NO HICKEYS!      Spring, 1955      Skokie, Illinois   Moving his hand, “Mitchie,” pulling her lips from his, “you’ve got more hands than a, uh…” searching for a word, “centipede!” “Yeah!” He chuckled, and tried again, but… Moving his hand, “You’d better be a good boy,” she said, “or I’m going to tell your bubby.” “God, Marcie, I knew it was a mistake introducing you to my family. Pl-ease,” he cried in mock horror, “don’t tell my bubby!” As, nestling his mouth on the soft, warm flesh under her chin, kissing it, he nipped at her neck. “No hickeys!” Marsha cautioned. “Don’t worry; I don’t even know how to make a hickey!” “Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t!” “No!” Pulling back, he tried to look at her, but could barely see her features in the darkness. “I really don’t know how to make a hickey.” Mitchell, everyone knows how to make a hickey!” “Not me! I swear! I do something else when I get really hot.” “Oh?” Leaning back, attempting to see him, also. Almost afraid to ask, “And what’s that?” she asked. “Besides that!” moving his hand. The last prolonged kissing session he’d had was in 1953 with Elsa Schmidt on the night before Labor Day, three months short of two years ago, and now, feeling the pressure on his jaw reminded him and, “Well,” he said, “I have this ‘thing’ with my bones.” Holding his hand to her ear, making a fist he twisted his wrist, and his wrist went pop. “Yaght!” Moving her head away, “That’s disgusting!” “Yeah.” Holding his other wrist to Marsha’s ear, “I can do it with the other wrist, too.” Twisting that wrist, it went pop too. “That’s your big trick when you get hot?” “Nah; that I can do anytime.” “So, if you can do that anytime, what’s the big deal?” “This is what happens when I get really hot.” Placing his hands on either side of her face, moving his mouth to hers he kissed her, passionately… “Mmmm… Yeah, Mitchie, that is a neat trick.” “No,” placing the side of his face against her ear, “here’s the trick.” Putting internal pressure on his jaw, moving it outward and slightly to the side, his jaw went pop. Moving it back, his jaw went pop. “Oh, my God! That’s terrible!” “See,” he said sadly, cracking his jaw again… twice. “That’s what happens when I get real hot.” Moving his lips to hers, they kissed for a minute, then, pulling back, he, pop, popped one wrist, then the other, then pop, pop, popped his jaw. “Yup!” he said. “It’s all your fault! You make me so hot I snap, crackle and pop.” “Jeeze, Mitchie! Kind’a like a bowl of Rice Crispies, huh?” Sighing, “Yeah,” he said mournfully, “and in a couple of minutes I’m gonna lose all control and all my bones are gonna start snappin’ and poppin’ and then I’m gonna kind’a fall apart… So unless you want to see me laying all over the place in little pieces, you better let me touch your boobies!” And, oh, yeah, he reached to Marsha’s breast, again, and… Moving his hand, again, “Good Lord! Mitchie, that’s just about the best line I’ve ever heard!” “Ain’t no line! So help me, it’s true . I’ll fall apart!” “Okay, Mitchie, let me get this straight. What you’re telling me is that unless I let you touch my boobies you’re going to just fall apart, and that you’ll be laying here…” laughing so hard she could barely get the words out, “flopping around in little pieces?” “Yeah, that’s true !” he said sorrowfully, “I got this, uh, rare, tropical disease, and if I don’t get my daily dose of boobie touching I just go to pieces.” “Oh,” she crooned sadly, “you poor thing!” Reaching overhead, flicking the switch to the dome light, turning it on, “Can I watch?” Pretending to pout, “Okay for you!” Turning the light off, “But, Marcie, you know I’m going to keep trying.” For emphasis—his heart, and another part of his body jumping because she allowed it… for about two seconds—Mitchell did cup a breast in the palm of his hand, as… “And, my little centipede,” she said, allowing his hand there as she said it, “you know I’m going to keep stopping you.” For emphasis, she firmly removed it.