Mr. Truman," she replied, adding, "It's co-ed."
"You can call me Aubrey, Terry. Co-ed wrestling? That's something I've never heard of," I remarked. "As a matter of fact, that's how I'm going on an athletic scholarship," Terry explained.
"No kidding; I went to state university on a wrestling scholarship, some twenty-odd years ago," I shared.
Terry then asked if I'd like to wrestle her and maybe teach her some moves.
I hesitated. "I have reservations about this, Terry, primarily because you're an unclothed young lady."
"It's worth noting that ancient Greek Olympic wrestling was performed in the nude," she said in an all-knowing voice.
"However, we're not in ancient Greece, and this is far from the Olympics."
"Are you concerned that I might best you, old man?"
"No, I'm not afraid, but engaging in this, especially while unclothed, doesn't seem appropriate."
"I'll propose a wager: if I win, you let me take your car for a spin,"
"And what if I emerge victorious? What do I get?"
"I'll be your housekeeper for a month; it looks like it could use some attention."