Amy Elman Doesn’t Feel Sexy

Skogsfräken

Josh’s alarm goes off, which means it’s six on the dot. There isn’t a sound on earth that I hate more than Apple’s Radar alarm. He wriggles, stretches and flips over.

‘How’s the head, Lab Rat?’ he asks. His smile is too big for this time of morning.

‘Why didn’t you stop me?’ My voice comes out like a fuzzy radio.

It was meant to be a quiet local New Year’s Eve in Clapham Junction with Pete and Nina, but cheap Prosecco and other forces (sambuca) ended that.

I can sort of remember Nina and me singing Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ into wine bottles and Pete challenging Josh to a press-up competition in the middle of Northcote Records. The rest is a little hazy.

Josh jumps out of bed, picks up a pair of boxers from the folded pile on the drawers and gives them a big, long sniff.

‘They’re clean,’ I groan.

‘Clean boxers, what a beautiful start to the year.’ He pulls them up, then puts his gym shorts on and tightens them around his branchy hips.

‘Are you actually going to the gym on New Year’s Day?’ I ask in disgust.

‘It’s Chest Day,’ he says, offended. ‘Muscles don’t read calendars, Amy.’

I roll my eyes at the ceiling. It began with the Joe Rogan podcast, followed by a gym membership, and now I’m living with a man who seems to be training for war.

I’ve never heard so many motivational quotes in my life.

At any given opportunity, he will slip one into a conversation, even when not requested (they are never requested).

Another element of this new lifestyle is that the days of the week are now named after body parts.

Today is Monday, which means Chest Day. Tomorrow will be Back Day, Wednesday is Leg Day, and so forth.

I didn’t want this gym routine to be burnt into my brain, taking up space, but that’s where we are.

Josh begins lunging in the middle of our bedroom floor.

‘Mum’s going to ask us a favour today,’ he says.

‘If it’s to look after Gary again, then please, please, please, can we not say yes?’

‘What’s wrong with Gary?’ he says, frowning.

‘Don’t you remember? He barked at everything all day, every day.’

‘Gary is great.’

I bite my lip. I refuse to spend the first morning of 2025 listing reasons why Gary, the chaotic Springer Spaniel, is not great. ‘So, you think that’s the favour, dog sitting?’

He shrugs mid-lunge and gives me that dimpled smile that has escorted him through life.

Josh is blessed with the elements of a good-looking man; he has the dark hair, the watery blue eyes, the thick beard.

His only insecurity is that he wishes he was six foot, not five foot ten.

It doesn’t bother me in the slightest as he’s still way taller than me, but men are funny about those things.

‘Right, let the gains begin,’ he shouts, bouncing up into the air. He kisses me on the forehead and dashes off like he’s late for a train.

I’m left with his grubby grey imprint next to me.

We really need to buy new sheets this year.

On his bedside table is a photo of us, gifted by me and put there by me.

It was taken in the Alps during an après-ski session almost two years ago to the day.

We are puffed out in skiwear with his arm over my shoulder and we have identical grins.

He had proposed only an hour before in a cable car that we were sharing with a couple from Ohio.

‘Oh my Ghad!’, ‘Oh my Ghad!’, ‘Oh my Ghad!’ was the background noise to that intimate moment.

I get my notebook (not journal) from the drawer in my bedside table.

It was bought so I could plan our wedding in it.

On the first page, I’ve written, ‘Amy and Josh’s Wedding’; beneath it is a long list with nothing checked off.

We quickly realised that if we wanted to save for a deposit for our dream countryside cottage life and afford our dream wedding venue, which is one of those rustic barns (I know, it’s cliché), we would need some time to save.

So that’s what we’re doing now – saving.

I flick to the back of the notebook, where the page is filled with tally marks.

I draw a diagonal stick to make another set of five. That makes 180 sexless nights in a row.

There are prison sentences shorter than this.

I sort myself out. Porn is too on the nose for me.

Instead, I have Graham Moores, the astrophysicist podcaster, who talks about the universe in a husky, Southern drawl.

The cover is of him staring up at the night sky.

He’s on a horse wearing a black cowboy hat, his thick thighs are bursting out of his jeans.

I pop in my earbuds and take off my star-patterned pyjama bottoms. Graham’s voice goes into my ears and down my body.

‘The mean orbit velocity which is the average speed of an entire orbit of Pluto is around 10,444 mph. Y’all know this is a snail’s pace compared to Earth, which orbits at 66,622 mph . . .’

Under the covers, I let out a tiny moan as I climax. I lie there, arms spread out, enjoying that blissful minute as my body recovers. Graham. What a man.

Right. Now, I can start the new year.

I get to the bathroom before Fifi gets there first. Fifi is our flatmate who hibernates in her bedroom, only appearing to heat up bowls of Heinz Cream of Tomato soup.

When our paths do cross, the conversation is staggered and awkward, and neither of us enjoys the interaction.

However, she pays her rent, she’s tidy and she doesn’t throw drug parties.

That’s all anyone needs from a London flatmate.

I rinse off the hangover and then try to make myself presentable for the world.

Unlike Josh, there isn’t anything gravitating about my appearance.

I am that mousey-haired pale British woman you see on every Tube ride.

Over the years, people have told me I’ve got nice eyes.

They are brown with a hint of gold. Can’t complain.

Josh likes my eyes too. He has also said that I have good skin and a cute nose.

Like a lot of men, he’s sparing with his compliments.

I could do more with what I’ve got; learn how to do make-up properly, maybe get manicures, and I really should go to the gym.

Now and again, I get inspired to buy something on-trend, like high-waisted flared jeans.

Everyone seems to be wearing high-waisted flared jeans.

So, I’ll try them on, only to look like Humpty-Dumpty at a disco.

At 29, I’m resigning to the fact I’m just not that woman, and that’s okay. I bring other qualities to the table.

I towel-dry my hair and put on my trusty black jumper dress. Done.

By the time I’m ready, Josh is back from the gym and in the kitchen, whisking a post-workout protein shake, a bright pink goo that matches the colour of his cheeks.

‘Ready for The Big Butterses’ New Year’s Day Lunch?’ he says. No, I’m not ready to force leftover beef and stale mince pies into my mouth to please your mum. I don’t say this.

‘After coffee,’ I murmur as I reach for the kettle.

‘Caffeine.’ He tuts and shakes his head. This is the same man who survived on flat whites for most of our relationship, but since he’s been sucked into the fitness cult, he believes caffeine is on par with heroin.

‘Your ring is here, by the way.’ He holds up my engagement ring, aka his dead Grandma’s engagement ring.

It’s a battered silver band with a humongous amethyst gem.

When he opened the velvet box in the cable car that day, a tiny voice in my mind screamed, WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT?

Then he asked me the question, and I cried as he slipped it on. Happy tears, of course.

‘Oh! I must have taken it off to wash up . . . again,’ I say, putting the bright purple diamond back on.