The Gay James Bond - October 2006
Out Magazine asked me to come up with a gay parody of James Bond, in time for Casino Royale. I think it has been killed for space so I feel it's OK to put it here... I read Her Majesty's Secret Service and Live and Let Die. I have never read Ian Fleming's books, and I have to say that they are total page-turners. But there are these hilarious descriptions of women and "negroes" that make you cringe. So I set to work on a gay version, and this is what i came up with. Sorry for the typos and syntax...you know how it is...
It was the first chill of September in Ibiza. All around the island, the clubs were playing their last dance while the die-hard Shirtless and Shaved danced to the final round of remixes. The slight dip in temperatures had their torsos covered in goosebumps instead of the sweat that had trickled down their well-defined chests for the past three months. Soon the teems of body conscious muscle men would line up for the ferries to take them back to their merchandising and concierge jobs. They would be pulling their wheelie suitcases onto the flatboats, a-twitter about next summer’s festivities.
Off on a veranda, overlooking the vast club, James Bond lounged on a plush chaise, observing it all with a mix of contentedness and depletion. M. sent him off to relax for three much-needed months of pleasure after his last assignment. That dangerous confrontation in India with the nefarious Octopenis left him wiped out and in need of replenishing. But idyllic moments tend to carry their own enervating qualities, and after three months of holiday, his glands were gasping like fresh fish in a market. He was almost thankful the season was ending.
As the DJ played a remix of Promiscuous, he pondered what would be in store for him upon his return to London. He looked down at his Dries Van Noten pressed linen jacket, Versace clamdiggers and John Varvatos moccasins and made a mental note that with the end of summer came the end of this outfit. He would have to go back to his room and switch to into his Helmut Lang suit in a much more acceptable autumnal shade of safari green. But that could wait. He turned to the cabana boy, a Spaniard with a massively defined frontal region.
“Dotado?” Bond said. The Spaniard needed no more words.
“Un otro appletini, Meester Bond?”
“Yes, extra sweet, with a sugar rim,”
“Of Course Meester Bond. I know what kind of reem you like.”
Dotado stood in front of Bond, so that the British agent could fully enjoy the contours of his striped tight D Squared boxer briefs.
“Eeez there anything else I can offer you?” the server said presenting him with his drink.
Bond was about to get his lips on Dotado’s cocktail when he noticed two golden Italian boys in exciting Speedos packing up the game of Kadima they had been so provocatively playing and racing each other up the steps towards Bond’s sheltered veranda. They flaunted their bodies at him, paused and chattered to see if he would respond, and then held hands and walked over to him, playfully swinging their game balls in their free hands. Bond wondered why it is that Italian boys had more prominent buttocks than any others --was it an exercise they did? The rich food? – when one of the blond twinks winked at him. He noticed something odd about their balls, leaped from his chair just as one of the boys rolled his ball on the floor towards him. Bond fell to the tile floor as his lounge chair was obliterated by the tumbling sphere. The other boy laughed and threw his ball at Bond, who was about to dodge it when his clamdigger’s cuff got caught on the hook of an beach umbrella.
“Meester Bond!” Dotado exclaimed, and dove in front of the mysterious weapon, which hit the poor Spaniard directly in his crotch, and exploded. The two Italian twinks jumped over the balcony and were gone in seconds. Bond crouched over his dead Spanish server. Dotado was dotado no more.
“Bollocks. What a terrible waste,” Bond said to himself. “I suppose this means my holiday is over.”
Almost exactly 24 hours later, Bond was in his Continental Bentley – the R type chassis with the big 6 engine and 13:40 back axle ratio – a gift from Richter Schlong, that German associate he saved from sure death in Russia three years ago. It still ran like a charm.
The previsou evening, when Bond made it back to London, M’s Chief of Staff had telephoned at midnight to say that M wanted to see Bond at nine in the morning. For some reason that Bond could only credit to a surprising momentary lack of British bureaucracy, his employers already knew about the explosive ending to his holiday before he had a chance to inform them. “M. is deeply sorry that your time away was interrupted. But it looks like there is a related issue that seems to require some action.”
“A cogent statement. Any information you can give me over the phone?”
“The wet dog backed up onto the fire hydrant.”
Bond knew full well what this meant. He would be making a trip to the British Secret Service’s colleagues in America. Well, at least there would be something to fill his stomach. The Americans always provided such big pieces of meat at evening meals.
Bond sped into the underground lot in the inconspicuous side alleyway by Regents Park, handed his car over to the plainclothes driver, and walked round to the main entrance and taken up the lift to the top floor, where the desirable Miss Tangytalk, M’s all powerful male-to-female transsexual private secretary, sat in yet another impeccably tailored Prada pantsuit. She gave him an encouraging smile while she buzzed him in through the 4 inch indestructible glass.
“James, so sorry to hear about the mishap in Ibiza. Were you scraped up at all?”
“Thank you for your concern, Miss Tangytalk. I am quite unscathed, thank you.”
“Well you let me know if you have any residual bruising. I do have a phd in physical therapy and I also know Thai massage.”
“You are full of surprises.”
“I have many tricks up my sleeve. M will see you now. I could talk to you all day, James, but I better work.”
M. stood when he entered and looked him over with his shrewd eyes.
“Bond. I hate to cut short the greetings, but we have some serious business to attend to, and I’ll have to inform you of it while we walk.” And with that M. led behind the desk. M. put his hands in his pockets, yanked on something vigorously within it, and the bookcase receded into a titanium lined hallway.
“Our US agents have confirmed that a very valuable laptop has disappeared. Full of data that discloses every security code, leaving the country vulnerable to any terrorist operation.”
“Yes. The American CIA loses more things than Linsey Lohan. Not good.”
“From where was this laptop stolen?”
“From an agent’s vacation home in Fort Lauderdale. A neighbor says they saw a puff of smoke and two young blond Northern Italian boys quickly exiting the residence.”
“Hm. Familiar description.”
“Yes. Well, I hate to say it, but whomever stole this information is also, for some reason, interested in your extermination.”
“So you are using me as an appetizer, I take it. Shoot the shark after they swim to the surface and eat me like chum?”
“Oh Bond, you aren’t that expendable and you know it. Especially after Q is done with you. Oh, speak of the Devil” They walked down the hall towards a white, brightly lit room, where Q, the ammunitions and technology specialist, stood, next to a number of gadgets: a harmless looking i-pod, pair of aviator sunglasses, and what looked like a bottle of poppers.
Bond’s flight to America passed by uneventfully, except for the delightful conversation with the flight attendant about whom they thought was going to win Project Runway and their favorite international airport bathrooms, and he landed at JFK on schedule, his muted houndstooth Burberry three piece suit miraculously wrinkle-free. He was to meet his American counterpart Zack Fattone for a brief debriefing before they made their way to Florida. After a thorough cavity search at customs (he understood the proctological exam was purely protocol, and the Mexican security guard was deferential and accommodating), he found his old friend Zack waiting for him, gladhanding him with his large hands, smelling of microbrewed beer, and grinning his big Brooklyn smile.
“Bond! Well Well well. When was the last time I saw you?”
“I believe it was Fashion Week in 1999?”
“Yes, yes it was! Ha. Wild times, wild times. Damn good memory you have, James.”
Zack led him to a huge white hummer limo.
“Quite an obvious target for such an operation don’t you think?” Bond said as he crouched into it.
“Ha. You haven’t been in America for a while, James. These big gas guzzling hummer limos are a dime a dozen in this country. Any second rate rapper and sub-par reality show star rides around in one. We’re pretty much unnoticeable.”
Bond noticed the Negro driver staring at him. He was quite a large man, with a stern face and huge forearms covered with tattoos. They sped down the BQE and into an area of Brooklyn that still looked charmingly run-down and full of other Negroes (or were they just rather dark Dominicans?). As Zack talked on and on, peppering his stories with cuss words as only a New Yorker can, Bond lit a Parliament to relax. The driver glared at him.
“Oh man. I think this guy doesn’t approve of your cigarette James,” Zack said. “No! Don’t put it out! I’ll just open the sunroof” he added, pressing a button on his armrest. The sunroof opened, and four legs came dangling down into the car. “What the friggin—“ Zack said, before being squarely kicked in the face. Two figures jumped down into the backseat. Bond only had time to register their faces before one of them socked him hard on the side of the head. The young blond twinks.
When Bond came to, he was in the arms of the Negro driver. They were walking, or rather the Negro was walking, and Bond was being carried. Still wearing his sunglasses, the Negro silently held Bond up on his shoulder with one arm as if he was a simple duffle bag. They entered through dark mahogany doors and though Bond was upside down, he saw that he was in a very well decorated room, nicely designed in mid-century furniture with quite a few modern minor masterpieces adorning the walls: a George Grosz drawing, a small Monet study, a rare Rauschenberg lithograph.
“Topjob. Deposit Mister Bond in the chair, please.”
The giant Negro flipped Bond over and slammed him down into an armless chair, which sent a shudder of pain into the agent’s sensitive colon, still smarting from the airport cavity search.
“Hello Mister Bond. I believe you have already met my associates, Bootie Bump and Bench Press.” The two Italian twinks giggled in the corner.
“We shared a memorable moment in Ibiza, yes.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Boss Bottom.”
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