Portia and Portia. I met Portia first. She worked in the chop shop in Twostatesolutiontown, fitted me with my twentythird body, a LaraX mach 40 knockoff. Portia recognized me from my pics. Like every other image that citizens fabricate, my feeble indie attempts to advertise something—anything—were available to the born or to the bred. Or illegals like me, fitted with docuplants that allowed us to browse but not vote or hold public office. It doesn’t matter who you are—all of us have to pay to keep any photos private, especially nudes. Portia’s girlfriend Portia told me about an old policy on a platform called Flickr, where you were compelled to pay for a “Pro” account to post yourself—or anyone else—naked. The current governcorp policy is like that—except in reverse.
I was never R2 Defense. I got the suit at a legendary Wuhan wetwork market. No one shopped virtually any more. You needed to know your new catsuit wasn’t going to disappear an hour after you put it on. It didn’t matter to me if it was authentic kit as long as I got the PIN along with the goods. Despite the likely fakery, I was confident I could look like a Good, Giving, Game and Glam Recruit®. Defense didn’t pick me up. Neither did XC, the shotgun maker. No from [NK*] on the Matsumoto Rippers-92. Even *barberyumyum* passed. They saw my mod of the wig and threatened to throw the UPaid at me for shrinking the extra-long bangs. (I figured an R2 G4® recruit should look like she can see. Just.) I thought the suit and the weapons were hot, but Portia zeroed in on the gloves—a 2009 pair from ::Poised::. Unfortunately for Portia, who, like Portia, is fixated on vintage, the gloves belonged to the stylist, who was last seen chatting up a catalog model for Gene Splicer’s teen collection.
Portia persevered. She convinced me and my photographer to follow her to Backdrop City. She offered me an animated Evil tattoo from This is Wrong, then gently affixed it to my back before I could say no. Portia had given it to Portia as a joke. (Apparently Portia didn’t laugh: she was touchy about her neo-geo-libertarian tendencies. There was some kind of income friction harshing their cielo, and Portia resented it when Portia spent her credits on flashion.) Anyways, playful Portia led us to a deep green room, where she asked me to pose like I was worshipping this gaudy old idol. Portia told me that it was a symbol for a currency with at least seven names, just like the old I Yam that I Yam. “Money,” “greenbacks,” “moolah,” “scratch,” “Benjamins,” “the ready, steady, go,” and “cashohlaohlalalalala.” It was an earthwide phenomenon fashioned out of foldable paper and it bore the faces of long-forgotten synth males. Portia said it was small and fit into things that were once called “pocketbooks.” (I didn’t see the point of reading a book about pockets, but as the quaint incantation goes “YKINMKBYKIOK.”)
My photographer shot the same pose over and over again, just like the person who’s writing this blog, putting words into my mouth to make up for her feeble indie pics. My only fan watched for an hour before she called a time out. She strode up to me at an even pace and backed me against the sculpture. The pearls were cold. I started to tremble. Portia stepped close and looked me in the eyes (what she could see of them). I sensed her arm glide down her own body and I heard the timeless sound of Velcro ripping—but real slow, you know? real real slow. She pushed something moist between my legs. It was her own plasma patch, warm to the crotch. I waited, willingly giving up all my aching agency. Touching me nowhere else—neither my naked breasts nor my exposed ass—Portia reached for the patch’s on/off button, circled it over and over, but never pressed play.
“Two girls, one idol,” my photographer quipped when Portia was done with me. I banished him to the siliconecouch for that.
The next morning he was still there when Portia pinged me, saying she wanted to keep the pics all to herself. She had dozens of reasons—none of them good, all of them tempting. Finally, my photographer grabbed the HUD and persuaded my new friend to publish. See, he knew what it meant to be busted for trying to keep images private. He’d been caught once before and summarily sentenced to five years hard labour. I’d heard his story many times but it still shook me. And it quickly scared Portia into solarsystemwide distribution. Portia had been chased out of dozens of private residences, had camped on a lot of streets, had done whatever she’d had to do. Black market, grey market, pink. And all of it without butylatedhydroxyturmeric, which she’d managed to kick. But not even she could handle what my photographer had been forced to do. Not even Portia could hack staffing a Zellers department-store studio churning out portraits of kids, dogs, droids and the people who claimed to love them.
CREDITS
Outfit:
R2LX, Kyouga (at Collabor88; includes bikini, bracers and boots)
::Poised:: Vinyl love gloves (from 2009, n/a)
Body:
Maitreya Mesh Body – LaraX V1.0
RAONHAUSEN – Noelise Shape Legacy (12 Days of Xmas LeLutka gift)
THIS IS WRONG Evil anim tattoo 4SHINE – Maitreya BACK (colour change)
-Pretty Liars- Boobs lift LEVEL 4
Head:
/ HEAD / lel EvoX ORA 3.1
[Glam Affair] Rain (Milk tone)
*barberyumyum*B24(03) style2 [hair]
euphoric-Zelda eyes
[//REBIRTH/]-ears Tangle (these are for men and naturally resist fitting little female ears)
Shiny Stuffs, EvoX Face Seam Silver (past gift, n/a)
Arcana : Nightsister – Merrin – Black (100% Opacity)
! #saint. x evox – mynx lip suede (set 4)
[REVERIE] Galactic Liner – EvoX – Eyeliner – #2 – Grey
LeLUTKA.EvoX.Scar.013.L
Weapons:
XC-88, Shotgun
[NK*] Matsumoto Rippers-92
Pic two was shot at Future Noir sim. Pic three was shot in the FOXCITY Photo Booth – Big Dough (Limited) at Backdrop City.
Pleisure, a Second Life Fashion Blog 