If James Bond were gay in the pre-Stonewall era, he would have moved through high international circles of espionage and diplomacy while keeping his sexuality a well-protected secret. Still, his exacting tastes would have signaled to other gay men a sensibility indecipherable to the straight world. Automotively speaking, then, he would have driven not the perfectly lusty and luxe Aston Martin of his cinematic heterosexual incarnation but the now-legendary, heart-stoppingly evolved Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing.
Not only was the Gullwing throbbingly sexy, but it was truly original. It was transportation to the future. The car doors were an inspired flourish (think Bernini) that alluded to something like liftoff. (Its a bird; its a plane; its James Bond.) The gay Mr. Bond would have chosen this vehicle not merely for its meticulous engineering and reliability but for its magical realism. It would be for him a sublime calling card, a pleasure machine, a joyride, an object of desire, the closest thing to sex that wasnt sex itself. With no superfluous line in its airtight, muscular body, the cross-hatch (six-pack?) vents on either side of the car exude sheer thrust. Imagine the entrance Mr. Bond would have made in a silver Gullwing: the doors rising to full-flight capacity before his effortless ascent out of the red leather cockpit; a few tugs on his black tuxedo jacket as he might scan the crowd, reach for his cigarette case, and light up.
Of course, things are different today. Mr. Bond of the 21st century would be openly gay, and he would use his health-conscious animal magnetism to attract, repel, humble, or shame his adversaries. Powerful, hungry, practical, and urbane, this all-purpose, hard-driving adult would have little regard for low-to-the-ground, adolescent-fantasy sports cars.
With the end of the clear-cut Cold War villains, international terrorism in the era of global warming creates a new set of challenges. Our gay secret agent needs a substantial
vehicle to protect him as well as to navigate any landscape, endure the elements, and take a rough workout off the road as well as on. His green consciousness is weighed against no-nonsense logic and, of course, aesthetics. (After all, Bonds priority remains saving entire populations from disasterwhich may require some compromises with any environmentalist impulses he might have.) The choice for him would be a black Range Rover Sportrugged, lithe, and, most unusual for an SUV, sportif. The gay Mr. Bond, whose sensibility is attuned to just such worldly refinement, would opt for the more environmentally economic Sport over its larger sibling, being riveted not only to its precision-cut lines and tailored silhouette but its smoldering, understated gravitas.
Inside, the cabin is leather-bound chic, like a sleek, lap-of-luxury hotel room. Just where you want to be with this Mr. Bond, the bon vivant with serious savoir faire. And to think that with the flick of a switch, the backseats in his Range Rover Sport convert, full
throttle, into a double bed as the windows darken. Ever resourceful and shamelessly smooth, Mr. Bond was never one to pass up the opportunity for fun-loving car(nal) relief.
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