As I look at the hands of the waiter bringing me my order in my regular South London cafe, I wonder what else he’s done with those hands. How many lovers have those hands that bring me my Portuguese toast groped? I contemplate how good it would be if everyone had transferable hands, much in the same way Worzel Gummidge could change his head. Everyone would have back up hands they kept specifically for sex. Easy to twist on bedroom hands.
They’d come in a variety of sizes and would first be presented to you when you turn 18 (13 in Lambeth) by say an uncle or a Godfather. Not your parents. That would be too awkward. Your parents would know you were getting the bedroom hands, but when they walk into your bedroom at the end of your birthday and note the bedroom hands out of their packaging, resting on your bed among all the other gifts you have no interest in, they wouldn’t’t acknowledge their presence.
Depending on the size of the partner you find yourself with, you would choose the most appropriate sized hands for the job. Big fat hands, hands with long fingers, and small, delicate hands free from the callused palms of your maybe manual-labour job. Hands with large knuckles to give your partner the illusion you’re capable of defending them should the need arise. They could be different coloured hands. It doesn’t matter. They’re just your bedroom hands.
Some people would wear their bedroom hands out on a Saturday night, indicating their confidence that they would be getting some action that night. The more flamboyant might opt for hands as colourful as the modern day football boot, the more successful pullers perhaps even going as far as having a sponsor’s logo emblazoned on them. Those unable to afford the pricier sex hands would probably find themselves at a disadvantage when it came to attracting the calibre of lovers those with advertising deals were able to secure. This divide would quickly become apparent. Cheap imports from South East Asia, made by orphans on 4p a day, would quickly flood the market, this new wave of bedroom hands causing many of those felt up by them to suffer severe allergic reactions.
They could be different coloured hands. It doesn’t matter. They’re just your bedroom hands.
An occasion might arise where some regular might turn up at the café first thing in the morning having forgotten to remove his bedroom hands. A waiter would take them to one side and have a quiet word. The regulars would chuckle, and the men present would raise a glass to the embarrassed man as he heads back home to fetch his proper, everyday hands. His wife would be horrified to learn that he had turned up at the café with the hands that had been hitting all the right buttons the night before, and berate him for letting everyone know their business.
Meanwhile, the average player might have the foresight to keep a spare pair of normal, everyday hands hidden away in a bush, or locked in their work lockers, that they could change into before returning home after some action with their lovers.
Someone recently laid off after thirty years in the same job would probably see a gap in the market and turn their working life completely around by setting up a discrete courier-type service, where specially tailored bedroom hands are scootered to any location where someone’s about to unexpectedly get some action.
As the toast is placed on my table, I can’t help noticing that one of the waiter’s fingers are actually brushing up against a bit of my toast and tell myself that this wouldn’t be a problem were the bedroom hands a reality.
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