When I was sixteen, I decided that I wanted to see what all the hubbub what about when it came to hickeys. People were always talking about them.
Who had one? Who did it come from? Who pretended it was a burn from a curling iron? Who got burned by her curling iron and pretended she got a hickey? The list went on and on.
I decided to take matters into my owns hands, or should I say neck? One afternoon, I informed my boyfriend, Chris, that he was going to give me a hickey.
“Okay,” he said without any hesitation (as any seventeen-year-old boy would respond), grabbed my head and shoulder, and leaned in like a vampire to complete the mission at hand.
“OW!!!” I screamed, pushing him off of me, and holding my neck. “What the HELL?!”
“What? You told me to give you a hickey, and I did. How did you think hickeys were made?”
“I don’t know! Not like that!” I yelled.
“Well, whatever. I did it. Look, there it is,” he said, pointing to my neck.
I got so excited by the prospect of a hickey being on my neck that I totally forgot about my throbbing pain and ran over to the mirror.
“Wow! That’s awesome!” I called out, beaming. (I laugh now at how little things excited me so much back in high school.)
I was thrilled for about a day and then, as with most things, I forgot all about it.
Later in the week, I sat at the dinner table with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. Big…freakin’…mistake.
“JENNIFER! WHAT IS ON YOUR NECK?!” my father bellowed, causing my mom and two older brothers to look over and investigate. He sounded like the dad at the end of Home Alone 2 when Kevin charges a preposterous amount of money to his credit card for room service.
“What? It’s just a hickey,” I said, desperately trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant.
I was screamed at for another 20 minutes, or so. Then I was sent to my room and told to “wait for them.”
Sitting there in anxious anticipation was a killer. I didn’t turn on the TV. I didn’t sit down in front of the computer. I did one thing: Texted Chris.
“O-M-G! DAD SAW HICKEY! STAY AWAY FROM HOUSE!!!” It was like the song Run Joey, Run, when the father is trying to kill his daughter’s boyfriend haha.
He tried calling me, but I hit “Ignore” a bunch of times, put my phone on silent, and prayed he didn’t try calling my house.
A few grueling minutes later, my mom came in and tried talking to me about not having sex. I almost died.
“I’m gonna stop you right there” I said, throwing my hand up in the hand while she was mid-sentence. “This was not an actual of sex. This was Chris massacring my neck because I wanted to know what it was like to walk around with a hickey. It wasn’t during the heat of the moment. It was during an episode of Everybody Likes Raymond. It was like being attacked by a human vacuum cleaner extension. After the five seconds it took for him to do it, I left. Will you please stop being embarrassing, now.”
She did, thank God. She also threw a tutleneck sweater on my bed a few hours later, telling me that I was supposed to get this on Christmas morning, but since she didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of the entire family for my little stunt, I was getting it now and wearing it to my cousins’ house on Christmas Eve.
So, there you have it. The hickey that ruined Christmas. And my boyfriend was able to come back into my house – two weeks later.
Have you ever forgotten to hide a hickey (or something equally as bad) and your parents saw it? What happened?