I just knew what my lesbian, separatist friends would say about this. To them, James Bond was the epitome of the male, macho pig. I didn't care for James Bond, not so much because he was politically incorrect, but more because I preferred more romantic films, rather than action flicks. But if Matt ever met my friends I knew that he would have to fit their criteria. So it was worth my questioning his politics on our first date.
"But don't you find those films sexist and macho?"
His smooth, suave, sophisticated, smile vanished. "Well if he was a wimp with no worldly experience no one would watch a single one of those films."
"What about the way he jumps into bed with whatever woman comes along and treats them like dirt?"
He took another drag on his cigarette and eyed me. "I know a few gay men that are just the same. And from memory, none of James Bond�s female �companions� ever complain when they jump into bed with him."
"Well, what about the fact that you never see gay men or lesbians in those films - except as evil characters?"
Cigarette smoke curled lazily into the air. "It's just a film, for goodness sake. You're taking it too seriously. Anyway," he said, changing the subject rather obviously, "I'm auditioning for the next James Bond film."
"They're making a James Bond film here?" I said amazed.
His whole mood had changed. He now looked like Norma Desmond, radiantly waiting for his close-up. "Yes, and I can't wait to audition."
I had to struggle with my emotions just to stop myself from laughing out loud at this vain queen, as he talked about his hopes for an audition. "You're going to audition?" Then I realised that I'd let my incredulity slip.
Matt's eyes narrowed and in the instant silence you could have dropped a fork on the concrete floor and heard it clank. "What are you trying to say? Are you saying I'm not masculine enough for the part?"
I almost gulped. "No, I'm not saying that you couldn't play the role."
He turned and looked at the gay table in front of us. They were all laughing and throwing up their hands in the air with a great deal of theatricality. "Are you trying to say I'm like one of those mincing queens over there?"
"No, you're not like them," I lied.
"What is it then?!" He stubbed his cigarette out and gave me one of those piercing looks the cinematic James Bond was famous for.
I exhaled as I desperately tried to think of something that wouldn't hurt his feelings. "Well....I think you probably need quite a bit of acting skills to get so far as an...."
He cut me off sharply. "I've been going to acting school for two years."
Feeling the tension rise across the other side of the table, I decided to lie through my teeth, rather than face a possible hysterical queen in a fashionable restaurant so I said that acting was a great idea and that he should give it all he had.
The poor, deluded, fool. While he certainly had the looks and even the three Ss, once he opened his mouth his chance of becoming James Bond would be sunk. He was about as far from being like James Bond as I was of being Miss Moneypenny.
Not surprisingly, the rest of the evening was a little tense. He drove me home but, thankfully, we didn't discuss another date. As I brushed my teeth I thought of Matt and his three S's. Would he brush his teeth in a suave, sophisticated and smooth manner? And how do you brush your teeth suavely, sophisticatedly and smoothly, anyway? Matt had mentioned, just before he said good night, that his version of Mr Right was someone just like James Bond. As he'd driven off I had wanted to tell him the obvious but thought it would have been too cruel:
�There is only one person in the world just like James Bond and he's not real. The closest you're going to get to your ideal is yourself so you better start sleeping with a mirror!�
