Let me guess, they’re having sex again...
There’s something sexy about fake romances that eventually lead to real feelings. It’s a tale as old as time. Two people who kinda hate each other make a mutually beneficial agreement to pretend to be involved, but in surprise to no viewer, they actually find that they’re super attracted to each other, super compatible and super DTF (Down To Frolic in the garden and share some forbidden kisses).
That’d be the essential plot line of Netflix’s Bridgerton. It’s basically Gossip Girl if it was set during a time when a woman’s honor and virtue was of live-or-die importance. You know you love me, xoxo, Lady Whistledown.
There has to be a catch to the whirlwind love story though. In this one, the handsome Duke has daddy issues that trump his burning affection for our fair and lovely heroine Daphne. Like, he literally hates his dead father so much that he pulls out before ejaculating during their frequent sexcapades to avoid impregnating his wife.
And when I say frequent, I mean, FREQUENT. When they finally wed, the pair are sexing every few minutes. But what makes it awkward is the classical-sounding orchestra music they played over these sex scenes. Think about actually getting intimate with your partner. Nice, right? Think about getting intimate with your partner with an intrusive harp or whatever playing in the background. Major boner killer, amirite?
I was watching Bridgerton on my iPad while I sat next to my husband, and he kept looking over to comment, “Oh wow. They’re having sex again.” I was like, “Yea I KNOWWWW, I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS.”
*Five minutes pass*
*Sex noises and seductive violins and cellos begin playing again*
”Let me guess, they’re boning again.”
Me *lowers the volume on my iPad self-consciously*
If anything, Bridgerton made me thankful that I don’t live in a time where the men in my family dictate my marriage. That I would not be considered impure for spending time alone with someone of the opposite sex in a rose garden after dusk. That I know that pregnancy occurs when little spermies join with an egg.
THAT IF SOMEONE WAS BEING DISHONEST ABOUT OUR SEXUAL ACTS (i.e. TAKING ADVANTAGE OF MY IGNORANCE OF REPRODUCTION AND PURPOSEFULLY PULLING OUT), I’D KNOW SOMETHING WAS UP AND CALL THEM OUT. This isn’t justifying Daphne’s abusive act either (if you watched it, you know), just that it wouldn’t have happened if sex education had been available to her. Well, hopefully, I guess. Err.
So I could have done without the whole jizz plot point. I feel that their character development could have been achieved without the emphasis on spilt seed, but that’s just me— I’m a hopeless romantic, as they say.
At least Lady Whistledown, gossip extraordinaire, wasn’t revealed to be Dan Humphreys all along. Spotted: all of us, wincing at the gratuitous sex scenes, wondering why the Queen was so invested in the love lives of her subjects, and also wondering are they not sore down there? and how do we really feel about this salacious show?
If you enjoyed this, you might also like my haunting review of Boring, I mean, Bly Manor, my hot take on the Home Alone tarantula, or my strong feelings about Operation Christmas Drop’s used hairbrush scene.
