the vanishing hickey
I can't recall the last time I saw a hickey on someone, and I feel like weeping. I'm not even sure if the young whippersnappers, with their carbonated beverages, violent video games, and portable antisemitic MP3 players, know what a "hickey" is.
Back in high school, when me, Richie, Potsie, Ralph, and Fonzie would sit around Mrs. Cunningham's Formica table obsessing over girls, a hickey was a badge of honor. It showed that you had gotten past first base with a young lassie—you'd almost reached shortstop. Few things this side of a blow job felt as tingly as some stank-ass JD girl sucking on your neck like some support-bra-wearing Draculina. And few sights are as erotic to me as the specter of some "bad" girl who looks like she's just removed leeches from her throat.
We got rid of segregated drinking fountains and attractively designed automobiles—FINE—but did the hickey have to be crushed under the stampeding hoof of "progress," too?
