So it was to be my first "real" date although "she" didn't know that. I was sixteen. It was a double date. A guitar playin' buddy of mine set it up. He wanted to hook up with her friend, and her friend agreed but only if "she" (who was a friend of the guitar guy) went along. "She" had seen me before and said she'd go on the double date if the guitar player got me to go along. Complicated? Not really, just teen bullshit. "We" took the back seat. Conversation went well. I was a Petty and Doors fan, "she" loved Styx. No, she hadn't read "No One Here Gets Out Alive", I suggested immediate consumption. I played on the varsity soccer team (there was no JV), midfield, jersey number 2. She was a swimmer. "We" were getting comfortable. I thought a lip lock was on the horizon. Our eyes were sort of meeting, I guess, although mine roamed. As The Cars let "the good times roll", the front seat couple decided to take a stroll. We were parked somewhere in a dark spot. Mickey's Malt Liquor on our lips, the moon being our only light. As she spoke of her swim team adventures, I wasn't really paying attention. I was losing myself in thought of the possibilities that lay beheath her sweater. It was December, and cold out. To make the appearance of interest in more than just her desired swimmer's frame, I threw out the line, "so what's your event? You know, your specialty on the team?" She paused, smiled, and said, "breast stroke". I froze. My Hispanic loins tightend. Was "she" being serious? Was "she" trying to tell me something? Was "she" giving me the ok sign? I didn't know. Complete silence. It seemed to last forever. "We" just sat there. Then the front seat couple appeared. The moment (and chance) was lost. The rest of the evening was uneventful. Breast stroke. Damn. My mind was preoccupied with "what if's". I never really dated her again. Breast stroke. Damn, it still bugs me just a little bit. I don't know why. Ok, I do...breast stroke. Ouch! Take care. Later, Butch