Do I still have to buy you dinner, or can we just skip to the part where I suckle your neck?

December 8, 2009

“You’re wearing your hair down,” I said to one of the young ladies who works as a caregiver at the seniors’ residence where I’m the Laundry Dude. “I like it.”

Because I’m a trained journalist and have often been paid to use my powers of observation, it only took me several minutes to notice what the new hair style was concealing: a bruise on her neck the size of an orange.

“Were you attacked?” I asked, my voice equal parts concern and naked, brazen curiosity.

“No,” she said.

“Then what the heck caused that?”

“I was on a date.”

“Yes? And?”

“And I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.”

Bad call. Because, when you leave something to the imagination on Planet Man, the first thought that comes to mind is sex. It’s also the second thought. And the third and . . . well you get the picture.

I’ve seen hickeys before but this one looked like the entire Cullen clan had come to dinner. And, yes, that was a Twilight reference. And, yes, that is how culturally hip I am. * fist bump *

I’ve delivered the occasional hickey in my time, I’ll have you know, although, come to think of it, no one has ever felt inclined to return the favor. Maybe I’m not as yummy as I like to think. * licks arm * Nope, tastes fine to me.

Brother Number One had no such problems in his younger days. We used to work together for a group providing activities for mentally disabled children. One day at a swmming pool, my bro caused the rest of us to raise our eyebrows when he entered the water still clad in his white T-shirt.

Except he forgot the first rule females learn soon after their breasts appear: white T-shirts become transparent when wet. (The second rule females learn is: Men will do anything for boob.) And so there for all of us to see was a collection of suckage marks strung across Brother Number One’s torso. Tiny love bites that spelled out: I Got Me Some.

It would appear that, while I was concentrating on other things, the idea of hickeys, and their use as a tool of passion, have somehow managed to drift out of my life.

These days, those precious moments before sleep often find Viking Woman softly snoring with a library book still propped open on her chest, while I read NHL game summaries and silently thank the Baby Jesus for the Internet so I can still follow my favourite teams while living in a country where rugby is king and every other sport is obviously played by poofters and nancy-boys.

The good news is that I can wet down my T-shirt and not reveal any secrets. The bad news is that no one in their right mind would ever ask me to hose down. Bummer.


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