Dear O.B.,
The hickey is the sexual equivalent of a cat pissing on its own corner of the lawn, and about as sexy as a chocolate ice cream stain on a Calvin Klein original. Administering a purplish-brown blood bruise (or wearing one with pride) is a crass act of sexual braggadocio; it's a loud and obnoxious answer to the question "What did you get up to last night?" that nobody asked. These broken blood vessels, which the medical community terms ecchymosis, are in the same league as mermaid tattoos, tight pants, dive bar karaoke, and going to the bathroom with the door open.
     At least, that's what the anti-hickey brigade would have you believe. Plug your ears, don't listen to their lies! Those people have the sense of humor of a macrobiotic yoga instructor; they can't stand to be reminded that someone else is getting some while they're not; they've never been swept up in the heat of the moment; and they're probably still bitter that they never got one of their very own in high school. You can spot the anti-hicks easily: They're the ones who meticulously avoid any sexual activity that might get them in trouble or be considered indiscreet — the doors are always closed, the blinds are always down, and the noise is always kept at a level so as not to wake the neighbors . . . or the mouse in the attic. Here's the party; here's them pooping on it.
     The passion purpura (its other, more romantic medical term) is the scarlet letter for our generation — and who's hotter than Hester Prynne? Without the taboo appeal it has thanks to the anti-hickey brigade, it wouldn't be half as fun or life-affirming. The love bite is the after-sex glow times ten — the only thing (besides a shit-eating grin) to give away your dirty little secrets. It's a saucy reminder every time you look in the mirror of the lust you recently inspired, you hot little popsicle. It's your little bite-sized time machine that takes you back to a simpler time, when making out was all that mattered. And it's retro chic, just like those terrycloth shirts you used to wear at summer camp. Then there's that popular, centuries-old vampire fantasy — nuzzling into your luvva's pale neck for a little life-force snack . . . Giving or receiving a hickey is like testing the temperature of the sadomasochism pool with your toes: A little tickling here, a little nagging pressure there, but nothing too hardcore in the pain department. While we're not big fans of the facial (i.e. a money shot in the face), territory-marking via a few burst blood vessels is one more way to nudge open the doors of domination and submission in the bedroom. Nobody wants to be owned, literally, but it's fun to play pretend that your bod "belongs" to another and that you've been branded by love. And submitting to the sucking is a safe way to throw caution to the wind in the throes of passion. Way safer than fucking without a condom, for example — you won't die from your average hickey*, unless you count dying from embarrassment. You may well regret it the next day, but that's sort of its charm — people don't blush enough these days.
     The hickey should not be administered (or accepted) willy-nilly, however. There are rules of etiquette governing the love bite, of which all ladies and gentlemen should be aware. Only the hidden hickey (breast, back, shoulder etc.) may be given at any time and without permission, assuming the person on the receiving end is thoroughly enjoying it. The half-hidden hickey (e.g. just behind the collar) may be administered with implicit permission. The blatantly obvious hickey (neck!) may be planted only with explicit permission, or when you know your victim well enough to be sure that it won't get them fired/excommunicated/laughed at for more than a day (and it won't get you fired from the relationship). If you end up the proud owner of a hickey, don't make a big deal out of it (like it's a new watch you got on your vacation and want to show off to everyone in the office). But don't be ashamed that you're lucky enough to be getting some hot, kinky sex, either. Besides, combing them out doesn't work, so you'll have to wear blemish make-up or a turtleneck, and who needs that in the middle of summer? Just accept it with grace and move on. If you're a giver, please use discretion; hickeys should not be considered a "patented move," or something you absolutely need to give in order to climax, or anything weird like that. They are an occasional gift, like flowers and birthday presents. If you happen to spot one on someone else, give them the benefit of the doubt and don't be quick to judge, lest you come across as one of those uptight people who always keep the shades down. However, it's perfectly acceptable to playfully interrogate a colleague about a blatantly obvious hickey. Half-hidden hickeys should be politely ignored by everyone except really, really close friends — the really, really close friend should feel free to ride their hickied pal's ass till the cows come home, but may choose to take the high road, because otherwise everyone will know that deep down they're just jealous.

Our bite is worse than our bark,
Em & Lo


* Obviously we're talking about your standard hickey, i.e. it's administered away from the genital area and no skin is broken.