Some of you might prefer to forget the post I wrote about my sex dream with our prime minister, Malcolm Turnbull – and if not, here’s a reminder. It was one of those bizarre dreams that must have been instigated by medication or alcohol, or a mix of the two. And while some of you tried to humor and pacify me with comments such as ‘he’s not that ugly,’ many of you will have wondered what the fuck I was on.
So I’m here to tell you that things have improved in 2018 and I’ve been upgraded in the dream department. Something to do with all those oysters I devoured over Christmas, perhaps, or the sex scenes I am editing in my manuscript, or the fact that we just had Christmas – a special enough occasion to warrant more than a cuddle in the marital bed – nudge, nudge, wink, wink. (cue NC and Kurt to say EWWWWWW!)
And this time – drum roll – the object of my pathetic, middle-aged desire was not a rather grey and innocuous older man with very small balls when it comes to Australian politics, but none other than John Hamm, the actor from Mad Men.
No idea why. It’s not like I recently rewatched the whole Mad Men series – because the old man won’t let me – although I am, obviously, a huge fan of Don Draper. So I can only assume that the dream had something to do with those rumors, and if I’m honest, it was rather nice.
In the dream, I was working as a property consultant and John was my client. After a morning spent looking at properties together – me, as cool as a cucumber professional, pretending not to know who he was; him, reserved, yet as charming as his character in Mad Men, all dark, brooding good looks, confident, tall, that permanent five o’clock shadow… and those rumors, that sat between us in the car and refused to go away.
And as we approached lunch, his manner warmed and he became more tactile, (although not in a harassment kind of way). He laughed more often at my crappy jokes – even though he’s American and they never understand British humor – and he told me how much he loved Australia. Eventually, John Hamm smooth-talked his way into the dormant chambers of my libido with a very obvious offer to free the tumbleweed from my vaginal passage.
As in, he invited me to his room.
There was no misunderstanding about what was on offer, and at no point did I consider that was a relationship, or worry about the age difference (only six years but could be twenty) – and I knew that he was partial to the mature woman, even if I was wearing my biggest pants and had a spot on my bum. This was a roll in the hay, I would be getting my leg over, having an affair of the loins, an entanglement…I was about to shag a celebrity.
One tiny minor hiccough. I was also married to the old man in the dream and had been for an interminably long time – cue bloody guilt issues. And as I sat in the toilet of the hotel, this huge morality question weighing down heavily on my lust, I battled with the conundrum every married woman must have battled with when a man of John Hamm’s calibre is on the table – would my husband really care if I was unfaithful for one hour of our thirty-year relationship with someone this hot, famous and loaded? And the struggle didn’t go away as I sipped coffee with John in the smart foyer of his hotel, looked into his eyes and caught myself wondering about those rumors again.
Suffice it to say, if such an opportunity presented itself to the old man at this time in our lives and marriage, I’d give him a pass. Imagine the content we’d have for those boring dinner parties where all we talk about is the swelling in my knee joint from tennis, how kidney beans give me wind and my snoring issues.
Anyway, I’m afraid that I will never know if those rumors are true. The Princess kicked me in the ribs as I was licking the Capucchino froth from my mustache in what I believe was a very seductive manner; one that John would obviously have been unable to resist.