A satire by Enrique Marie Presley
Do that to me one more time, Daniel Craig… MGM and producers Barbara Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson of Eon Productions have announced a November 8, 2019 release date for the 25th installment of the James Bond franchise. After several months of speculation about possible Bond replacements (Tom Hardy, Idris Elba, Tom Hiddleston), it was also announced this week that humpy devil-in-a-blue-trunk Daniel and his heaving man-bosoms would return for a fifth turn in the titular role. No other details have been released, much to the chagrin of thirsty Daddy-chasers around the globe.
Since this will most likely be Craig’s final Bond film, may we make a few suggestions in this current post-Nico Tortorella, sexually-fluid climate? Let’s sex up Bond in a more democratizing way! A sexually-evolved 007+ inches is what we at Flagrant really want. After all, Ryan Reynolds was open to a little ass-up, cheeks-spread pegging in Deadpool. And our favorite animated secret agent Sterling Archer is no stranger to naked, same-sex locker room wrestling and the occasional homosexy honey-trapping. Come thru, Daniel Craig; and let your inner versatile/bottom shine. The world is not enough without a gay-for-pay James Bond.
Flagrant’s version of Bond 25 would open with the obligatory elaborate action sequence. This one would be set during a fetish night at Lab.Oratory—the notorious gay sex club in the basement of Berlin nightclub Berghain. As a shirtless and oiled DJ in a gimp mask plays pulsing Teutonic techno from the St. Andrews Cross on a raised pedestal in the center of the room, Bond notices a South American drag queen channeling Paloma Faith at Carnaval.
“What’s a lady like you doing at an orgy, Paloma?” purrs Bond as his hand pushes open the queen’s sarong skirt, caresses a thigh and reaches for a Swarovski-encrusted showgirl thong. A quick tug and flick of the wrist reveals that the queen is hiding more than her candy in the bejeweled undergarment: a large, brown and pierced penis flops out. The glint of a golden flash drive with a single large, faceted diamond on the tip of the Prince Albert piercing catches James’ eye. “This is no way to treat a lady, Mr. Bond,” she snarls before delivering a quick jab to his jaw, and darts into the throng of the 200-man orgy taking place in the main room.
Now in hot pursuit of the drag villainess, James also jumps into the fray. The oily DJ in the gimp mask cues up a hard trance version of Diana Ross’ “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” as the action on the floor escalates. Bond maneuvers his way through a writhing mass of naked and sweaty man-flesh: undulating buttocks, thighs, pectorals, biceps and penises press against every inch of his body. His senses of touch, sight and smell are overwhelmed by the overt sexuality of it all. For a moment, he considers succumbing to the raw masculine energy and the siren call of the Diana Ross techno remix. He half smiles as he begins to get an involuntary, primal erection. He imagines dropping to his knees and showing all the true meaning of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
But just a suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he sees quick flash of the gold-and-diamond drive dangling from a P.A. on the hefty brown cock. And the chase continues—thru the various playrooms of the cavernous basement sex club. Slings and glory holes, open mouths and asses, acts of fisting, fucking, blowing and flogging–all passing in rapid succession, like a perverse pornographic game of Frogger. The Paloma-with-a-penis doppelganger is now straddling and climbing up a structural wooden post, towards the rafters located well above the playrooms. James tears off his bespoke Butcherei Lindinger leather chaps. Now dressed only in a supple Dunhill leather thong-and-harness ensemble with vintage Portobello Market engineer boots, he ascends the wooden beam and exposes his hairy crack with each quick determined pull upward.
Quickly catching up, Bond shouts “Do be a good girl, Paloma; and give us the drive.” As he wraps one hand around the queen’s surprisingly dainty ankle, James feels the sharp, angry spike of a Christian Louboutin heel on his other hand. “Aargh.” Experiencing a passing vertigo, he uses the muscles of his powerful upper back to pull his entire body upwards while ignoring the pain of his now-bloody hand. One last thrust upward; and he has his hands firmly around the queen’s thick brown cock. But something didn’t feel right; this was no ordinary appendage. Suddenly a watery spray of anise-scented liquid is being shot out of the phallus’ tip directly into Bond’s eyes. His vision obscured by the warm spray, he grips tighter the shaft to constrict the spray’s flow. The strong anise smell overpowers him; and his thighs lose their hold onto the post. The phallus—still firmly in his grip—detaches from the queen’s pudenda.
“What the fuck?” James thinks. “A dildo?” He begins a slow, backward freefall downward as Diana Ross crescendos, “Nothing can keep me! Keep me from you! Ah-ah-ah. Ah-ah-ah… Nothing in this world! Nothing in this world!” Followed by a loud thud and splash. James lands back-first into an oversized wading pool that served as the focal point for the watersports playroom. His body now soaked in warm liquid and recovering from the shock of the fall, the pierced dildo with the gold-and-diamond flash drive is pried from his hand. A sarong is unwrapped and dropped on his face. The sound of high heels clicking are heard fading into the distance. As the sarong lands in slow motion on Bond’s face, the camera slowly zooms into the large rhinestone logo on the sarong: SPECTRE.
Cue opening title sequence with theme music by Ryan Tedder featuring ANONHI and Adam Lambert. Main title card: His Taint Is Not Enough.