Join us as we sink our teeth into the sucky subject of hickeys.
As horny teens, one indication that a youngster has finally snaked their way into the naughty origins of their sexuality is the gruesome advent of a hickey. They might show up to math class one morning trying to act all coy, perhaps sporting a scarf or a turtleneck in a feeble attempt at maintaining some level of discretion. Little does everyone know (though they can probably guess) that their classmate’s neck is marred with at least one dark, reddish-purple bruise that some pimple-faced teenage Dracula made by fiercely sucking away in the throes of passion behind the monkey bars.
On one level, a hickey is a source of pride. It represents the death—or at least wounding—of innocence. Yet, the hickey bearer desperately needs to keep this sexual souvenir a secret, mostly because if the wrong redneck dad sees it, somebody is either going to end up wearing a chastity belt or getting beaten with it. Of course, any attempt to conceal the lust-induced blemish is futile. It doesn’t take long for the gnarly nature of the make-out mark to be revealed in all of its discolored glory, usually because Count Suckula can’t keep the news of his neck-gnawing exploits a secret for very long.
“There’s nothing trashier than a woman with a hickey on her neck, and no one wants to see it either.”
