So apparently, dreaming about sex with a celebrity is all about my need to attain fame, fortune and recognition. It’s about social status. Fame by fluid association. I get it. Really I do. If I had woken up in the middle of a vicious orgasm courtesy of dream-Gosling, dream-Elba, or even dream-Zuckerberg, I would be feeling rather….affirmed. But my sex dream – the first in a while and the first to ever reach such a shattering conclusion (one that, appallingly, eclipsed anything that has ever actually happened during waking hours) – wasn’t with dream-Clooney or dream-Bieber. It was with dream-Trump. Hair and all. Tiny little pursed, pouty, infant beauty queen sulky lips and everything.
I was genuinely disturbed. I spend quite a lot of time worrying that if Trump is elected it could signal the end of the ‘American Experiment’ and unleash hell. Yet there he was. Doing what he was doing. To me.
I confessed to two friends later that week. ‘Oh don’t worry,’ said one. ‘I had the best sex of my subconscious life with dream-Mick-Hucknall.’ A meagre comfort but nothing on dream Trump if you ask me. ‘Dream-fat-old-Marlon-Brando’ said the other.
Why does the subconscious lead us towards extreme sexual satisfaction with men we find repellent above almost all others? What is it trying to tell us? Where is the logic? Maybe extremes just provoke extreme reactions. Hate is close to love and all that nonsense. I just worry that it might happen again. And then I worry that it won’t.