Eight Stupid Mistakes That Cost Me Eight Pretty Girls

WRITER'S NOTE/DISCLAIMER: First of all, I apologize to any and all women on my Follower's List or those who are not on my Follower's List for running ONLY photos of pretty girls in this story. This hub is in NO WAY a reflection on the girls I dated from 1972 through 1974. All break-up's were MY fault, not theirs. And these photos ARE NOT of the girls who broke it off with me. I couldn't just run a text-only hub. One of the HubPages editors, Simone, would have "tagged" this hub for being so drab. Guys: read this hub and see if YOU have made any of these mistakes that I made with pretty girls when I was able to date. Thanks, KENNETH

and "face the music," so to speak, and share with you the painful break-up's that I had with eight of the prettiest, hottest, funniest, smartest and well, purely-gorgeous girls that God ever made. I want to warn you ahead of time. This is NOT a comedy piece. I am using the girls' REAL first names because I would be writing a lie if I used a fake name. If I am to be totally-honest, let me be totally, one-hundred percent honest.

Their names were: Sherry; Frankie; Carolyn; Donna; Cathy; Patti; Kay and Sylvia. Real girls. With really great looks. I never could figure out the "how" or the "why" they went out with someone who looked like me. And if you look to the upper right to see my profile photo, the only difference in that photo and the ones I had in 1971 through 1974 was hair. I had a head full of hair. I loved having hair. And the girls I dated evidently loved me for my hair, but I didn't have much money and no, none of these girls were "gold diggers." I knew all of these girls except for the two who lived out of town. The others lived in my county in Alabama: Marion County.

I will attempt, if I can hold back the tears and painful memories, to tell you about each girl from the first girl I was blessed to date through the last one I took out in hopes we would have a long-lasting relationship. And keep in mind, this series of pretty girls were the very-first girls that I ever dated. And after years of soulful searching and endless pondering, I have arrived at one conclusion: With each of the eight girls, I had to make at least ONE FATAL mistake that caused them to want to NOT date me anymore. In this life. Or the next.

And to the single guys, let me say this to you. Please read the events surrounding each of the eight girls that told me in so many words to, "get lost," and do me this one favor: DO NOT ALLOW YOURSELF TO MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES I MADE WHEN I WAS DATING.

Sherry was my very-first real date with a living, breathing female. Oh, I had chatted with girls on the phone after school, but that was before I got my driver's license and the use of our family car, a blazingly-fast 1964 Chevy with a 327 cubic inch engine and rebuilt transmission. This tid bit of info was just for the guys. I met Sherry at her uncle Elmon's grocery store just outside of Hamilton. We spoke. She smiled. And man, was I ever turned-on. I mustered-up my nerve and said, "Hey, uhhh, Sherry, want to go riding around Friday night?" "like on a date?" she asked with her deep blue eyes hypnotizing me. "Yeah, a date," I laughed. She laughed. I picked her up on that Friday night at 7 p.m. as she had requested. We rode around, as was the ritual of dating couples in Hamilton, Alabama. Soon we got a bite to eat. Went to park and talk. I was going to be the perfect gentleman with Sherry. As we left the restaurant, she went to her side of my car. I jumped (like Superman, my buddy), to open her door. That went great. But when she sat down I shut the door too soon catching her long brunette hair in the door. "That hurts, you idiot," she yelled. I didn't get my feelings hurt. I apologized right away and we laughed at my lack of social skills. I saw Sherry one or two more times. The last time she agreed to go out with me, I arrived at her home only to find her gone. No note to explain her absence. The next week she ran into me and quickly said, "I had to go with my mom to Birmingham," and boy was I relieved. The not telling me before I wasted my time and gas I thought was her way of avoiding me.

Frankie was a lovely brunette too. She had the perfect Playboy Bunny figure. And knew it. I took her out twice. But the second time we dated, all she could talk about was her boyfriend that I didn't know about named James. His real name by the way. I felt stunned as she unloaded on me in my car burning my gas telling me of the problems she and James were having. I would play it cool. Listen like a good friend. I ended up listening most of the night about "James ignoring me," and "James really don't love me," until I had heard enough. "Why on earth are you dating me?" I asked. She used her "pouty lips" routine and whimpered, "I thought you were like a brother to me and cared for my feelings." Her brother? Cared for her feelings? I should have stopped that "James talk" in the early-going. Maybe then she would have respected me for being a real man. Not a wimpy brother who only took her to town when she needed a ride. Yes. Allowing Frankie to go on and on about James spelled "the end" of my dating Frankie.

Carolyn was a well-built, petite blond that I dated for about one month. Every Friday after work I'd drive miles into the country to pick her up. We would eat. Make-out until the windows of my '64 Chevy would fog-over so we could write our initials on them. And the same ritual on Saturday nights and Sunday evenings. I happen to be late a few times for having to work some overtime. She threw several hissy fits because of this. But eventually forgave me for making money to spend on her. The last time she threw a fit because I was late, I got "the boot" because she said that I loved my job more than her. Yeah, that was right. I can now confess, Carolyn. Nothing turned me on when I was with you than to spend hours shooting molding into rooms of the mobile homes I was helping to build. I loved to sweat like a hog. And be yelled at by the foreman. You guessed it. I was "in love" with manual labor. I should have quit my job and stay with you 24-7. No, you would have said I was a "bum." You were right. I "loved" my job more than you.

Donna had flaming red hair. And wore the perfect jeans and perfume. She was very quiet-natured, but I found that I could make her laugh with a laugh so sensual that I would melt like Jell-O left out in the Arizona desert each date I had with her. Actually, I fell deeply in-love with Donna. It was on a sweltry summer Friday night. I was with Donna and my buddy, Rondol, was with her best friend, Cathy. We had went to "talk" (we called it talking back then) in the dug-out of a local softball team in a town near where the girls lived. Rondol and Cathy were not with us so I could be as smooth as new Vietnamese silk. I had worked hard that day and Donna knew it. I just looked at her and said, "would it be okay to kiss you?" She came into my arms and whispered, "you don't have to ask," and my heart was hers. Every corpuscle. We dated two more times after that and then she up and said that "for now, we can start as friends," and I agreed before she had got the words out of her lovely red lips. Then she stopped writing me when I'd send her a sensitive letter to see how she was because she had once been left at the altar. Literally. And had issues with guys. But in my case, she trusted me. Why she broke-away from me is still a mystery. All I did was be honest with her and compliment her on every feature she had. No, not her hidden features. I wasn't a brute. Guess my mistake was being nice to Donna. That's all I can figure.

Cathy was Donna's bestie. Best friend, if you will. She was blond, built and perfect for dating. She was always smiling and flirting with me. I thought I had died and went to Atlanta, Georgia, times were that heavenly with Cathy. I never mentioned Donna to her. At all. And she never mentioned Donna. We just dated about three times and suddenly, she too, wanted to "explore other options," and I thought it was work or college. Why on earth didn't she say that she wanted to be with other guys? And her personality was not that sensitive either. She told it like it was, but not with me. And not the last time we dated. My fault? You bet. I was not able to read her mind and decode what she really meant. What a dope I was.

Patti was my "ideal girl." She wore huge loop earrings, too much make-up and had those hot "bedroom eyes," and a body that could appear in the Playboy magazine of her choosing. We met one Sunday evening while Rondol (you met him in the Donna tale) and I were riding around in a town near Hamilton called Winfield. Patti and I set a date for that night at 6 p.m. at a restaurant in Guin, Alabama about ten minutes from Winfield. I showed up right on time. There she was waiting for me wearing the most alluring top and jeans that could be worn by a female. We had a ball on our first (and only) date. I took her home with me. My parents had went to evening church service leaving me at home. Well, kinda. Patti was with me enjoying my Alice Cooper "killer" LP and dancing with me. I was feeling great. Like a real ladies man. Then it happened. And didn't happen in the ensuing ten minutes. Patti suggested I show her to my bedroom. Man, how lucky could a guy get? "Making it" on the first date with this "slutty good-looking" girl who knew her way around a bedroom if you get my drift. I was almost ready to, well, you know and she burst the great feeling by saying, "I want to go home. Now!" And proceeded to get up from the bed. I was shocked. My mouth hit the floor. "Why? Can you tell me what I done, Patti, or what I didn't do?" I cried. She smiled. And replied, "you are too nice of a guy to do this with," and said nothing else. This was as far from a Harlequin Romance novel as I was from being an Albert Einstein. Too nice of a guy? I was following your lead, Patti. So why did you blame me for being "nice"? Did you want me to be like a Hell's Angel and beat you with my chains? Or curse at you and call you degrading names? I was "too nice." A great reason to break up with me. Talk about me being confused about girls after that night. I was nuts.

Kay was a registered nurse working at a hospital in Red Bay, Alabama, the alleged hometown of the "Queen of Country Music," Tammy Wynette. I met Kay while my dad and I were visiting our cousin who was dying of cancer. I quietly asked her (after some ice-breaking talk about hospital work), "may I have your number? I'd love to call you sometime." She gave it up like a robbery victim of Jesse James. I felt good. The next week I called Kay. And made a date for that upcoming Sunday afternoon. I got to her house and met her mom and three sisters who all LOOKED JUST ALIKE. I kid you not. All had their hair in buns on top of their heads. And all smiled simultaneously at me. Kay and I rode around. That's all. I dated her one final time. And when she got out of my now-new car, a 1974 Plymouth Duster, she said, "Uh, Kenny, I really like you," (I knew what was coming so I braced myself). "But you have your work and I have my church and our faiths do not mesh, so I think it best we just part," What? Not because I lusted at will at her perfect figure? Or because I had forgotten to bring an expensive dozen of red roses? It was due to our faiths not meshing. I smiled. Chuckled to myself as I got into my car. And some losers would have squealed their tires and pealed-out of there. Not me. I wanted to intentionally prove to this Kay person that I was strong. Cool. And not hurt by her flimsy excuse. Scratch, one more girl.

And finally there was . . .

Sylvia an older woman in her early twenties. What a gorgeous divorcee. My buddies and I were hanging out one Saturday evening at our place in Hamilton, "Jackson's Airport Drive-In," and Mr. Jim Jackson named his establishment this because it sat on the road leading to the Marion County Airport also in Hamilton. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a gold, 1974 Monte Carlo about to turn-in where my buddies and I were standing. Then the Hand of God moved. The car stopped and I, acting like a worldly Sean Connery, walked up to the car and said in a voice so smooth, "would it be possible for me to drive this great-looking car?" "I don't let strangers drive my car," Sylvia said very sternly. "What if I buy the gas?" Sylvia now smiled and moved over to the passenger's side. What an evening we had--riding and talking and getting to know each other. Then in mid-date, something in my mind went haywire (like all men's minds do at times) and I blurted out, "you have the prettiest legs, Sylvia, but your nylons are wrinkled." She slowly turned toward me and said, "I'm NOT wearing nylons." Being like Connery, I acted unruffled by my vocal blunder and apologized and quickly said, "would you like to come to Hamilton tomorrow and meet at the Trade School?" "Sure, I will be there," she replied as nice as a picture of a peach pie cooling in some mother's kitchen window. Needless to say, "I" showed up at the Trade School in Hamilton. Sylvia did not. I kinda saw why she wouldn't see me again because she thought I was saying her legs had wrinkles. I apologized for that immediately.

Go figure. From that one date with Sylvia, the lovely divorcee, I was extra-cautious of giving any girl I met any compliment of any type.

That didn't work either. A few girls "kicked me to the curb" because I DIDN'T PAY THEM ANY COMPLIMENTS.

I did after that do some serious contemplating about becoming a monk.