I have a confession.

I have a hickey.

Actually I have several hickies. I don’t know how this happened.

“An Indian Lady” by Thomas Hickey

Ok, I know exactly how this happened and I enjoyed every minute of it. But, as I stared into the mirror and was overcome by a mixture of horror and shame, I wondered why hickies are just so awful.

I realise that society doesn’t handle sex well. We are ashamed of it and thus we are ashamed of anything that reminds us of it. We place our condoms underneath a package of tortillas in the hopes that the grocery store cashier won’t notice. Sex toys arrive after being ordered online in anonymous brown packaging.

But somehow hickies seem to be the ultimate shame. Perhaps it’s the childishness of it? They are perceived to be something teenagers get. Or maybe it has something to do with the enduring nature of a hickey? They last for days, displaying themselves prominently.

To make matters worse, the temperature here has been around 20 degrees and sunny for the past few days. And I own one turtleneck. And it is long sleeved and black. I’ve literally had to wear a variation on the same outfit for four days in a row.

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