Words by: Thiamando Pavlidis
Art by: Monica Ouk

Your van backs into the driveway of a stunning four-bedroom federation mansion in Malvern East. As the van beeps in reverse, you wonder to yourself who could possibly be moving out of this beautiful home in the midst of a pandemic?

As you open the back doors of the van, you notice a man struggling at the front door while carrying a cardboard box. The box slips from his hands as the door flies open, and you rush to help pick up the books that have fallen to the ground. 

You note a few of the titles: Battlelines, The Latham Diaries, Lazarus Rising… then, one cover catches your eye. It’s titled Still Not Sorry, but what you notice is the man on the cover happens to be the same man who had ungraciously toppled over before you.

You can’t believe it. 

It’s conservative political commentator and columnist Andrew Bolt. 

You watch as he scrambles to collect the paperbacks, his silver hair occasionally sparkling in the light of the December sun. 

“I’ll go inside and grab another box-” you say, but you are cut off as the older man’s hand catches your wrist.

“No, show me where this one goes,” he purrs. 

You’re not sure why, but you feel your chest tighten as you lead him to the empty van. 

You’re both inside when he drops the box and approaches you, pressing his lips upon yours.

But you don’t push him away. Impulse overcomes you, and you kiss the former Bolt Report presenter back.

Lips, teeth, and tongue all mash in a moment of ecstasy. Like Bolt’s opinions on immigration, you are unsure about this. Unlike Bolt’s opinions on immigration, you decide to allow it anyway. 

Bolt’s fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt, and he rips it off faster than he’d defend convicted paedophile priests. 

As he removes your work polo, your hands work at the belt buckle of the man whose ‘Controversies’ subheading takes up two thirds of his Wikipedia page. 

You find your way into his Bonds™ Support Briefs before his trousers even hit the floor of the van. Wrapping your hand around his Little Bolt, you begin to stroke. 

He moans into your neck as your hand rubs up, and down, and up, and down.

He pushes you against the wall of the van and turns you around. You feel your pants and underwear release themselves from the constraints of your body as the regular guest on 3AW’s Nights with Steve Price kisses your neck. 

His fingertips trail from your shoulder, to your back, to your backside.

A hand is abruptly pulled away, and spat on with the force of a man who’s been sued for racial discrimination. 

He rubs his Thinkpiece with his saliva and then slowly inserts it into your Herald Sun. 

You gasp as you are overcome with a wave of euphoria.

The former regular Insiders guest grunts as he thrusts, sweat beading on his Dutch-Australian forehead. 

“You like that?” he growls as he picks up pace. 

You nod, too exasperated for words.

His thrusts run deeper, faster and harder.

You’re close — you feel as though your talk show is about to be axed by Network Ten. 

Just then, with a loud moan, columnist and radio/television presenter Andrew Bolt releases his Opinion inside your Australian Public Media.

It’s wet, hot, and sticky, unlike the global climate, which is totally fine and normal and NOT changing rapidly as a result of burning fossil fuels. 

“Oh, by the way,” you ask, still slightly out of breath. “Where are you moving to?”

“I’ve had enough of Melbourne and Chairman Dan,” Bolt says, as he buttons his shirt back up. 

“I’m moving to the bush. Mornington Peninsula.”