"Old flames"

Ha, ha, I have a funny story about "old flames" except that I didn't know I was an "old flame." Back in my 20s, I worked with this guy that I really liked and he really liked me - as co-workers and friends, or at least that is what I thought since we were both married and never socialized outside of work. Long story short, I never saw him again after I moved out of state and never gave it much thought. A couple of years ago, he found me on FB and asked to friend me. Sure, no problem. Just a friend from the past with whom I had shared a good work relationship, thinks me. Well, it didn't take him long to "confess" that he had always wanted to be "more than friends" and was wondering if I was interested "before the chance passes us by again." :ROFLMAO::ROFLMAO::ROFLMAO::ROFLMAO: WUT?????? What chance????? In whose fantasy was there ever a chance???? And, oh by the way, did you ask your wife if it was O.K. to be "more than friends." Needless to say, that didn't happen!!

But, to answer the question, nope, I agree with those who say there is a reason they are "old flames" and not current flames. :p
 

I have a lot of "Old Flames," but I have no idea where they might be. I could probably locate some of them via an internet search, but nah. I had two wives, both deceased, although we were not together when that happened. We were still distant friends when they passed and no hard feelings -- which I was always glad for.

I do keep in touch with a local woman who was previously a GF in recent years. We are just "friends" now -- whatever that means. Her mom and step-dad, who I know quite well, are in their 80s and not doing well. So I keep in touch because of them too.

But the "flame" days are over for me, lol.
 
It's the last one from high school that I never got out of my system that haunts me. He was two years younger and a few months after I graduated HS, his family moved out of state. So we parted during that intense infatuation stage. And gosh, just the memory of the sound of his voice even after all this time...

I got in touch with him several years ago. Neither he nor I married or had kids. You'd think "Wow, they both have good memories ...should test the waters and see if there's still a spark." That's what I was thinking ...up to the point that he suggested we get together and that I'd need to travel to see him because he couldn't travel out of his state at the time or he'd violate parole. Oh. Ummmm, no. The HS memories are still nice...

Otherwise, I'm glad when I run into most of them and enjoy a catch up chat when we do. Have dinner with my first love and his wife occasionally.
 
Pecos said:
I am totally with your reasoning on this one.
Every once in awhile a bad idea pops up on this forum, and this is a really bad one.
Click to expand...

That was very much the thinking in the OP newspaper article quoted, and I'm sure you are right, BUT there is the odd occasion where you might completely inadvertly meet an ex. isn't there.

I accept this wasn't the encounter I described, true, although I do feel I gained something by the experience, and it is this. The differences, or incompatibilities were in evidence, (that lead to the break up of our relationship), even during a short conversation, and I could see this more clearly afterwards.
 
Funny, I just talked to my ex a couple days ago
Mainly to apologize.....ask for forgiveness
I was a bit of a rogue
It was......amicable.....she was very kind

But, hey, since a good lot of us are cooped up, and bored outa our gourds
I thought I'd repost what I've posted in a thread of mine about 'old flames' and gurls I came to know

If not of any entertainment value, it's sure to cure any of you guys of insomnia;

GURLS​




Tom Gurls

1957
I was dropped off for the day at the Beasley farm.
I don’t recall how or why, but, since both folks worked, ever so often I’d just get dropped off for the day…..at someone’s place.
Didn’t matter if I knew them or not.
What did matter, I guess, was that someone was watching my 7 or 8 year old idiot savant self.

The Beasleys had a farm, cows, fields, ponds, barns of hay, yards of farm animals….and three sisters.
Horrifically wild, country girl wild, sisters.

Mom chatted with Mrs Beasley as I settled in at the kitchen table.

‘Oh he’ll be fine, there’s plenty to do here.’

‘OK, bye bye.’

And she was gone.

The kitchen smelled of ham and eggs.

I was given a glass of milk, raw milk, warm raw milk, accompanied with the complimentary clumps.

‘You don’t like milk?’

‘Full.’ (ready to hork up my own breakfast)



‘Well, why don’t you go outside, the girls will be out in a minute.’

(Gurls??!!)

They aged around 10, 12, and 13 I’d say.

‘Mamma, can we play with the boy?’

I felt like Lennie Small’s imaginary rabbit.

They too had bib overalls, but no shoes, no T-shirt, just bibs.

‘Wanna play in the barn?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Not realizing I was the prey for catching and raping, I climbed the hay bales and crawled thru the tunnels they’d made.
It was quite fun at first.
Things turned a bit when I heard the eldest say something like ‘he’s over there, get him’.

I made for the open air, and scurried toward the corn field.
Not a chance.
The eldest tackled me at about the third row.

Everything kinda gets fuzzy after that, as I was picked up and thrown down like the calf in a calf roping contest.
My arms and legs were pinned by their knees, as all six hands eagerly explored my entire self….things even I had yet to explore.



So, being the only one present of sound mind, I immediately employed my most potent offense, which consisted of violently flopping my head from side to side.
This abated some when the eldest straddled my face.

I then went into stealth mode, lying as still as one could while being tossed up and down, probed, rubbed, and generally molested, farm girl style.

Eventually (I’d say sometime late morning) they lost interest.

Lunch.

‘Did you girls show Gary the castration shed?’

(!!!!!!!!!)

I don’t recall leaping up, running out the door, or the journey to the pond, but I have feint recollection of the sound of the kitchen chair hitting the floor, and the screen door slamming shut.

I played with the ducks and geese on the other side of the pond, taking swift glances behind me every few seconds, until I heard our Chevy pull up.

Farm girls, as a rule, turned into extremely fit, vivacious young ladies, and seemed to know what they wanted, and when they wanted it (now).

I avoided them like the plague, right up until about 15 or 16. Then we, shall we say, taught each other a few things.
 
page 2

Patricia

My first real girlfriend, other than ‘dancer number three’ from the Jackie Gleason Show, was Patricia….fourth grade I think it was.


She had this smile, this beguiling smile, and if per chance she cast one your way, well, it turned all us guys into befuddled masses of profound stupidity, and I was no exception…and she knew it.


So every time she would come near, or I mysteriously found myself near her, I’d make sure and do something cool, like flip my fountain pen up in the air and nonchalantly catch it, writing side down. Unknowing that I’d just sprayed myself with a unique pattern of Scheaffer traditional blue …..’Boob, James Boob’.


Oh, yeah, and her eyes…flashing, batting brown eyes….and some kinda smell too…better than, say, my catcher’s mitt, or even gramma’s rhubarb pie.


That’s all I remember about her looks.


Didn’t even consider the shape of her hind end, or if she even had one for that matter.


One blessed day her parents invited my parents to dinner.


I sat across the table from her, sipping my shaken not stirred fruit punch, creating a rather distinguished looking purple mustache.





These folks had lived outta the states for a few years, and rather proudly offered up their unusual cuisine.


There, on my plate, was a heaping festering mound of curry and rice. Not the spicy curry of the orient, no, this was some sorta green slimy slices of slug guts.


Patricia smiled at me, batting her eyes.


I forked the slug slices, and moved them around my plate, mustering and encouraging my life long taste buds of fried potatoes, hamburger patties and ketchup.


I furtively went to the potatoes.


Only they were swimming in some sorta gawd awful milk sauce….not fried, definitely not fried.


I think I had two bites, feigning nausea, gladly skipping dessert which looked much like mousse of dog vomit.


Patricia invited me up to her room (HER ROOM!!!), upstairs, legs of Patricia, leading the way….huh, Patricia has legs…nice, really really nice legs (fantasy log note 137; wimin my age have legs too. Take note, with etching fluids).


And there I was, in a girl’s room.


Puffy, fuzzy things.


Pink things.


Lacy, frilly things.


Some sorta awning of posts and frilly cloth over her bed.


Pillows, stuffed toys, more pillows, more toys.


So there we were.


‘Nice place ya got here’ (I almost said ‘doll face’, but somehow knew my Bogart wasn’t working any better than my Bond).


‘You are in third place on my list.’


(‘what? there’s a list?’)


‘If you kiss my locket, you’ll be at the top.’


(‘If I kiss her locket?’)


(‘What the heck is a locket?’)


She pulled a dainty gold chain from where, I’d discover years later, cleavage came from.


Her locket was a little gold heart.


I felt really really stupid.


Here I was, in a gurl’s room, with all this claustrophobic crap, and even considering kissing her locket for cryin’ out loud.


Get me the heck outta here!


(bat, bat, smile)


S-o-o-o-o after I kissed her locket, landing me solidly into first place, we went downstairs.


Funny thing, next day at school I took on a much different persona.


My once pitter patting heart went back to a normal beat.


Her smile took on a more sneer like function.


Her batting eyes became nothing more than a possible tourette.


Her smell took on the odor of curry.


Basically, she disgusted me…and less than 24 hours ago I’d kissed her locket….damn.


My first fleeting relationship.


Not for locker room lore.
 
page 3

Linda

By the age of thirteen I’d mastered the art of girlfriendmanship.
The major thing about the ladies was they needed to be dazzled, swept off their feet, so to speak.
I knew this from my vast studies of Errol Flynn movies.
So, with my now astute knowledge of the opposite sex, it all came rather easy.
Take my next conquest for example.

I’ll call her ‘Linda’, mainly cause her name was (and probably still is) Linda.
I usually change the names to protect the innocent (me), but there’s nothing about Linda here that would be defamatory…pretty sure.

She had a beguiling smile…hell, all of ‘em had those beguiling smiles, but hers kinda took on a Susan Hayward look.

And, she was cool.

Never went to the same schools, as she lived in St John’s, and I lived up in the hills twenty miles outta Portland.
But I met her at swim lessons in Portland, lessons that near drowned me as I tried so hard to get hold of that long ass bamboo pole the bitch of a swim instructor kept poking at me, pushing me away from frantically hugging the edge of the pool. Very frustrating for her, as several times I’d glommed onto that pole with both arms and legs, while she tried like hell to push me off the ledge and into the deep end. I’d just climb the pole, hand over hand, like a waterborne lemur, as she’d whisk me back and forth across the pool.


It only took a half dozen lessons to figger out that one really can’t breathe water…

Linda smiled at me, thus I was smitten.

Since we didn’t have very many ways of hooking up, meeting was rather sporadic.
The next time we met was at Pier Park in St John’s.


We strolled around, holding hands…sweaty hands…a real tell in regard to my rico suave persona.
But she kept smiling and I kept sweating.

Mostly, our relationship consisted of letters and phone calls.
Letters were a snap, cause I could take my sweet time in expounding on my devil may care, swash buckling life style, but the phone calls required some fast thinking on my feet.
In my vast knowledge of the opposite sex, knowing they needed to be dazzled, my acute imagination begat that of my own version of Walter Mitty.

‘Hi, how are you?’

(I could just see her smiling that Susan Hayward smile)

‘Hi, I’m OK, now that I’m able to stitch up my shoulder.’

‘What?!’

‘Oh, it’s nuthin’, just got done fightin’ a grizzly in the back yard.’

‘Oh my god! What happened?!’

‘Well, I was choppin’ wood, and he kinda got the jump on me. So I just chopped him in the neck with my axe.’

‘Are you okay???’

‘Yeah, right now I’m stitching up my shoulder while we talk.’

‘Is the bear still there?!’

‘Naw, I chased him up the hill for several miles…had to cold camp a couple days, and lost him up in the high country.’

‘Oh, so the bear fight didn’t just happen?’

‘Uh, no…..sorta.’ (sweat)

‘Well, I gotta go. Gotta tell some folks that I’ve gotta cancel the sky diving lesson for today, so see ya.’

‘Oh, are you taking lessons?’

‘No, I teach it.’

‘Oh,’

‘Yeah, so I gotta go….bye.’ (my hands now sweat faucets)

I really don’t know what ever happened that severed our relationship.
It certainly wasn’t due to my boring life style that’s for sure.
Actually, I do remember seeing her for what was probably the last time, and somehow her smile no longer did it for me.

When I was in my mid teens, I used to think back on those times and get all embarrassed.
Then later, in my twenties, would vividly recall it all and just laugh my ass off.
 
page 4

Lindsey


From months of bucking hay and picking berries, beans, and whatever I could get hold of, at 14 I bought a car.

My first.

’54 Chevy
$300

When you save your money in a cigar box for several months, taking it out, counting, fondling, stacking, fanning it out like a hand of gin rummy, then putting it back under the bed, w-a-a-a-a-y under, and you make a major purchase, your object of worship is gone…gone I say…just an empty cigar box with only the faint scent of cheap cigars and a hint of the smell of soft currency once soaked in the sweat of your front Levi pocket.


There are few words to describe the emptiness.
Maybe ‘bereft’.

I’d had this same experience at 12, getting my 30-30, but $79.50 from Western Auto was not the same as giving over a summer of work in one fell swoop.

The following summer I got a job hoeing roses for a famous, prize winning rose grower that had several acres of (you guessed it) roses at the end of a gravel road on top of the hill we lived on.
So, before sunup I’d make myself lunch, make coffee for the thermos and breakfast, fire up the green hornet and bomb up the hill, taking switchback after switchback…. sideways.


Then proceed to get a head start on a degenerative back by hoeing roses for 10 hours.
One Friday I’d gotten a call from a pretty little girl that I’d met.
Not as beautiful as my lady now, but beyond cute…really really cute, even pretty….her smile did funny things to my heart.
So Sunday I approached dad.

‘Hey, ol’ man. I wanna go to church with this girl.’

‘Well, what’s stoppin’ ya?’

‘She lives on the other side of Portland.’

‘You want me to drive you to the other side of Portland?!’

‘Uh, no.
I’d like to drive my car.’

(Mom)
‘ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!’

‘I’d be careful.’
‘And, (the coupe de grace) can I borrow grampa’s bible?’

‘You better be careful, cause if you get in an accident, they’re comin’ after me.’

‘Thanksdadbye.’

Mom said something, rather sputtered something, but I was already bombin’ down the drive.
Can’t recall the jaunt over the St Johns Bridge or the rest of the twenty miles.

Lindsey jumped in and we headed down the country lane to a park.
On the way, she was all over me.
I gave a thought to just pull over into the ditch, but maintained my James Bond nonchalant approach and returned her kisses, French kisses,
my first,
in my car,
driving,
For some reason, even beyond the control of my crotch, my mind relished in the sensation of tongue wrestling with this lovely being, and not on keeping in my lane…or on the road even.
It wouldn’t have mattered much to look where I was goin’ because my eyeballs were rolled back in my head.

Then a funny thing happened.

Somewhere deep in my semi consciousness, I heard trumpets blowing.
(So this is what Brad was telling me about…)
But while trying to gather my fuzzy thoughts, I had a flash back of a song that was getting popular….Leader of the Pack had a girl yelling ‘LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT!!’, then screeching tires.
Only it was Linda yelling, and the trumpet was a car horn, and the tires were those of the car in front of us.
I just remember two old couples, dressed for church, mouths open, arms waving.

I swerved.
Our rear quarter panels met.
Hard.
A sickening crunch.

My rear view mirror revealed them just sittin’ there in the middle of the road…sideways….gettin’ smaller and smaller as I floored the little chevy.
Lindsey didn’t say much when I dropped her off, but a few days later I got a letter.
My first.

I drove into the drive and parked behind the garage.
My story was that there was black ice on a corner and I slid into the guard rail.
He bought it.



I sweated blood for weeks after that, waiting for cops to haul my dad off in hand cuffs…leaving me with mom.
It never happened, but every time I got in my car, I got a little sick to my stomach.
I told him the real story three decades later.
We both had a good laugh over it.
Together.
Not at each other, but with each other.
My first.
 
page 5

Janice


I was on this date.
Not just any date.

My ’54 chevy had a nice back seat.
Janice had a nice back seat.

I really didn’t know her….well, I did in the biblical sense a few times (one or two, but a few times according to locker room lore).
It was Thursday night…morning, and I’d been thru a tough week…tests…football practice…chores at home….class pressures….some fights.
I needed a release.

I picked her up after goofing around most of the night.
As usual, she yammered away at some social bullshit.
I pretended to listen while twisting knobs finding a good AM station.

Finally, I said ‘Jody, I’m sorry, but…’

‘It’s Janice.’

‘Janet, I’m sorry, but I got a game tomorrow, and think maybe we should get comfy in the back seat…and then..’

‘Uh, it’s not a good time.’

‘Good time? Hey, let me show you a good time.’

‘Yeah, uh, it’s not the right time…’

‘Are you kidding? It’s damn near 2AM? I got a game in 16 hours!’

‘I don’t mean that.’

‘Fine, let me just assist you with that little strap thing, and…’

‘I’M ON THE EFFING RAG, OK?!!!!’


Oh

16 year olds really do have class, but only in the classroom
 
Page 6

Can’t remember her name


Had a girlfriend in early high school. We didn’t really date…aaaand I didn’t really ‘have’ her.
Thing is, I was attracted to her lips.
Couldn’t take my eyes off them lips of hers.
Full lips, largish mouth.
Much like the blonde in the movie TO SIR WITH LOVE.
In those days, girls used a skin tone shade of lipstick.
It was like, ‘hey look, I don’t have lips’.
Didn’t matter with her.
So we talked a lot in the halls, between classes. Actually, she talked, and I just watched her talk…not listening, just watching her lips form words, like ‘you’ and ‘who’…..so, one Friday night I actually took her out….to my car.
We (she) talked a bit…it was like lip foreplay…for mine.
Then, after my lips almost overdosed on mime sex, I squared her shoulders, caressed her neck, thumbs just below her ear lobes, and drew her to me, planting one on that mouth of hers.



I’ve had better kisses with fish.



I came to the realization of a couple things that night;
A) We really weren’t attracted to each other, just eager…and hungry.
B) It takes two, like a tango, to enjoy a kiss.


After that, I focused on other areas of the female anatomy….like hind ends….ones you could pull up to and eat breakfast off of…some were just happy meals…some were grand slams.
Hallway conversation?
Naw.


Matter of fact, I don’t even recall what my next few girlfriends faces even looked like.
They may or may not have even had heads
 
Gary O' said:
Page 6

Can’t remember her name


Had a girlfriend in early high school. We didn’t really date…aaaand I didn’t really ‘have’ her.
Thing is, I was attracted to her lips.
Couldn’t take my eyes off them lips of hers.
Full lips, largish mouth.
Much like the blonde in the movie TO SIR WITH LOVE.
In those days, girls used a skin tone shade of lipstick.
It was like, ‘hey look, I don’t have lips’.
Didn’t matter with her.
So we talked a lot in the halls, between classes. Actually, she talked, and I just watched her talk…not listening, just watching her lips form words, like ‘you’ and ‘who’…..so, one Friday night I actually took her out….to my car.
We (she) talked a bit…it was like lip foreplay…for mine.
Then, after my lips almost overdosed on mime sex, I squared her shoulders, caressed her neck, thumbs just below her ear lobes, and drew her to me, planting one on that mouth of hers.



I’ve had better kisses with fish.



I came to the realization of a couple things that night;
A) We really weren’t attracted to each other, just eager…and hungry.
B) It takes two, like a tango, to enjoy a kiss.


After that, I focused on other areas of the female anatomy….like hind ends….ones you could pull up to and eat breakfast off of…some were just happy meals…some were grand slams.
Hallway conversation?
Naw.


Matter of fact, I don’t even recall what my next few girlfriends faces even looked like.
They may or may not have even had heads
Click to expand...


This one reminded me of Bobby Bare's Mermaid for some reason... 😄

 
AnnieA said:
Gary O wrote
Page 6
Can't remember her name.

AnnieA wrote:
This one reminded me of Bobby Bare's Mermaid for some reason... 😄

Click to expand...

This marvellous, if slightly over the top barrage of posts on the thread reminded me of the Lou Bega song (Mumba number five) which went something like: "A little bit Rita in my life, a little bit of Jessica makes me alright.....(or words to that effect!).
 
I only had 3 old flames,due to the young age at which I met Mr. Robinson.But sadly,none of them are living. One passed at 30 in a car crash,one passed at 38 of cancer and the last passed a few years ago at 66ish of COPD. I tell Mr. Robinson that he`s lucky-my other old flames didn`t live very long lives....
 
wouldn't mind taking a peek at the last one -just to see hows he has aged lol...
 

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