My Date Showed Up Sporting a Fresh Hickey, What Should I Do?
I’d been seeing this guy for a few weeks, and it was just starting to feel healthy. I’d first met him years ago through a mutual friend, but only recently had that knowing turned into something more romantic. On our first date, we’d briefly discussed what it was we were looking for, and found common ground in that we were both going with the flow, striving to form meaningful connections, and most importantly, wanting to have fun. I came away from it feeling chuffed that we were on the same page, and with the implication that I was that ‘something fun and meaningful’ for him, just as he was for me.
The next date was even more charismatic than the first, and in between, the texting and phone calls exchanged felt personal and affectionate. I was really enjoying getting to know him more and more with each interaction, and building my own trust to show him who I truly am—a big feat for an anxious-avoidant like me. That was, until he rocked up to date number three with a fresh hickey on his neck. How did I know it was fresh? Well, because I’d seen him two days prior, when his neck was clean and pure. Plus, the ruby-red shade was a dead giveaway.
As soon as I caught sight of the galaxy boldly spattered across the left side of his neck, I felt ugly, cheap, humiliated. I immediately became doubtful of the new and relatively wacky haircut I got a few weeks ago. The presence of this hickey had given me the “ick” for someone I’d been interested in just milliseconds before. And yet somehow, in the milliseconds that followed, I had managed to turn the ick I felt for him into disgust for myself.
I quickly sought refuge in the bathroom, where I immediately kicked myself for not bringing my phone with me. Address the issue at hand and risk ruining the night, or ignore it and keep the peace; how was I going to make this decision without the opinion of countless Redditors at my beck and call?
In his defense, it was only date three, but actually, no, why should I defend him? Sure, it might have only been our third date, but he’d been acting super keen about me, giving my typically worrisome mind no reason to predict a situation like this one.
Having had that chat on our first date, I couldn’t be mad about the fact that he’d clearly had perhaps a bit too much fun. Instead, what insulted me was the carelessness and disrespect of his actions—was he trying to get caught, or did he simply take me as an idiot?
Disappointment was the key emotion here. I’d last seen him two days prior, meaning he’d sandwiched sex in between his dates with me, and I did not appreciate being the starchy stodgy bread in this metaphor. What was I not giving him that he so desperately had to seek somewhere else? And more importantly, why was I turning this into a ‘me’ problem, rather than seeing it for what it was: a ‘him’ problem’?
Even more disappointing was his lack of trying to cover it up beyond pathetically tugging at his collar every few minutes (which by the way, is what alerted me to it in the first place). While I’m an advocate for free love and all the rest of it, what I really don’t want to see is evidence of it on his body. Is a little respect too much to ask, if only to maintain the illusion of exclusivity? I mean, at least wear a turtleneck!
It made me wonder where I stand on the whole ‘ignorance is bliss’ argument. Whether I’d grow up to be one of those women who would condone cheating as long as it was hidden from my view. I hope not, but then again, what does anyone owe anyone else?
I returned from the toilet and surprised myself by confronting the situation head-on. At first, he acted embarrassed, caught out, but as the conversation went on, he tried to console me that if we’d gone on to have sex, he definitely would have brought it up. But what if we hadn’t? Was he hoping to get away with it, to keep pulling his collar up in the hope I wouldn’t notice? And if we had, when exactly was he planning on bringing it up? Was he waiting for me to find it, or to see what he could get away with? With more questions than answers, that ‘consoling’ comment of his left me feeling more doubtful than relieved.
Despite my initial fears, the night wasn’t ruined by my addressing the ghastly thing. In fact, the following two hours consisted of a good chat about it and our respective feelings, and though we parted ways on surprisingly good terms, on the bus home I noticed I was clenching my jaw (for the thousandth time that day). I wondered what it was I was trying not to say, trying not to think. The music blaring loudly into my ears aided in blocking out my thoughts. In trying times such as these, it’s much easier to adopt the words of others rather than our own. “She’s lost control again”. “A monster about to come alive again.” Again, again, again. Same disappointment, different bloke.
I got home and stuffed my face full of junk food, another method of Not Feeling. I ate to distract my body from the pain of rejection. But then I thought about how I was doing this as I was doing this, and the blocking out became a much less effective technique.
Now I feel sick. I felt sick even before I binged, but now I have a reason to feel sick, which weirdly, makes me feel better. Yet underneath, I’m still accosted by the nauseating questions that my typically-worrisome-mind loves to gnaw on; ones that no music or food or scrolling or anything else can distract from.
Who am I, really? What am I doing? Why do I punish myself when others disappoint me? And most importantly, why are people in their mid-twenties still allowing themselves to be given hickeys?
Cover Photo by Lin Zhipeng. Edited by Caitlin Andrews.