The next morning, I awoke to a bright purple lump, the size of a golf ball protruding from my neck. It hurt to touch, and was so swollen, that I could barely turn my head. What the hell? A hickey?!!!
That Bastard!!
The previous night's thrill and excitement, from experiencing French-kissing for the first time, was suddenly replaced with a terrifying fear... If Dad sees this, I'm dead!
At the tender age of sixteen, this was the first all-schools dance he had ever let me go to. A hickey the size of everest on my neck, would be a complete breach of his trust, punishable only with death by firing squad.
I had to hide it. But how? I had a whole weekend at home with the family! Fuuuuck!!! I threw a scarf on, which looked completely ridiculous with my T-shirt and shorts. Then I remembered one of the few (medical tips) my Dad has ever passes on… “Ice is effective up to 48hrs after injury.” It reduces swelling and bruising, and the sooner you apply it, the better! With my scarf on, I bolted to the kitchen to get an ice pack.
I was leaning down into the open freezer door, when Dad walked in.
I froze, one hand in the freezer, and the other hand touching my scarf.
“How was the dance,” He said accusingly. (He says everything accusingly. Regardless of how much he loves his family, he will never trust any of them.) This was it. I was done for. I knew there was no way I would be able to hide my neck from him all weekend. I already looked incredibly suspicious wearing a scarf and raiding the freezer.
So I made a decision. I swallowed hard, and slowly stood up to face my Dad.
“I got this.” I said, unwrapping my scarf defiantly, to reveal the gruesome hickey.
Now it was Dad’s turn to freeze.
After what felt like a year of standing there in silence, he said to me “Well. We should talk about this.”
My stomach leapt into my mouth as he motioned for me to sit. We sat at our breakfast bench on bar stools, unable to look each other in the eyes. I was very silent. My dad, even more so. After another eternity, he said, “I’m not mad."
I exhaled. I couldn't believe he wasn't mad. Maybe he understood how much I just wanted to be like everyone else, and have finally kissed someone. Could he perhaps see that this experience was just one step away from me getting a boyfriend and finally being cool? Then he said the worst thing a parent can ever say to a child – especially one that has only ever wanted to please him. “I’m just very disappointed in you.”
The words hurt a thousand times more than my throbbing hickey. A second lump now formed in my throat, filling my eyes to the brim, before silently spilling over my newly exfoliated cheeks.
He then continued. “How far did you go?”
“What?” I managed through tears. “We just kissed,” I sobbed, feeling like I was admitting to first degree murder.
“Well, how far would you have let him go?”
“What?!” I said again. This was too much for my innocent mind. That there was anything more than just kissing at a school dance, was beyond me.
Dad, being a straight shooter, never beats around the bush.
“Would you have let him finger you?”
(!!!!) I now started crying in repulsion, that my dad had said the word “finger” in a sentence to me. I’d barely broached the topic with my friends, let alone my family. Plus… WTF? Had he even been to a school dance? Fingering would have been totally out of the question!
“No!” I screamed.
“Well,” he said, relieved that he had scared me. “It’s just something to think about. You have to know ahead of time, how far you are willing to go. Boys have a one track mind and will always try and persuade you to go further.”
This did nothing but fuel my distrust in guys. He was right. Boys were evil. I cried and told Dad I was sorry, over and over. I was deeply upset that my first real French-kiss had lead me into this agonizing conversation.
I spent the rest of the weekend cradling an ice-pack to my neck in shame. Come Monday morning, the hickey had gone down considerably, but I still needed two band-aids to cover it.
At school, I was convinced people would ask me what had happened. In English class, I hid from my teacher, Mrs Wheatley - A delightfully old fashioned soul who had accidentally stepped out of a Jane Austin novel and into our classroom. I feared and respected her so much, that I knew she could see straight through my bandaids to the little whore that I was.
It had dawned on me, that this first kiss was becoming deeply regrettable. When the school bell finally rang for lunch, I headed for the only two girls that could made sense of my world.
Suze and Connie laughed and laughed when I showed them the hickey, and recounted my tortured weekend at home. They were proud of my battle wound, and even nicknamed the boy I kissed “Vacuum Cleaner.” They decided to learn from my experience, and vowed never to let a guy suck on anything for prolonged periods of time, that could be seen outside of our uniforms. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find Vacuum Cleanter’s photo in a Toowoomba Grammar Year Book.
Thank god for friends. Right?
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