Damian Barr on ‘House of Cards’ incredible shocking scene

Warning: This article contains major spoilers. If you don’t want to know what happens at the end of season two of House of Cards, don’t read on.

The President of the United States of America is gay. He’s having a hot affair with his believably handsome Secret Service officer, and the First Lady knows all about it – she’s not bothered. In fact, she loves it.

Not Obama, no, although I have a special place for that thought. Instead, this is a scenario made real by the deliciously evil Francis J. Underwood and his glittering ice-wife Claire in House of Cards. Quite frankly, if you’ve somehow not binge-watched the savagely subtle second series, available on Netflix since Valentine’s Day, you almost don’t deserve a spoiler alert, but consider this it. The scene shocking viewers of all political and sexual persuasions happens near the end of episode 11. It’s one of the most shocking moments in a series that’s hardly low on intrigue, peril or drama. Machiavelli himself would be impressed by the machinations of Francis and Claire as they ruthlessly march from small town South Carolina all the way to the Oval Office. All guile and no guilt, they scheme, extort and even kill before sharing a soothing cigarette and maybe a glass of bourbon before bed, where they sleep soundly. It’s like they’ve outsourced guilt.

So, this scene. Francis is tending to his Secret Service agent Meechum (pictured right), carefully picking bits of broken glass from his bandaged hand, which then lingers on his own. Claire, uncharacteristically tipsy, notices, but doesn’t seem surprised or upset. It’s like she expected this all along — wanted it. Instead of freaking or leaving them to get on with it she takes their hands in hers and kisses them. It’s a sort of blessing. Meechum then kisses Claire’s neck while Claire locks lips with Francis. It seems impossible that Francis will then kiss Meechum — he’s married, he’s the most powerful man in America, and he’s Kevin Spacey.

But he does.

I actually squealed.

What’s shocking is not the threesome — we don’t see or even hear who puts what where. We just cut to some rain – that classic signifier of moist moments off camera – and then the morning after; all entirely in keeping with director David Fincher’s classy restraint. What’s so disarming, and so hot, is the permissive tenderness of it all. Claire and Francis maintain eye contact, each wordlessly encouraging the other. We enjoy watching it for the same reason they enjoy doing it: shared transgression. Claire and Francis get off on breaking the laws that slow mere civilians down. But they’re not sluts. Like all couples, they have rules: she knows about his affair with Zoe and he knows about her affair with Adam. These affairs end for reasons of utility, not morality, when the insignificant others stop being useful. Just as we never see Claire wearing colour, so we never see them having sex. Bed is strictly for plotting. Any children they might have had were terminated by mutual agreement. The Underwoods share one vision, keep no secrets from one another and are completely, fiercely loyal. They screw other people, yes, but never one another.

The handsome, obedient Secret Service agent is just another secret to bind them together, a useful outlet. The next morning Clare comes down to find Francis chopping fruit for their breakfast (not bananas). She asks him how he slept. “Like a baby” he replies. “Good,” she says, crossing her legs and sipping her coffee. “You needed that.” So did we.

Damian Barr is the author of Maggie & Me (Bloomsbury, £7.99). Follow Damian on Twitter @Damian_Barr​