Sex with storm troopers

At DragonCon, all eroticism seems to emanate from the Fantasm group. Fantasm is another Atlanta convention, much smaller, whose organizers are more interested in "speculative sex" than they are in "Star Wars" action figures. I find the Fantasm booth in the expo room with the help of Fred, a longtime con-goer who is an emeritus member of the Secret Masters of Fandom (SMOF), an Illuminati-style group whose covert e-mail list controls the con universe.

The Fantasm folks are selling T-shirts that say things like "Klingons don't need ribbed condoms," and pirated videos of Japanese live-action tentacle porn. Charles and I finagle a ticket to Fantasm's Saturday night party, which will feature Fred auctioning off naked slaves to partiers. "I also hear they're building a rack," Fred says conspiratorially.

Saturday night arrives, and Charles is dressed as Wonder Woman. I'm wearing my nicest "Men in Black" suit and tie. After having some drinks with members of Atlanta's queer SF group, Outworlders, I tangle briefly with some horny teenage boys who want to show me their swords ("They're really sharp! Can I have a hug?") and make my way to the Fantasm suite. The naked slaves are lovely; the cute young boy on the rack is turning a nice shade of red under a nerdy goth's flogger; and a foxy young game designer (why are they all game designers?) named Tony is ready to do whatever I want on the balcony. Some hottie who tells me he owns several comic book stores grabs me and we start kissing. Apparently, he helped organize Atlanta Comicon. So many luscious choices in my quest for sex!

But Charles and our friend Mehitabel decide that they absolutely must fuck a storm trooper in uniform. All weekend, we've been drawn by the fetishist outfits of the storm troopers: Swathed in shiny white plastic, their faces hidden behind imperturbable death masks, they make pleasingly mechanical sounds when they walk. They're like cars, or computers, or giant fascist sex toys. Rumor has it that they make their armor by hand, carefully cutting each piece of plastic out of a certain type of truck shell whose contours are well-suited for storm trooper conversion. The storm troopers' dedication to their appearance just makes them sexier. Not even Cindy Crawford works this hard to look good.

And so we leave the safe confines of the Fantasm party and run into the midnight hallways of the Hyatt, searching for storm troopers. Somebody at the Fantasm party has stolen one of the storm trooper walkie-talkies (yes, they're all in radio contact) and vows to help us out. As we begin our pilgrimage, we hear him sounding very official, intoning, "Calling all storm troopers. Report to the Fantasm party in Room 931 at once."

On the main floor, we see two people in partial storm trooper outfits.

"Could you put your full uniform on for us?" Charles asks. Mehitabel giggles.

"I guess so," one of the troopers says uncertainly. "Why?"

"Well, we need you for sexual activities," I explain. "But just oral sex. See, we're at this party, and everyone really wants to have sex with a storm trooper. But you need to be in full uniform."

Both storm troopers are looking a little disturbed. "Why don't you try some of the other guys? They're downstairs."

Downstairs, we find more partially outfitted storm troopers. They look far less enticing with only the top half of their armor on. Each time we request sex, they send us to another part of the hotel. All the troopers seem to like the idea of putting on their full uniform for us, but when we bring up sex, they send us on to someone else. Don't they see the connection between their fetishistic uniforms and kinky sex?

"Storm troopers are all bark and no bite," a nontrooper tells us helpfully, adjusting her breasts inside a latex dress.

"They can't have sex in their uniforms because they're in command," Mehitabel replies mournfully.

But wonder of wonders, when we return to the Fantasm party for more groping, the walkie-talkie plan has worked. There are three storm troopers waiting for us, looking extremely confused. Unfortunately, they aren't in full uniform. After a long discussion about storm trooper design, we discover that the uniforms are like overalls -- they're mostly one piece, and once you have them on, it's hard to lie down or bend over or, um, anything else. Sadly, the one trooper who is interested in debauchery doesn't have a hinge on his plastic storm trooper crotch guard, so we can't get access.

"What were you thinking?" I berate him. "How could you make a uniform like this without hinges on the crotch?" I tap the thick white plastic over his underwear and frown.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking genuinely contrite. "I didn't have time." Another trooper proudly shows off his crotch hinge, but declines the oral sex.

"Hasn't anyone ever wanted to fuck you in uniform?" I ask the third trooper, who doesn't look very Imperial in his Gap khakis. Apparently not. We have reached the limits of our shared fantasies with these troopers. They're not going to play by our rules, and we're not going to play by theirs. I've learned another rule of tolerance at DragonCon: All LARPing is consensual, and if you find yourself in a LARP you don't like you can just go find another one.

Our storm troopers wander off in search of the Empire. Luckily, there are sexy goths, game designers and comic book geeks aplenty at the Fantasm shindig. A slave feeds me some melon and then demands, "Do you think I'm only worth $5? That's all my master paid for me. And I even showed him my cock!"

And so it comes back to money, finally, the only social fantasy that DragonCon shares with the Mundane world. And yet somehow the science fiction fans who flock to Atlanta every year have managed to change the meaning of money to the point where it is practically unrecognizable. In Mundane life, there are no happy slaves. At DragonCon, every role is alluring because the whole social scene is treated like a game. Somehow, playing at life allows us to break the rules.

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