Saturday mornings are the most menacing time. Teeth brushed and genitals soaped, this is the moment when ‘monogamous man’ stalks his prey.
I can hear Adam going about his business – whistling as he snatches the Times from the doormat, chatting away to Hector as though he might suddenly confound science and reply. All those little habits and traits which add up to him are so utterly familiar that they’re almost part of me. Not having him in my life is un9imaginablly awful: it would be like cutting out a chunk of myself with a kitchen knife. He’s my best friend, the person who’s on my team no matter what – but an evil, anarchistic part of me is starting to wonder if that’s enough.
Monogamy and monotony are worryingly similar words, don’t you think? When the sex first began its inevitable decline, I tried my best to claw it back. I’d wear uncomfortable thong knickers which felt like cheese wire, and send Adam self consciously sexy emails at work. Eventually I had to gracefully accept defeat. It became clear that it’s almost impossible to feel truly erotic about someone who you also have to trudge round a supermarket with discussing the ply of your loo roll. Quilted? Recycled? None of these knotty dilemmas make me feel particularly hot.
But of course it’s not just about sex, its about who we’ve become to one another. I’ll quite happily clip my toenails in front of EastEnders, whilst he’s all too prone to tunnelling down his ears in search of waxy lumps. There’s something comforting and familial about how intimate we can be, but there’s not much novelty or mystery left in its wake. And I’m terrified that the arrival of children would increase the domestic tedium tenfold. Right now I feel way too immature to sign up to a life of carrot puréeing and vomit wiping, but who am I trying to kid? ~My days as a hard-bodied twenty something are well and truly behind me (if they ever existed). Maybe it’s time to get with the programme and sign up for stage two.
Adam and I are so good for each other in a million different ways, but I still can’t help longing for something exciting to happen. I don’t know what exactly, because the idea of an affair appals me, and the thought of throwing away what’s an almost ten year commitment is frankly terrifying. But the suspicion that most of the adventures are already behind me, at the grand old age of 32, depresses me beyond measure.
Now he’s bounding up the stairs and through the bedroom door, all expectation and nerves.
“Morning, beautiful girl.”
My vain little heart jumps, hopefully. Could I be having one of those days where it miraculously comes together? You know the ones I mean; where it’s not about how much make up you’ve go on, or what you’re wearing, you’ve just somehow ‘got it’. But then I catch sight of myself in the wardrobe door, and it becomes crushingly clear he’s lying. My blondey-brown curls are looking distinctly mouse and my eyes look Honey Monster puffy. At least I’m not a chubber, although the pay off is Britain’s smallest breasts.
It’s so hard to judge one’s own physical charms objectively, even though we’re relentlessly judgemental of each other’s. Women are hopelessly competitive, whether or not they choose to admit it. If another girl’s walking past me I’m like Rain Man with my split second calculations: great face, fat arse, lank hair. Or it could go amazing eyes, perfect figure but, joy of joys, hairy arms. I do scrub up quite well, I know that, but I’m no natural beauty. I definitely have to work at it.
Adam flops into bed beside me like an eager Labrador, his hand snaking its way beneath my manky pyjamas.
“I really want to be inside you right now.”
Oh God, not the sub-standard porn dialogue. I stroke his thick, dark hair. “I love you” I whisper, which is achingly true. I want so much to want this, yet every fibre of my being longs to flee. He’s as handsome as he ever was – stubbly and dark with sinuous rower’s legs – but it somehow doesn’t register anymore.
As his hand slips lower, I try to lose myself in imagination. But disastrously, I’ve got fantasist’s block. I take hold of his cock, working it between my palms. At first he responds, moaning softly and reaching for me. But then he suddenly tenses up, sensing my dislocation. He jerks away, angry and hurt.
“What’s the problem here? Jesus, why do you have to make it so hard for me?”
“Don’t be cross with me,” I please, feeling hot, self-hating tears springing to my eyes. “I’m just so tired.”