I had a sex dream about our Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull the other night, which was particularly disappointing having forked out twenty dollars that afternoon to
ogle see Chris Hemsworth in the latest Thor movie.
For those of my international readers who don’t follow Australian politics religiously, and haven’t a clue what an understated sex god our Prime Minister is, let’s just say that he is no Justin Trudeau… or Emmanuel Macron, but a fairly conservative-looking, middle-aged man, in his early sixties, with grey-white hair who looks like his days would be better spent on the golf course. ie., not necessarily the man you’d choose to indulge the last strains of your sexual fantasies with.
Of course… when it comes to leaders of countries, it could have been so much worse.
Anyway, appalled by my infidelity, I turned to Mr Google to see why I could possibly be fantasizing about a multi-millionaire who owns so many vast properties around Sydney that he refuses to live in the small, waterside mansion that is the official Sydney residence of the Australian Prime Minister.
‘To have sex with a stranger may symbolize a new you that is emerging due to changes you are going through. The stranger may also indicate you are open to a change or a new opportunity that is underway.’
Upon reflection, my dream was as weirdly bizarre and disjointed as the usual dreams I have after a couple of glasses of red and a curry. Although for some reason, our awkward middle-aged tryst took place in the Oval Office at the White House, and while I was trying to remember how to do my “sexy” face and conceal my muffin top into my granny pants, Malcolm kept stopping to take important calls about security. It was pretty frustrating. And then Kurt walked through the room, music blaring, and I did that mom-thing and shouted at him to turn it down.
Malcolm is actually sixty-three, a mere decade older than me, and objectively, I would say that he looks relatively fit for his age. It is still interesting though, that on the rare occasion that I re-open the gates of my sub-conscious to “sexual thoughts”, it should be with an older man because I always saw them as, well, “old”, and not as attractive as, say, the son of Odin. You see, sometimes I forget that I, too, am a middle-aged woman and no longer the fantasy of every younger man I meet. And usually I am reminded of this when I go to Aldi and some old geezer – usually in his eighties – takes a second look. Although, in reality, he’s probably checking out the Wednesday and Saturday “specials” on display behind me.
I suppose it’s lucky that as we age physically our perceptions of what is attractive change in tandem. Not in all cases, admittedly, but that’s how I assume it’s supposed to work in terms of evolution – the old die out to make way for the next batch of breeders. Fuck knows how all these old men taking younger wives will change the natural order of things.
Creepily, and it’s not something I ever thought about before my dream, I do find Malcolm quite attractive and it has nothing to do with his millions in the bank, power or his pad in Point Piper. As for his politics… let’s just say that there would be a lot of post-coital banter on the topic of the Asylum-Seekers.
Perhaps my dream is linked to some Freudian return to the protectiveness of a father-figure at this later stage of my life due to the scrambling of my eggs and the depletion of my sex hormones that make me feel under-appreciated. Whatever it was, no curry for me tonight.