Oh, the good old days of necking when we weren’t supposed to, and that deliciousness, tenth next day realizing that you’ll have to wear a high-neck collar or a scarf to school, because you got a hickey.

Hickeys are one of those love-them, thrilled by them, hate them sorts of things.

I HATED getting them when I didn’t want them, and the hassle of hiding them for however long it took for them to go away.

I HATED the brand another put on my body, marking me, however temporarily.

I also secretly thrilled at the reminder of the illicit pleasure we took with each other, and the getting of them.

Now, I just love hickeys.

Consensual hickeys, hidden in places others will NOT see them, unless they are intimate with me, in which case, I’ll show them off proudly.

And I love giving them.

Seeing MY love marks on another’s flesh.

Not unlike the bruises from a paddling, or the flush and glassy eyes from a good orgasm.

MY MARKS.

In collaboration and consent, of course.

But MINE.

On them.

And theirs on me, once in a while. As a reminder of deep passion that is not slaked at the skin level.

But not above my neckline, please and thank you.