Love Bites Killed the Hickey

When I refer to “Love Bites”, I’m in no way referring to the 80’s Def Leppard song that put them on the musical map of big hair.  I’m speaking of LOVE bites…as in biting in the name of love. Sans the tunes.

I’m not elderly…but then, I’m no spring chicken either.  But when I was in high school, the most visible sign of love outside of pregnancy was the hickey. The right of passage marking the time in your life when you were either loved, attacked or carrying on a torrid affair with your Hoover.

An addendum to the hickey right of passage was the concealment of said hickey. Toothpaste, ice-cubes to reduce swelling, make-up concealer, pancake make-up, none of it REALLY works.  Not completely.  You can usually spot these unsuccessful people fairly easily.  They’re the ones wearing turtlenecks and scarves in the dead of summer.  A scarf is a hickey recipient’s best friend. You should always have one handy if the stank of love comes down upon you.   Because nothing kills the joy of love like a screeching parent.

Yeah, parents aren’t too crazy about the “Love Bites”.  Upon seeing their children bruised beyond recognition, the parents begin to sweat profusely…then the shakes begin…then the yelling…the name-calling.  Perhaps this is the sort of verbal exchange one would hear in this situation.  (Hypothetical, people.  Ahem.)

Mother: How COULD you?  You think I don’t see that thing?

Girl: What thing?

Mother:  Don’t act ignorant with me.  I took prenatals.  I’m talking about that barbaric wound right next to your jugular.

Girl: My what?



Mother:  What kind of girl lets someone do this to them?  It’s barbaric!  I didn’t raise you to behave like an animal.  Who did this?  I want a name?  Was it Doug?  It was Doug, wasn’t it.  I just knew it.


Mother:  You have no idea how you’ve shamed this family.  You did this on purpose….knowing darn well that we were having family portraits taken this weekend.  I’d better not see one millimeter of that thing when you come down after breakfast.  You hear me?  Not a millimeter!

Note the girl’s silence.  This is your best defense.  You just can’t argue with a rabid mother…and you can always hide the family portrait with you wearing a burqa.

But alas.  Teens nowadays have shunned the pathetic hickey to make room for a more aggressive hybrid of love biting.  Vampire bites.  You think I’m kidding?  I saw it on CNN, man!  According to these punk 15 and 16 year olds, biting their chosen loved one gives them an adrenaline rush that catapults them into some whack state of elation and ecstasy.

I guess I’ve become one of “THOSE” mothers…because if my kid walked up in this house with a bite mark in any visible location, I would become emotionally unhinged.  Seriously.  I’d be like a psychotic drill sergeant.  Only instead of demanding a cover-up, I’d use the water boarding technique to acquire the name of the biter.  Then I’d give my kid an Ambien and tell her father to watch her while I donned her clothing and went to school pretending to be riddled with angst and attitude.  It’d be like a low-budget Freaky Friday with an unhappy ending.

I would then identify the boy offender and before he’d have a chance to say, “Heyy….you’re not…”  I’d bite him in the face, spit his pimply teenage skin to the ground, wipe the blood off my mouth with the back of my hand, then get nose-to-nose with the kid…..and whisper, Clint Easwood style….

“Listen here, maggot.  If I see so much as a new freckle on my kid’s body, I will hunt you down and force you to wear pantyhose and White Diamonds perfume for a solid year.  You hear me?  White Diamonds and pantyhose!”

Then I’d sniff, Barney Fife style, and walk away…whistling the theme song to “Children of the Corn”.  You gotta think outside the box with these kids, man.  No fear, people….no fear.

NOTE:  Psst.  This is the author’s rotten kid typing here.  If your Ma starts drilling you about the bite marks, tell her this:  “At least they’re where you can SEE them.”  Then sit back and watch her head spin right off her body.  After that, run… until you can’t run no more.  You didn’t hear this from me.


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