The thing about James Bond is that he is the ultimate prototype of the masculine while simultaneously being an entirely unattainable mythical creature.
Consider the cinematic depiction of him. James Bond is imbued with a mental and physical prowess that is so advanced, it is laughable, and a sexual charisma that is so off the Richter scale that no other man could ever dream of competing.
He will always be the ubiquitous face in every woman’s fantasy. James Bond has got the jawbone, the musculature, and the suitcase the size of a briefcase that would barely fit a toothbrush, let alone, his Armani suits. He never fails at achieving unfathomable heroic feats. He always gets the woman, and, in every box office release, it’s a different swooning heroine. The women get his body for a night or two, but they never get his heart because, well…it is buried deep within a steel, hyperbaric chamber.
If you thought he was a myth, let me tell you, I know the real James Bond in flesh and blood. And he is every bit as scintillating as Daniel Craig in “Skyfall.” The real live James Bond is an Israeli-American. He is a jet-set, ex-prosecutor, current author, whose OK Cupid page I stumbled upon one day with my friend Emily.
His profile pic was him in swim shorts with his chest puffed, a turtle shell residing on his abdomen, and biceps and runner’s thighs that were so pronounced he looked like someone drew him out of their imagination to be the action hero in a cartoon. He stood next to a shorter, softer-bellied chap like a gold coin next to a copper penny.
His screen name was “Nihilist.” The name alone should have merited a second of quandary before I clicked “like” on his profile.
A few second later an instant message popped up. “Hey there.”
“Hey Nihilist. What kind of accent are we talking?” I wrote back with a winkie face.
“We’re talking Hebrew,” he wrote.
“H-a-w-t.” I wrote back with a sticky-outy tongue face.
Wait, back up to his actual bio though – that thing you’re supposed to read in order to decipher whether or not someone is likely to murder you and then stuff your body In their trunk on the first date.
Under favorite books he had written “high brow lit.” Under hobbies he had written “yeah yeah.” Under movies he had written “I frequent the theatre and cinema but I walk out on 80% of it.” Under “Looking For….” he had written, “I’m a happy single” and “kink appreciated.”
Hmm…nice guy with a normal, healthy sense of self esteem? Sure, I mean, what’s wrong with owning the fact that you’re amazing and you know it? And well, did I mention the 6-pack and the accent?
Ahh the things we overlook in leu of the shiny object. This, I assume, is much like a toddler running barefoot through a sea of broken glass in order to wrap its fingers around the sparkling penny it has spotted.
In my defense, it was simply supposed to be a steamy tryst with an Israeli JB. I wanted to be a Bond girl for a night or two. I mean, what single girl doesn’t. His “kink” request appeared to allude to S&M. I had watched 50 Shades of Gray like every other young, middle-aged, and elderly woman on the planet flailing in an abyss of rampant hormones and sexual repression. So, err, that could be interesting.
That was me then – all ass over elbow – freshly out of a decade-long relationship and ready for my reward for putting in the ”hard time.” James Bond all tied up in a red ribbon. He was to be my reward for having had sex about 10 times in my entire life. My ex and I didn’t really have – the heat – so to speak.
Fast forward. This is everyone’s James Bond story now. The first night is a hookup. It’s solid. He’s no S&M aficionado, but who doesn’t like solid vanilla? The next week you go out for sushi. Then he/she is suggesting a weekend at the coast. You spend the night together there and are surprised to find that JB is a cuddler.
At first, attraction only. Adrenaline. Then the limbic system of your brain starts to synapse as you realize you find this person mildly amusing….charming. Dopamine. And then your heart starts to register something when you touch his/her hand and tingles travel up your spine. And these tingles start happening every time you touch him/her. Serotonin.
These are gateway drugs. They seem harmless, but they are the precursors to a love that will kick your ass 6 ways to Sunday. So in the fast-paced dating world of swiping left and meeting up for the sole purpose of quickly analyzing someone through your fuckabity barometer, watch out ladies and gentlemen.
You see hearts are “old school.” The emotional evolution of humanity has yet to catch up with the lightning speed of physical accessibility and disposability of other human beings. Dating is a menacing jungle. Wear your heart on your sleeve, and it will swiftly get eaten.
And when you fall in love with your JB – that one shiny, sparkling man or woman…the one who you run through a sea of broken glass towards to wrap your chubby fingers around…when you do concede your heart against your better judgement and fall in love with both the unattainable person and the unattainable perception that you have of ‘said person’…you will be toast.
You will be catapulted into a terrifying ghost-land that you will have to claw your way out of with tooth and nail, or perish trying. And when you do get out, if you get out, you will have some serious explaining to do to your heart. And JB will be on a plane to Israel or Tahiti to do some more 007 shit.
His/her heart will still be safely tucked away in that steel hyperbaric chamber. And he/she will have no idea of the sheer agony you are suffering. The wounds on your feet from running through that sea of broken glass. The ghost that’s been left behind who occasionally sits across from you at the dinning room table as you eat alone – grinning at you in that way he/she always did.
Or maybe he/she does know. Because perhaps almost all of us have both fallen for a JB, and have been someone else’s JB.
RIP Italian JB.