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boyflea, Male, 47, from Southampton, England
qFgk83MbTYA Jun 22, 2018
- boyflea was last seen:
- Jul 2, 2019
- Jul 27, 1972 (Age: 47)
- Home Page:
- Southampton, England
- About Me:
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The earliest memory I own was of Scooby Doo, in pieces on the floor.
The mystery-machine purple and the Shaggy-shirt green pieces of the cardboard puzzle lay on the brightly patterned carpet floor of our family home.
I could hear the ocean and remember the smell of the seaside air through the large open doors to my left, opening into a blindingly bright world outside.
The room was empty for a change; my large chaotic family were somewhere else at that moment.
It is not much: a fragment, a piece – but an important piece that completes me.
My first memory.
Missing a piece, I had stumbled into an innocuous bar. We met through other people. The conversation was pleasant and natural - the memories happy.
I let down my guard. I found words easy. I relaxed and breathed deeply and laughed warmly.
This joy lingered long after you were gone. The next time we met in-passing fired in me dreams and fantasies - I just had to see you more and more!
Fuelled by alcohol and badly-phrased bravado, I cornered you several times until you gave up hiding behind your friends and gave in to me.
We were truly happy then.
It was only a pound note, but the shame!
The family was at a holiday camp and on my brother’s Cortina dashboard was a pound note: I took it, changed it into 10p pieces and played Robotron in the arcade.
After the neon-soaked rush, the shame set in: I had no means of income, so I think I stole the money form another brother and put it back. This should give me more time to sort out this mess.
Little secret diversions and actions performed; conversations beginning in my head with proud arguments won.
I really doubt anyone ever noticed.
Seeing her there, arms stretched wide and hearing the doctor confirm that the attack had diminished will always be with me.
Overwhelmed by a sense of grateful bliss and fervent hope, I held her in my arms and we kissed happy kisses.
To lose dignity to illness is a test of any character and relationship, but we would overcome. Anything, yeah come on!
In debt and in need of work, we would ignore the inconvenience of being strapped for cash for now. We had dream to fulfil and ambitions to chase.
Such a clear memory, undiminished by time or pain.
Videogames are frustrating things: they gave an illusion of a world on the advert or arcade cabinet but the content was always less vivid.
Battlezone rendered a world in black and green vector. Based-upon a real-life US army simulator, you were immersed within the turret, isolated and fighting an endless battalion of tanks, missiles and aircraft.
I always remember the horizon of jagged mountains, of a crooked moon and a desire to drive long and hard into those mountains. Not for anything deep or meaningful, but just because it would be cool to fight tanks in mountains.
I was eleven.
She had booked the venue; a Victorian place that allowed people to gorge themselves on traditional English food and drinks – with incredibly generous old-fashioned puddings
A year before we had gone with her mum and dad; they always snapped and sniped at each other, but if you looked, you could see tender moments there still.
I could never make her dad happy – I wasn’t that sort of man.
But here on this night, away from others, dressed smartly and pretending to be of another age – we were happy.
Many drinks later, full of pudding we staggered out to the taxis.
Me and my sister sat in a pub in Barcelona. We were both on the same college course, despite me being five years older than her.
The college had arranged a local trip so we could go look at Picasso, Gaudi and anti-state graffiti. The group was a mix of foundation students and far older mature students – all mixed in.
The elders fed from the energy of the kids, and the kids basically ignored them. I remember being glad to be the youngest of the eldest group.
Myself unaligned, we got drunk and I failed to score with her friend.
I guess the pet names came from drawing small cartoons for her: silly stories, private jokes and rude messages - happy to be wrapped up in each other, snuggling, cuddling and holding on.
Like babies we had our own words, phrases and codes. We gave cuddly toys as gifts and ate many meals, enjoyed many nights out.
Musically, we were not aligned and I danced in spasms to the lights reflecting off her shiny full breasts. She would laugh at me a lot.
Over time we would exchange passions: she traded an Austen for my Pratchett; secretly, we both blossomed.
TV fascinated me.
There would be a test-card on before Noel Edmonds and his Swap Shop would appear. The TV we had was a large wooden-framed thing, on a wooden trolley to keep it high up enough so my young sister could not pour things into it.
I remember doing this a few times: taking felt-tipped pens and drawing on the screen. I was convinced that this was a cool thing to do and knew this is where my future lay.
Imagine, taking a pen and drawing straight onto the TV! Then the TV would make it come alive!
We were clearly drunk: two subsidised students in a busy pub, being asked to stop kissing so much or leave.
The bouncer was only a few years older, his dreadlocks and embarrassed black cheeks glowing in the dark.
Giggling, we paused to move to another part of the packed bar: I think her friend worked there part-time, or at least some of our friends were somewhere there. It was loud, cannot really remember which pub or the dreary indie tunes being played.
Outside of me kissing her, there was not much I could remember.
But I do remember the passion.