To All The Girls I've Loved Before

I’m sure most of us have heard that classic tune about remembering all the girls you’ve loved before. My personal favourite version? The unlikely tag team of Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson. Somehow, hearing those two croon in perfect harmony makes heartbreak sound… sophisticated. There was also a movie that I had watched many years ago on the same theme of remembering all of the girls loved before titled Broken Flowers that focuses on an aging "Don Juan" who embarks on a cross-country journey to track down four of his former lovers after receiving an anonymous letter stating that he has a son.

Anyway, back to me. About twenty years ago, my 30-year marriage ended. Yes, I know — do the math, and you’ll see I was apparently five when I got hitched. But let’s not get bogged down in minor details. After a few nights of self-reflection and red wine-induced nostalgia, I started thinking about my past lovers. Curiosity got the better of me. I decided to track them down—not like a stalker in a trench coat, more like a slightly pathetic tourist hoping to see if any of the old magic was still floating around. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Not once.

To be fair, my contact was mainly polite emails. Face-to-face meetings might have unleashed my rugged good looks and musky alpha pheromones, but the women mostly declined. Curtly. Definitely. Sometimes with the subtlety of a hand grenade. Was I that much of a prick back then? Apparently, yes. The consensus wasn’t shouted but somehow unanimous. Yet, I remembered those relationships as affectionate, sexy, caring—usually ending with apparent mutual regret. Life’s cruel, huh?

One lady I actually met for coffee explained that back in the day, she had been drawn to my “bad boy private eye” vibe. Fast forward, I told her my life had been destroyed by my mate George (long story, but basically everything that could go wrong did), leaving me broke but free. She smiled and said, “I don’t mix with losers.” Ouch. To her credit, she offered one small mercy: she admitted she hadn’t liked oral sex until our fling. Bless her, and thank you for awarding me a Bachelor of Arse Degree (Hons, Circular Rotations) from LUST—Langtrees University of Sexual Training.

Another woman agreed to meet me years later over a few beers. She confessed to terminating a little accidental soul we’d once created. She hadn’t told me at the time because, apparently, she thought I wouldn’t care. (Spoiler: I would have. And did.)

Then there was the ex I’d lived with for a year. Decades later, I spotted her car outside a café, left my business card on her windscreen, and watched from inside as she tore it up and walked away. No backwards glance. Double ouch.

My first teenage girlfriend from NZ? Found her via social media. She initially chatted about life, then discovered I write crime novels. Her reaction: shocked that I could manage a postcard, let alone a novel. She promptly vanished with her husband’s approval. Message received, universe.

So, what did I learn from my very informal “reconnect with all my exes” experiment? Mainly that I was not the man I thought I was back then. Turns out being an army brat doesn’t just mean frequent moves—it means emotional onion layers and survival instincts that keep your feelings in check. Constantly moving every two years in Malaysia, Singapore, and New Zealand meant I never had childhood friends outside the army brat club. Add in extreme shyness, and you get someone emotionally sealed tighter than a jar of pickles in a heatwave.

In conclusion I suppose my advice to others for what it is worth, is that if you are considering tracking down all the girls you loved before. Probably don’t eh.

Time, perhaps, to lie back, light a sandalwood incense (not an actual cone—I’m not a wizard), pour some red wine, and reflect on the beautiful women I was lucky enough to know… all while listening to Willie and Julio remind me that love, memory, and mild humiliation can harmonize beautifully.

Regards Magnum
(Single Man / Aging Hermit)
For: Langtrees.com 

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