The husband convinced me to watch Skyfall, the newest Bond movie.
Hello, Mr. Bond. Smile! You’re in a suit.
Fifteen minutes in to it, I hit pause.
“Why is he having sex?” I asked the husband. “Isn’t he too busy being lost at the bottom of the bottle and stifling his feelings of betrayal and incompetence?”
“Because he’s Bond and that’s what Bond does.”
“Then Bond is a slut.”
Twenty-Eight minutes later, I hit pause.
Um, thin ice here, buddy. Things could get awkward. Fast. And then, how will carpool work out for you. Pretty bad, I’d say.
“What the?” I asked. “He’s having sex again. With a co-worker no less. Doesn’t MI6 have an inner-office memo about this stuff?”
“The movie didn’t actually show them having sex. There was only an inference.”
“That was a pretty strong inference.”
“But still only an inference.”
“Right, because at this point, the producers of this movie likely thought it was a bad idea to make him look sluttier.”
“Please hit play.”
I hit play. Then, pause.
“I bet at the office Christmas Party, his white elephant gift is a box of condoms and a pamphlet about self-worth.”
“Please hit play and also, be quiet.”
Five minutes later, he’s having sex again.
Yeah, guy, she’s just using you to get away from her criminally insane boyfriend/sex slave owner. I mean really . . . you want to go there?
I hit pause.
“Oh, for the love of all that’s good and holy and un-riddled with STDs, why is he having sex again?”
The husband sprang from his seat on the couch to mine, and we wrestled for the remote. He lost some arm hair but I lost the remote. Blurgh.
So, in sum, I’m still not a fan of Bond movies but have at least come to understand the draw of men to the franchise: If it’s a woman and she’s upright, Get her! And also, wear a suit. I guess. Whatever. Still a slut.
