| Glengoyne |
05-19-2007 10:31 AM |
Quote:
Originally Posted by SnowMan
(Post 1460858)
After SWG jumped the shark a few years back, I've been itching for a good SciFi MMO. I'd definitely be interested in this, even if it's just WoW in space. I must admit, tho, I do miss the crafting system and the player housing from SWG. :(
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This thread had me thinking about a Robert Coffey column from a few years back. SWG was the topic, and he was role playing a ... Well I've found the article, so I'll just post it here.
Quote:
Hey, baby, are you having a good time? How’d you like to have a *great* time, daddy? /nuzzle Let me give you a private dance, baby, c’mon, baby, don’t you like what you see? *Giggle!* You’re naughty! /pet /kiss Yeah, that’s it, sugar, /lick you just sit down and let me do all the work, let me make you feel all good inside and out, daddy, all of this is just for you, baby, just for you…and don’t forget to slip a tip in my g-string when we’re done. Just a tip, you bad boy, *giggle* not your whole hand!
Yeah—I’m a whore. And, man alive, am I ever good at it. I probably have more credits than any other dancer in Star Wars Galaxies, so I’ve got that going for me. But I’ve paid a price. I feel so dirty a steel wool loofah couldn’t get all the ick off. And I’m tired, oh so very tired from servicing the endless stream of men, all those men and their ceaseless demands…
My life of online debauchery began innocently—and professionally—enough: I decided to try out the dancer profession just to see if the Galaxies designers had found a way to make such a dull-sounding class interesting to play. Almost immediately I discovered two things: No, they didn’t, and no, they didn’t. But these online games are all about making your own fun, right? So I decided to make my own fun by providing fun. Less than an hour into the game I was aggressively soliciting every male character that entered the cantina for “private dances.” And once I assured them that I was indeed a woman, a 23-year-old waitress at a Black Angus who used to work at a Hooters but had moved after a bad break-up with my boyfriend Mike, they started lining up and—presto!—the Moenia cantina became my own gentlemen’s club complete with horny smugglers rushing to withdraw more money for just one more dance.
At first my rates were modest, but the beauty of a player-created economy is that the players decide what they want to spend, and I was happily surprised to discover most players wanted to spend more than I was asking. Lots more. So I stopped asking—just reminding them gently for tips—and was soon raking in thousands of credits an hour. Within moments of logging on every night, regular customers would send me tells that they were catching shuttles from across the galaxy to come visit me. They’d arrive at the cantina and beeline to a back room where, with no prompting, they’d take off their pants, sit down, and start typing /lick over and over as I shook my Twi’lek moneymaker for them.
While the other entertainers in the cantina were desperately begging for tips, I was being plied with jewelry, free droids, and expensive clothing by regular suitors convinced I was a lonely busty steak-slinging co-ed and not a married father of two with Tourette’s syndrome and a Gary Gilmore haircut. Oh, they tried to win my heart, but I am a saucy carefree lass, chary of giving her heart to any pistoleer no matter how much he pays me for the privilege of stripping to his skivvies while I sit in his lap cooing “Oh, baby, that’s *so* nice” while he types /lick over and over and over again.
Now, after a month of squiddly-diddling every Mon Calamari with a few thousand credits to blow on virtual lapdancing, I think the time has come for me to hang up my gold bikini top and hot pants. Why? Well, for being able to use phrases like “my gold bikini top and hot pants” for starters. For the infinite brain-busting implications horrifically inherent and wrong on about every single conceivable plane of existence in the chilling inquiry “Ever suck a Tusken’s wang?” For that uncomfortable moment of clarity the other day at lunch when I caught myself in all seriousness lauding the generosity of “my two favorite boyfriends.” All that and a general ratcheting up of suspiciously misspelled dirty talk has inexorably led to the retirement of Paris Beldar, pleasure dancer supreme.
But don’t let my misgivings dissuade you from the very profitable life as a private dancer. Here’s a little tip, free of charge: If someone is reluctant to accept your solicitations, just start calling him “daddy” and he’ll cave. And if he’s a Wookiee, call him “Fuzzy-wuzzy bear” when you writhe on his digitized lap, and you’ll double your tips. Trust me.
Copyright © 2003 Ziff Davis Media Inc. All Rights Reserved. Originally appearing in Computer Gaming World.
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Oh another thing the column was titled "Is that a Light Saber in your pocket.."
Sheer genius. |
