DEAR ZORA
Bridgerton Season Two is Coming
Before it arrives, let us examine why we have never before been so invested in the jizz of a man who is in someone else’s bed.
In late September, executive producer and all-around boss bitch Shonda Rhimes teased us with a first look at season two of Bridgerton––and it left fans wanting more. Season one of the period romance drama made its Netflix debut on Christmas Day last year, much to our delight. Locked in our homes for months on end, we binged and lived vicariously through the lives of Daphne and Simon, their families, friends, and enemies. We searched for clues that would reveal an unknown gossipmonger and wondered when Simon, The Duke of Hastings, would finally “finish” inside his wife. We have never been so invested in the jizz of a man we weren’t fucking. We found ourselves wrapped in velvet, raw silks, and lace. We gave ourselves willingly to the drama, mystery, sex, and romance. We enveloped ourselves in this other world at a time when ours was falling apart, and we fell in love with characters we will never meet or forget. More than that, millions of us wished we were a spoon.
The second season of Bridgerton still doesn’t have its release date, but according to Rhimes, we can expect it sometime in 2022. This next season will focus on Daphne’s brother, Anthony. And, unfortunately, everyone’s boyfriend, Regé-Jean Page, who played Simon Basset, The Duke of Hastings, won’t return to the series. This is horrible news for those of us who enjoyed looking at his perfect face and body––especially his tight, muscular, bare ass. Still, as they say here in Tinsel Town, the show must go on. But, before it does, I rewatched the entire first season of Bridgerton––you know, for research.
In binging the series again, I was reminded of its deliciousness. I was transported to London’s Regency era and slipped gently into its high society. As I watched Daphne and Simon meet-not-so-cute and then spar each time they encountered each other, I was reminded of my own experience with falling for men I once loathed. I was reminded of the dance we sometimes do when met with disagreeable-yet-fuckable figures. In its first episodes, Bridgerton beckoned to the part of me that loves the beginnings of things. As I poured my first class of Sauvignon Blanc, I was reminded of the last time I enjoyed the unfurling of a life-changing lust-turned-love.
Woven among the decadence of the series, there was this underlying build-up, a tension that grew in the main storyline between Daphne and Simon, one that caused me to cross my legs with throbbing anticipation. I was locked in when Simon quietly, gently explained the pleasures of masturbation to a virginal and uneducated Daphne. Rewatching breathily, I revisited the way the words, “You do…touch yourself,” rolled from Simon’s spoon-fondling tongue, dripped from his lips, trickled through his beard, and somehow landed in my lap. It lit cinders in my belly and brought to mind the man I’m seeing now. Two years into my celibacy, he is teaching me what I have since forgotten, taking his time, earning my sex, and reconnecting me to a part of myself that heartbreak laid dormant. As in Bridgerton, the sexual tension is palpable.
Curious and taking direction from Simon, Daphne later goes home, thinks of him, and discovers la petite mort––her first little death. I watched from the edge of my sofa, knowing what it’s like to want a man so badly but needing to wait, to make it right, make it good and safe and honorable. From that scene forward, I anticipated their first kiss, first coital entanglement, and eventually, the first time Simon wouldn’t come into the void. I struggled through the early months of their marriage as they did and wanted him to release himself to her in more ways than one. I saw it again for the first time and felt everything I felt a year ago, except more deeply. More personally.
For all its sex and slow romance, by the time I got to the first season’s finale, I was reminded of what Daphne and Simon’s story was really about and why it resonated with me and so many others. There is this cloud of developmental trauma throughout Bridgerton. There is loneliness and the rejection of blessings. There is love and the fight against it. There are lies and omissions and things we wish we could forget. There are stories we tell ourselves until we become them, until we are locked behind the boundaries we set for others and are imprisoned.
Yes, there are bare abs and ass, thrusts, and a strong pull-out game written into this season of Bridgerton. But, by its end, there is also trust. We become them for the eight episodes in which they hold us captive, and without realizing it, we are drawn to more than the eroticism and the romance. We’re rooting for these two and for ourselves. We are longing for the emotional foreplay, the sexual titillation, the lust-turned-love that begets the rewriting of the stories we’ve been telling ourselves. And we ache for forgiveness, for another chance, and an opportunity to have the life we thought we never wanted. But also, sometimes, shit’s not that deep, and we just wanna be a spoon in Regé-Jean Page’s mouth.
Christmas is coming around again, and I hear the new season of Bridgerton is more than halfway through its post-production. Much like the Duke, it can come at any time. So, revisit season one this holiday and get lost in its decadence and dalliances once more. Meanwhile, dearest readers, this author awaits the new season with elevated expectations and bated breath.
NOTE: Apropos of everything, the release date for the second season of Bidgerton was announced on Christmas morning this year. March 25th is the date we’re all invited back into this world of lust and longing. So, pack your temper and your tiaras and I’ll see you there!
