Wednesday, March 29

So... it’s confession time. I have always wanted a hickey. Yes, that is a strange goal for a twenty-two year old to have, but aside from friends giving me the occasional celebratory bite, I have never looked in the mirror and found a sexy spot on my neck.

That is, until this weekend. Oh la la, I finally got to experience the rite-of-passage that is a love bite.

Hickeys are not only the quintessential memento of rowdy behavior, they’re also perfect fodder for starting conversations about your crush. I thought it was perfect that my hungover sister noticed the spot on my neck before I did—because hickeys really should be accompanied by bashful discovery.

At the same time, even a twenty-two year old can experience middle school style embarrassment over acknowledgement of a love bite. My mother was the second person to notice it, and that caused the hickey to become a huge joke-slash-mock family inquisition. (Which was totally granted, because last summer I had lead a pretty good round of sister teasing after she and a very spotty neck arrived home one morning.)

Even today, I was still fielding questions about its origin. But now there are no more coy reactions to the love bite; instead I feel quite boastful about the whole ordeal (and with good reason!). Actually, I just can’t believe it’s taken me this long to find out how enjoyable hickeys really are. Bring on the revolution!