🌶️ Sue’s After-Dark Diaries Ep 40

Public Speaking & Private Vibrations

Reader Intro

Welcome back, darlings, to what may genuinely be the most stressful evening of my adult life.

Now, before we begin, I’d like to clarify something very important:

I am a respectable woman.

Yes, I know many of you just laughed.

But it’s true.

Underneath the chaos, poor judgment, accidental public indecency-adjacent incidents, and one aggressively opinionated pink vibrator named Dan… I actually do meaningful things with my life.

Including charity work.

Real charity work.

The wholesome kind.

Community fundraising. Public speaking. Women’s support programmes. Organised events. Professional behaviour.

Or at least… that was the plan.

Unfortunately, plans become significantly harder to maintain when:

• Your handbag contains two active vibrators,
• Mark refuses to stop flirting with you,
• Sharon keeps escalating situations socially,
• Benji is emotionally unpredictable,
• And the local paper decides tonight is apparently front-page worthy.

Honestly, I should’ve stayed in bed.

The Drive to Disaster

“You’ll be fine,” Mark said.

Which is exactly the kind of sentence people say moments before things become historically embarrassing.

We were in a taxi because there wasn’t enough time to:

• Go home,
• Emotionally recover,
• Reorganise my handbag,
• Or remove the technologically unstable contents currently vibrating against a packet of chewing gum.

Sharon sat beside me, holding Benji like a tiny emotional support hostage.

Mark sat opposite us, looking entirely too relaxed for a man who knew full well my bag currently sounded like a distant electrical storm every few minutes.

bzzzz.

I jumped.

The taxi driver glanced in the mirror.

I smiled nervously. “Phone notification.”

bzzzz-bzzzz.

A second vibration answered.

Different rhythm.

The driver looked concerned now.

Mark looked delighted.

Sharon whispered:
“They’re communicating again.”

“I’m going to throw myself out of this moving vehicle.”

Benji barked once like he supported the idea.

Arrival: Respectability Was Already Slipping Away

The fundraiser was being held at the community arts hall. There were fairy lights, wine tables, charity banners, and polite middle-aged volunteers wearing name tags.

Wholesome.

Dangerously wholesome.

Exactly the kind of place where my current situation absolutely did not belong.

The second we walked in, people started greeting me.

“Sue! You made it!”

“So glad you’re here!”

“The turnout’s incredible!”

Meanwhile, my bag quietly vibrated against my hip like Satan’s maraca.

bzzzz.

I coughed loudly to cover it.

Mark’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

I wanted him dead.

Not permanently.

Just enough to make a point.

The Local Paper Made Everything Worse

And then I saw him.

Trevor.

Local paper photographer.

A man with the survival instincts of a raccoon and the timing of a horror movie villain.

“Sue!” he called cheerfully. “Can I get a few photos for the article?”

Absolutely not.

Unfortunately, I smiled politely anyway because I’m British and fear social awkwardness more than death.

“Of course,” I lied.

Trevor started snapping photographs while I stood there trying to angle my handbag away from humanity.

Mark hovered nearby, looking offensively attractive in a dark shirt.

Sharon had somehow already acquired wine.

Benji was receiving attention from elderly donors like a tiny celebrity politician.

And then—

bzzZZZZZZ.

Loud.

Aggressive.

Extended.

Trevor lowered the camera slowly.

“…Was that your phone?”

“Yes,” I said immediately.

“No, it wasn’t,” Mark muttered.

I elbowed him hard enough to qualify as charitable violence.

Sharon Became Socially Unmanageable

The problem with Sharon is that she becomes exponentially more dangerous around free wine.

Within twenty minutes, she was networking aggressively with strangers while holding Benji and discussing “modern female confidence” at terrifying volume.

“…and honestly rechargeable is just more practical,” she announced to a horrified volunteer near the raffle table.

I nearly swallowed my own tongue.

“SHARON.”

“What?” she asked innocently.

Mark was fully useless now, leaning against the bar, grinning into his drink like this was the greatest live entertainment of his life.

Which, to be fair, it probably was.

bzzzz.

The new one this time.

Lower vibration.

Almost smug.

I squeezed my bag under my arm like I could physically intimidate electronics into obedience.

I could not.

Time to Speak. Unfortunately.

Eventually, the organiser approached me smiling warmly.

“We’re ready for you, Sue.”

No.

No, we absolutely were not.

But suddenly I was being guided toward the stage while:

• Mark watched with dangerous amusement,
• Sharon looked one wine away from becoming a public threat,
• Benji trotted proudly beside her,
• and my handbag contained enough battery-powered chaos to qualify as suspicious luggage.

The room applauded as I stepped onto the stage.

I smiled professionally.

Because I am an adult.

A deeply cursed adult.

“Good evening, everyone,” I began warmly.

Polite applause.

“This charity means a great deal to me—”

bzzzz.

My soul left my body.

Tiny sound.

But in microphone silence?

Devastating.

I froze.

The audience froze.

Somewhere in the third row, Mark physically bent forward, trying not to laugh.

I continued speaking like a woman under active psychological attack.

“…and supporting women in our community is something I feel passionately about…”

bzzzz-bzzzz.

Oh dear God.

The Handbag Became Sentient

At this point, my bag was no longer an accessory.

It was an enemy combatant.

I tried subtly shifting it behind the podium.

Mistake.

The movement apparently activated something else because suddenly:

BZZZZZZZZZZ.

Long.

Powerful.

Unmistakably not a phone.

Several audience members blinked.

An elderly woman in the front row looked deeply alarmed.

Mark had both hands over his mouth now.

Sharon was red from suppressed laughter and wine-based instability.

I smiled through complete internal collapse.

“Technology,” I said weakly.

Nobody knew how to respond to that.

Neither did I.

Mark Was Making It Worse On Purpose

The problem with Mark is that he enjoys my suffering when it’s funny.

And unfortunately?

This was objectively hilarious.

I saw him leaning toward Sharon, whispering something.

She nearly inhaled her wine.

Then he looked at me.

Smiling.

That smug smile.

The one that says:
I know exactly what’s happening in your bag right now.

I wanted to strangle him with a charity lanyard.

Instead, I kept speaking.

“…and creating safe spaces for women is incredibly important—”

bzzzz.

“…especially emotionally supportive environments—”

bzzzz-bzzzz.

“…where people feel heard—”

BZZZZZZ.

Honestly, at this point, it sounded like my handbag was trying to join the speech.

Benji Betrayed Me Too

And then Benji escalated things.

Because apparently betrayal was a group activity tonight.

Mid-speech, he trotted toward the stage carrying something in his mouth.

At first, I thought it was paper.

Maybe a napkin.

Possibly a raffle ticket.

No.

It was the USB charging cable.

The audience collectively watched as my tiny, fluffy dog proudly paraded past, carrying a charger directly connected to my current psychological destruction.

I stopped speaking completely.

Mark collapsed sideways, laughing.

Sharon whispered:
“Oh my god, he’s helping.”

I considered fleeing the country immediately.

Trevor Smelled Blood

Trevor, the photographer, suddenly became VERY interested in events.

His camera was now firing like paparazzi at a celebrity breakdown.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

There I stood:

• Sweating,
• Clutching a vibrating handbag,
• While my dog publicly displayed a charging cable to pensioners.

This was not how I imagined community outreach going.

bzzzzzz.

The audience heard it again.

One man coughed awkwardly.

A woman near the back whispered:
“Is that an alarm?”

I almost said yes.

Then the NEW one activated too.

Different rhythm.

Deeper.

More mechanical.

My handbag sounded like a very committed bee colony.

Sharon Finally Broke

And then Sharon lost the battle completely.

She laughed.

Not a polite laugh.

Not a small laugh.

A full-body, wheezing, wine-fuelled collapse.

She tried covering it with a cough.

It became worse.

Mark wasn’t helping either because now HE was laughing openly too.

The audience looked confused.

I looked haunted.

And Dan?

Dan buzzed triumphantly like he knew he’d won.

The Climax of My Public Dignity

At this point, there was no recovering professionalism.

There was only survival.

I gripped the microphone tightly.

Smiled with the dead-eyed calm of a woman one vibration away from spiritual evacuation.

And somehow continued.

“…thank you all so much for your support tonight…”

bzzzz.

“…this community means everything to me…”

bzzzz-bzzzz.

“…and together we can make a real difference—”

BZZZZZZZZZZ.

Right as Trevor’s flash went off.

Perfect timing.

The entire hall went silent.

Then…

Someone clapped.

One person.

Then another.

And somehow the room erupted into applause.

Real applause.

Actual applause.

Meanwhile, I stood there blinking under stage lights while my bag quietly vibrated against the podium like it had personally delivered the speech itself.

Aftermath: Damage Control Failed Immediately

The second I stepped off stage, Mark intercepted me, looking entirely too pleased.

“You handled that remarkably well.”

“I’m going to die.”

“You’re probably going viral locally.”

“I hate you.”

“You absolutely don’t.”

Unfortunately?

Again, an annoying point.

Sharon staggered over, wiping tears from her face.

“I haven’t laughed that hard since Colin fell into the paddling pool at Margaret’s barbecue.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Benji barked proudly.

Traitor.

And then Trevor approached.

Camera in hand.

Smiling.

“Sue,” he said carefully, “brilliant speech tonight.”

I narrowed my eyes immediately.

“What exactly did you photograph?”

He smiled that smile of a man who absolutely knew too much.

“Oh… just the atmosphere.”

I’m never trusting local journalism again.

Final Thought

If there’s one thing I learned tonight, it’s this:

Never attend a respectable public event immediately after buying rechargeable sex toys under emotional pressure.

Because all it takes is:

• One smug man,
• A chaotic neighbour,
• One emotionally unstable handbag,
• And one USB charging cable carried by a dog…

…and suddenly your charity speech sounds like it’s sponsored by Duracell.

Honestly?

I’m still not emotionally recovered.

And the worst part?

Mark says the article comes out on Thursday.

Pray for me.

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