Diary of a Misbehaving Body Part Ep 8: Hands – “Caught Red-Handed”

Intro for Readers

Hello, you gorgeous lot.

Welcome back to Diary of a Misbehaving Body Part, where my body spills more secrets than a drunk aunt at Christmas. You’ve already met the boobs, the butt cheeks, the thighs, the lips (still showing off about kisses), but today? Oh darling, today it’s the Hands.

Yes, those grabby little rascals who can’t sit still. The ones guilty of sneaky bum squeezes, fast bra unhooking, and sending that message to the wrong WhatsApp group. (Yes, Brenda from book club, I do still want to feel someone’s thighs against my face, but not yours, thanks.)

They’re naughty, restless, and have literally been caught red-handed. And they’ve insisted on writing their own defence.

The Diary of Sue’s Hands – “Caught Red-Handed”

Dear Diary,

It’s us. Sue’s Hands. Ten wriggly fingers, two palms, and apparently more attitude than is strictly necessary.

We need to talk. Because everyone is acting like we’re the villains of this body. Us! The ones who open wine bottles, type sexts, hold lovers, and deliver claps when karaoke night finally ends (you’re welcome).

But the minute something goes wrong, a wine spill, a cheeky grope, a vibrator switching on in the wrong place – who gets blamed? Us. Always us.

Honestly, if we had a pound for every time Sue said, “Oh sorry, it’s just my hands,” we’d have our own savings account by now. (And we’d probably blow it on lube and nail polish, but that’s beside the point.)

Always the Suspects

Let’s review the evidence, shall we?

🍷 Wine spill on the sofa? “Oh, Sue’s hands are clumsy!” (No, darling, it was the giggle-snort from your nose that shook the glass.)
🍑 Bum grab in the kitchen? “Oh, Sue’s hands are cheeky!” (Excuse us, but have you seen that bum? We were doing community service.)
💌 Sext to the wrong person? “Oops, my fingers slipped!” (Slipped? Please. We hit send with Olympic precision. The drama keeps us alive.)

We don’t see the Brain being grilled. We don’t see the Thighs questioned. It’s always us in the dock, palms sweating, fingers twitching.

Restless by Nature

We don’t mean to misbehave (well, not always). We just can’t do “still.”

Leave us alone for five minutes and we’ll:

• Tap out a drum solo on the table.

• Pick at a thread until the jumper unravels.

• Accidentally stroke the waiter’s leg. (He didn’t mind. We checked.)

It’s not mischief, darling. It’s a lifestyle.

The Dinner Date Disaster

Exhibit A: the infamous dinner date.

Picture it. Candlelight, violins, mood lighting. Sue tells us, “Behave. Rest nicely on the table.”

We tried. For a whole two minutes. Then Thigh sauntered in, smug in a silky dress, crossed under the table. Well, what were we meant to do? Ignore it? Be polite? Pfft.

So we slid down for a little graze (just a casual hello). Next thing, the date squeals, fork clatters, waiter face-plants the bread basket. The entire restaurant watching as if we’d just announced free orgies on a Monday.

And who gets blamed? Thigh? No. Wine? No. Us. Always us.

The Copy Machine Fiasco

Exhibit B: the office drama.

The task? Print one document. Simple. But then the copy machine started flashing all its little lights like a Vegas strip show. You think we’re not going to poke? Darling, you clearly don’t know us.

So yes, we pressed a few buttons (fine, all of them). Suddenly, fifty copies of a doodle that looked alarmingly like a penis slid out. (Not our best artwork, but the proportions were generous.)

HR said “unprofessional conduct.” We said “abstract expressionism.” Tomato, tomato.

The Bedroom Rap Sheet

Ah, the bedroom. Our most notorious crime scene.

We’ve been:

• Praised for “magic fingers” (our CV headline, thank you very much).

• Accused of leaving scratch marks (sorry, nails were on strike).

• Applauded for unclipping bras faster than Wi-Fi (practice makes perfect).

• Blamed for knocking the lamp off the bedside table (look, he moved).

• And yes… responsible for turning Dan the Vibrator on during a dinner party. (That one still gets whispered about.)

We’re like conductors in the symphony of sex. Without us? The whole thing would sound like someone banging pots together.

The Bum-Slap Lottery

And then, the bum-slapping controversy.

One playful smack and suddenly it’s a moment. Some people purr and beg for more. Others glare like we’ve just insulted their mother.

Do we ever know which we’re dealing with? Absolutely not. It’s Russian roulette with arses. (And we’d play again.)

Sexting & Mischief

Oh, the midnight sexts? You think that’s Sue’s smooth brain at work? Darling, no. That’s us, rattling across the keyboard like gremlins.

We don’t just type; we improvise. Brain gives us one idea, and suddenly we’ve added emojis, three extra “mmmms,” and a line about licking thighs that wasn’t in the original script.

Unfortunately, autocorrect sometimes joins the party. “I want to lick your thighs” once became “I want to lick your pies.” (Different fantasy entirely.)

Our Tender Side

But we’re not all bum grabs and sexting chaos. We’ve got a soft side.

We melt when someone threads their fingers through ours. We go all gooey for knuckle kisses. We adore lazy Sunday mornings where we just stroke skin gently, no urgency, no drama. (Well… less drama.)

Yes, we’re grabby. Yes, we cause carnage. But sometimes, we just want to hold hands and sigh like a Jane Austen heroine.

Our Closing Statement

So, Diary, next time Sue is accused of being “caught red-handed,” remember this:

We’re not masterminds. We’re minions. The Brain is pulling strings. The Heart eggs us on. The Eyes say “Ooooh shiny thing!” and Hormones? Don’t even get us started — absolute tyrants.

We’re just the messengers. Brave, cheeky, slightly sticky messengers.

Yours with jazz hands,
Sue’s Hands ✋

Sue’s Cheeky Wrap-Up

Well, there you have it. My own hands, throwing everyone else under the bus while pretending to be innocent. Typical.

They’ve confessed to sexts, bum-slaps, doodle-porn at work, and even activating Dan the Vibrator mid-dinner. And yet… do I love them? Absolutely. Without them, there’d be no wine pouring, no pasta stirring, no breast cupping, no applause when I finally hit the high note at karaoke.

So the next time you’re caught red-handed, darling – don’t apologise. Wink, sip your drink, and blame it on the hands.

A Note from Sue the Masseuse

💋 “Darling, why keep your body waiting? You’ve teased yourself long enough. Book your sensual massage with me and let those knots, cravings, and whispers of desire melt away under skilled hands that know exactly where to linger. Don’t make excuses – your body deserves more than promises. Slip into the indulgence you’ve been fantasising about… and let me take care of the rest.”

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