The Hickey
by Mykola Dementiuk
from East River Stories
All she wanted was a hickey, a sucked-up brown spot on the neck or throat to show everyone she had a lover, someone who lusted after her. That, or show up her boyfriend she had another on the side.
It was nothing but a cheap attempt at getting someone jealous.
He don't pay me no attention, she pouted, yet insisted I keep my hands off her. Only through the clothes, mistah. I'm not that kinda girl, y'know.
I shrugged but agreed we do it standing up against the river railing, I could at least get my hands on her, which was more than good enough for me.
Hell, it's not every day I got my body pressed against a fleshy teenager, but this one was willing to do it for a dry hump and a throat sucking at that.
And she was definitely a fleshy kid, large and overweight, her face and breasts and belly bloated in a pubescent baby-fat tease that in a few years, if it didn't settle into a boned tone of mature smoothness and softness, would only keep her in a haunting and baiting allure of slutty promises and come-ons, of love expressed in handjobs, blowjobs, quickie fuckings, too-many, too-often hurried abortions and pregnancies.
This was nothing more than the start (or continuation, if she hadn't already started) of prostitution. The getting from a stranger what a friend or lover could've or should've given as well. Showing up one male (a boyfriend?), that he was expendable and replaceable with another. Willing to barter her young girlhood for the stupidity of acting and appearing a fake-adult, with a real-adult stupidly over-eager to use her cheap girlishness for his own woman-hating vindictive pleasure, lust and abuse...
I pressed myself to her, raising my knee and thigh into her loose jeans, one hand around her back the other probing her bulky tits, as my mouth sucked and slathered her sweet neck.
But the problem with hickeys, though they may a week or so to lighten and meld back into the natural fleshy tint around them, take only an instant to develop and burst out. Everyone knows what happened to you, as you look at them red-faced and embarrassed.
But I barely had a moment of seizing and tasting her perfume, her sweat, her hairspray, her aroma, her neck and throat before she pushed me off, flicked open a compact mirror, and said, Wow!
My wide eyes said it too...
(Yet what kind of branding is a hickey meant to represent if not a skewed teenage marking of possession and ownership? And what does a show-off flaunting of that hickey prove if not a boasting of being possessed and owned by another? Why such eager willingness and desire to flaunt it?)
We gaped at the hickey --actually three real hickeys, two small scratch/biting marks where my teeth bit into her flesh, and one elongated sucking where my tongue and lips gorged on meaty throat--and she seemed very pleased with my mouth's sucking work.
I was too (did this mean I now possessed her?... I only wish...) and wanted more.
I tried dipping my wet open mouth back to her throat, but she pulled away, shoving me off and darted from the railing, my pants-hardon a frustrating lurch still stiffening wildly after her.
But she was gone, her chubby loose-jeaned ass weaving away on the promenade, not even looking back to see me contorted and doubled over at the railing, my hardon shrinking into a disappointing letdown of blue-ball limpness and uselessness.
Two days later I saw her again, this time with a boy her age, a boy tough and angry looking, smoking a cigarette with his hands in his pockets. He was one step ahead of her as she trailed behind, her arms at her side, her head lowered, her bookbag/knapsack hanging forlornly down her back.
She raised her head and our eyes met. I sighed, and though a black turtleneck --impressively flaunting her knapsack-pulled-back baby-fat tits-- covered her neck and hid my hickeys, a large purplish splotch coved her left eye and cheek. Her fat fleshy face was now fatter and more bloated, the blackeye a more powerful marking of jealous possession and ownership than any meager hickey of mine could have competed or vied against.
We looked at each other, then lowered our heads. When I next looked up, she was trailing contritely after her boyfriend, as if led by an invisible leash of possession, love and belonging.
I unzipped and masturbated at a lamp pole, the fantasy of a hard fist striking a fat girl face an even greater erotic stimulus than the actual memory of my body against her...
I zippered up and left the East River Park.
****
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