People always say there are codes of ethics that one must follow in both life and society. In the world of Second life it seems those ethics, codes & morals that we all choose to live our real lives by some how slip through the virtual cracks as we take on new identities and craft a history and story of our avatars.
One of the biggest virtual past times in SL is that of dating. While the ceremonious mating game that we play in RL bathes in similarity to that of our second lives, the game is played at hyperspeed. While yes, some intentions (mostly 'males') in our world seem to waiver towards the sexual, it is possible to have authentic relationships in SL....but then again, its funner to play ;)
Often times, Brig and I will play little games to both boost our social reportire, our financial situation and the inevitable, snagging a mate in the quickest time flat. One bet, who could entice and have tangible benefit from a partner the fastest was a challenge. I was able to not only charm, entice and captivate a male avatar "Sheffield", but get a house, land and clothes that night.
Playing the game somewhat detached, one is able to reap the collective benefits to one or more avatars with charm and wit. After meeting an out of work photographer in the BGSU sandbox, I was able to get profile photos for all three of my female avatars nixing his demands for sex by playing coy. While this 'relationship' was somewhat temporary, it represented the anthisis of our game--to gain.
You're probably thinking "Wow, what bitches." But I have to turn the game on you for a second--this out of work photographer who was trolling around for sex on SL was also thrice married and had a 2 year old. This is where the ethics between RL and SL become grey, blurred. What makes one form of play more ok then others?
While the average man or shall we say "slag," is often easiest to ensnare, it is often a little bit different to tame and stroke the ego of what is known as an SLebrity. SLebrities are individual avatars that have made names for themselves in-world by designing, building, modeling, photographing or other means.
My first brush with fame came with a few bloggers. Daily, I would check, re-check and check again their blog, and salivate over their good finds and ingenious combinations. On a trip to Mai Bodyshop (coincidentally also one of my alt's last names) I met a male blogger ("NYC") whom I had secretly crushed on his witty posts, and charming somewhat aloof nature that led to a fantastic mysterious character. Upon meeting, we friended, shared, and enjoyed some time together. Over the past few months, I have not been able to capture the full captive attention of NYC, but we have stolen a few kisses, natch. Meaning, hopefully, slow and steady will win the race.
Another short lived SL relationship served with a not-so-out-of-work photographer. From Ms. Virtual World, to countless agencies, Mr. Show Me the Money, while flashy, grand, and endlessly sexy, was unable to maintain anything more than a few minutes a day for fear he would lose a client in his studio. He came home to our loft stressed, angry, and biting. I clutched on to the sad remains of our broken union for longer than I should have, waiting countless hours in blacklace lingerie on the asian printed sofa. His studio became his first love, I was merely his toy at the end of a stressful day. Who is playing who now you might be wondering?
My most recent adventure into SLebritisim was flanked by "Jim"'s ownership and creation of the most well known and enjoyed sims in SL. While short lived, Jim was able to purchase for me a skin, shape, and hair. More so, when the relationship ended, it was that I had lost a good chase, a new challenge , perhaps the biggest I had embarked on.
So how does all this translate or apply to RL? In SL, as you know I take pleasure in the tricks and beneficial treats I receive. But what happens when my SL tricks, games and ploys transfer to my RL?
This isn't all uncommon, lovers, partners, and friends often happen to transcend the SL world into RL. My problem however happened this past weekend when I found myself going out with a (much) younger man. I found myself playing the same tricks "would you carry this for me?" (you=my sub) "I'm thirsty..." (buy me a drink) .
I had to stop myself, I realized that RL is less of a game than SL is, or is it?
As for next weekend? I have another date. ;)
xoxo
V
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Creative Writing Endeavor: Viv
A dusty pile of torn magazines sit in the corner as a sleek raven haired young woman rests her long delicate legs on a prim cushion near her black leather chair. She peers out one eye at the magazines, compelled to enjoy them, to go through them once again, to analyze and recreate the happy memories she had the first time she touched their glossy pages.
“I’m always trying to help those filthy slags, and this is what I get!” Viv mumbled under her breath as she readjusted her black-framed Dolce and Gabanna glasses. “They’ll wish they would have listened before….when I’m gone.” Viv looks back into the empty double old-fashioned glass resting in her grip that once contained vodka cranberry and drains the last few drops on her warm tongue.
She stands wobbling a bit as she grabs a Navy Mont Blanc pen encrusted in tiny diamond stars off custom built cherry wood desk resting up against the wall. A she stumbles across the room she picks up a note pad sprawled with several notes: “Take Toby to Fifi’s Dog Spa,” “Buy Chipz,” “Research Tory Burch’s spring flats,” “Call Brig.” Viv looks up on her desk to see a picture resting on the shelf her, Brig, and Noelle smiling happily in their new Nicky Ree gowns, she slams the picture down hastily.
She crumples the golden yellow lined paper and tosses it haphazardly unto the floor. She hears a soft whimper come from underneath the desk as a set of glowing beady eyes appear next to the crumpled paper. “Shut up Toby!” Viv cries as she scribbles quickly across the page, now half standing. Regaining her balance and pulling out the smooth modern desk chair, she plops down and continues to write frantically as tears flow forth from her sky blue eyes across her light milky skin. Another cry comes from beneath the desk as Toby moves about, feeling that his space had been obviously intruded. “I said shut up!” Viv ushers her rounded patent leather Maiterya pump forward nearly missing Toby’s head.
As Viv scribbles, the pile of magazines in the corner is disrupted as Toby flings his soft plush bear in the air. Out from the magazines pours countless overdue notices and yellow envelopes, marked and fitted between the pages as if they were bookmarks. Tiny notes flank the envelopes “Cute shoes, pg. 47,” “Put away tunics until 2011” rest in the pages of the respected authoritative magazines deem it so.
Horridly, Viv stands up and grabs Toby’s bear and flings into the kitchen, picking up the envelopes from the ground. Smoothing out her Paper Couture dress, she stands up and takes the envelopes back to her desk and crosses her legs leisurely as she slides back into the chair. “Fucking bastards.” She immediately grabs the shiny “Return to Tiffany’s” letter opener and slides it across several envelopes. In perfect succession, bill after bill fall out of the envelopes as Viv begins to sob. Her breathing becoming quick she grabs the last yellow envelope in her hand and in a furry slices it open, as she does, the swift platinum knife makes way to wrist where an immediate piercing pain is igniting and a rush of blood makes its way across the note. “Fuck This!” Viv grabs the pen, gripping her bloody wrist in one hand and switching back to her pen. “I’m going to get this written down if it’s the last thing I do.”
As she finishes penning the last few sentences of her note, she screams in agony and runs and gets a towel to wrap around her wrist, the blood dripping forth to her long French manicured fingernails. “Hopefully that won’t scar, but I guess if it does, no matter now.”
Her phone rings and she looks over to the id: “Brigitte,” “I guess she’ll just have to wait,” Viv mumbles in sadness as another tear runs down her check. As Viv walks away, an ink and blood stained and crumpled letter rests on the desk. It reads:
inked in pain,
and signed with blood.
torn apart,
noosed and hung.
the choices we make,
eventually come,
but what i ask? what couture do you choose?
Prada, Gucci, Louis, Fendi…
hopeless cries stain the night,
as i slowly take my life.
if not couture, give me death!
a life with no couture is no life at all.
my breathing is labored and weak,
my mind races for a place to rest.
sadness in my heart,
a tear falls down my cheek.
falling, falling, a glistening stream of pain and resentment.
pain for the fashion that i could not have,
Resentment for the slags that do.
what is the point of this life? why am i here?
TBC
“I’m always trying to help those filthy slags, and this is what I get!” Viv mumbled under her breath as she readjusted her black-framed Dolce and Gabanna glasses. “They’ll wish they would have listened before….when I’m gone.” Viv looks back into the empty double old-fashioned glass resting in her grip that once contained vodka cranberry and drains the last few drops on her warm tongue.
She stands wobbling a bit as she grabs a Navy Mont Blanc pen encrusted in tiny diamond stars off custom built cherry wood desk resting up against the wall. A she stumbles across the room she picks up a note pad sprawled with several notes: “Take Toby to Fifi’s Dog Spa,” “Buy Chipz,” “Research Tory Burch’s spring flats,” “Call Brig.” Viv looks up on her desk to see a picture resting on the shelf her, Brig, and Noelle smiling happily in their new Nicky Ree gowns, she slams the picture down hastily.
She crumples the golden yellow lined paper and tosses it haphazardly unto the floor. She hears a soft whimper come from underneath the desk as a set of glowing beady eyes appear next to the crumpled paper. “Shut up Toby!” Viv cries as she scribbles quickly across the page, now half standing. Regaining her balance and pulling out the smooth modern desk chair, she plops down and continues to write frantically as tears flow forth from her sky blue eyes across her light milky skin. Another cry comes from beneath the desk as Toby moves about, feeling that his space had been obviously intruded. “I said shut up!” Viv ushers her rounded patent leather Maiterya pump forward nearly missing Toby’s head.
As Viv scribbles, the pile of magazines in the corner is disrupted as Toby flings his soft plush bear in the air. Out from the magazines pours countless overdue notices and yellow envelopes, marked and fitted between the pages as if they were bookmarks. Tiny notes flank the envelopes “Cute shoes, pg. 47,” “Put away tunics until 2011” rest in the pages of the respected authoritative magazines deem it so.
Horridly, Viv stands up and grabs Toby’s bear and flings into the kitchen, picking up the envelopes from the ground. Smoothing out her Paper Couture dress, she stands up and takes the envelopes back to her desk and crosses her legs leisurely as she slides back into the chair. “Fucking bastards.” She immediately grabs the shiny “Return to Tiffany’s” letter opener and slides it across several envelopes. In perfect succession, bill after bill fall out of the envelopes as Viv begins to sob. Her breathing becoming quick she grabs the last yellow envelope in her hand and in a furry slices it open, as she does, the swift platinum knife makes way to wrist where an immediate piercing pain is igniting and a rush of blood makes its way across the note. “Fuck This!” Viv grabs the pen, gripping her bloody wrist in one hand and switching back to her pen. “I’m going to get this written down if it’s the last thing I do.”
As she finishes penning the last few sentences of her note, she screams in agony and runs and gets a towel to wrap around her wrist, the blood dripping forth to her long French manicured fingernails. “Hopefully that won’t scar, but I guess if it does, no matter now.”
Her phone rings and she looks over to the id: “Brigitte,” “I guess she’ll just have to wait,” Viv mumbles in sadness as another tear runs down her check. As Viv walks away, an ink and blood stained and crumpled letter rests on the desk. It reads:
inked in pain,
and signed with blood.
torn apart,
noosed and hung.
the choices we make,
eventually come,
but what i ask? what couture do you choose?
Prada, Gucci, Louis, Fendi…
hopeless cries stain the night,
as i slowly take my life.
if not couture, give me death!
a life with no couture is no life at all.
my breathing is labored and weak,
my mind races for a place to rest.
sadness in my heart,
a tear falls down my cheek.
falling, falling, a glistening stream of pain and resentment.
pain for the fashion that i could not have,
Resentment for the slags that do.
what is the point of this life? why am i here?
TBC
Creative Writing Endeavor: Brig
She gripped her friend's hand, her strained knuckles white and aching from the pressure, the beautifully manicured nails cutting into her flesh.
"Don't do it, Viv. You have every reason in the world to live!"
Despite her best efforts, her voice was mostly carried away by the wind howling off the cliff as it plunged down to the jagged, angry rocks miles below them. She didn't take her eyes off of Viv's feet-- clad in ruby-red stilettos that perfectly coordinated with her striking lipstick-- as they shuffled closer to the edge of the rocks the two girls balanced precariously on.
"It's over-- it's all come to naught, Brigitte! I opened my soul to them, only to have it brutally crushed beneath their ungrateful feet and spit on! All I wanted to do was make the world a more joyous place, but they took pleasure in denying me that!"
Brigitte's eyes stung as she tried unsuccessfully to fight back the burning tears that came with the memory Viv forced back to the front of her mind.
It had been like any other day, save the buzzing and bustling that surrounded Brig as she tried to dutifully perform her tasks at work. Her coworkers had been talking-- no, gossiping-- relentlessly about the rumored appearance Viv would make that day. She'd just returned from what she described on her blog as, "A life-changing experience" at her favorite set of boutiques and had vowed to showcase her newest find so that everyone could share in the jubilation that such rare and precious a treasure existed.
Everyone was consumed with guessing what it was Viv had found. Brig watched in partial amusement-- and partial horror-- as individuals took blood oaths and passed wadded thousand dollar bills into one another's sweaty palms where they stood around the water cooler, a fierce, maddening look in their eyes. She couldn't prevent the audible gasp from escaping her lips when she watched one co-worker pass another the birth certificate of his first born child. Apparently no possessions-- vehicles, homes, or children-- were safe from being gambled away in what was quickly becoming a deadly, horrific bet.
Brigitte would never forget the moment Viv walked in the room. Not because of the radiant glow that shined off of her body like rays of the sun warming a frigid tundra; not because of the cries of pleasure and ecstasy that poured forth from the lips of everyone in the room; not even because of the magically coordinated, polished ensemble that Viv sported; no, it was the mystical, compelling object that hung from her arm-- the most brilliant, awe-inspiring, truly resplendent handbag Brig had ever laid her eyes upon. It was as though every soul in the room had been granted the sweet opportunity to be in the presence of something grander, something more meaningful than themselves. It was an utterly spiritual experience.
Viv's smile was almost as glittery as the sacred artifact in her hand. She hardly took notice of the broken, lifeless faces of her begrudged coworkers who had foolishly placed bets on her sporting a new scarf or jeweled necklace. Instead, she held the bag out with one hand for everyone to enjoy and worship, passing out cards from where she purchased it with the other. "We could all have matching ones, we'd be adorable," she cooed to the room over the bustle beginning to surround her. Life, for a brief moment, seemed beautiful.
It all ended in the most dark, evil way imaginable.
"Let go of me Brigitte! There's nothing anyone can do now!"
Viv's cries jolted Brigitte back to the moment in front of her, mascara now staining her cheeks as the tears continued to cover her face.
Viv pulled against Brigitte's grasp, sliding another inch closer to the edge of the dusty cliff, this time straining her free arm so that the bag-- the marvelous, sublime relic-- swayed in the wind and hung dangerously over the deep pit below. Brigitte watched in horror as a slip of paper floated out of Viv's bag, torn from its safe resting place inside by the rapid, wild wind whirling around them. It floated in front of her face for a brief moment-- an ink and blood splattered, wrinkled piece paper partially torn on one edge. It looked like a poem, but it flew by too fast for Brigitte to read it.
"Viv! Look what you're doing! You can't want this! We'll make this right-- we have before, many times! It is the price we pay for our lifestyle-- you know it better than anyone!"
Viv opened her lips, the protest ready to pour forth, when suddenly, they heard a voice beckon them from behind. It boomed ominously, sending a stinging chill up both of their spines that threatened to topple them both off the cliff.
"Vivienne-- you and I have unfinished business."
TBC
"Don't do it, Viv. You have every reason in the world to live!"
Despite her best efforts, her voice was mostly carried away by the wind howling off the cliff as it plunged down to the jagged, angry rocks miles below them. She didn't take her eyes off of Viv's feet-- clad in ruby-red stilettos that perfectly coordinated with her striking lipstick-- as they shuffled closer to the edge of the rocks the two girls balanced precariously on.
"It's over-- it's all come to naught, Brigitte! I opened my soul to them, only to have it brutally crushed beneath their ungrateful feet and spit on! All I wanted to do was make the world a more joyous place, but they took pleasure in denying me that!"
Brigitte's eyes stung as she tried unsuccessfully to fight back the burning tears that came with the memory Viv forced back to the front of her mind.
It had been like any other day, save the buzzing and bustling that surrounded Brig as she tried to dutifully perform her tasks at work. Her coworkers had been talking-- no, gossiping-- relentlessly about the rumored appearance Viv would make that day. She'd just returned from what she described on her blog as, "A life-changing experience" at her favorite set of boutiques and had vowed to showcase her newest find so that everyone could share in the jubilation that such rare and precious a treasure existed.
Everyone was consumed with guessing what it was Viv had found. Brig watched in partial amusement-- and partial horror-- as individuals took blood oaths and passed wadded thousand dollar bills into one another's sweaty palms where they stood around the water cooler, a fierce, maddening look in their eyes. She couldn't prevent the audible gasp from escaping her lips when she watched one co-worker pass another the birth certificate of his first born child. Apparently no possessions-- vehicles, homes, or children-- were safe from being gambled away in what was quickly becoming a deadly, horrific bet.
Brigitte would never forget the moment Viv walked in the room. Not because of the radiant glow that shined off of her body like rays of the sun warming a frigid tundra; not because of the cries of pleasure and ecstasy that poured forth from the lips of everyone in the room; not even because of the magically coordinated, polished ensemble that Viv sported; no, it was the mystical, compelling object that hung from her arm-- the most brilliant, awe-inspiring, truly resplendent handbag Brig had ever laid her eyes upon. It was as though every soul in the room had been granted the sweet opportunity to be in the presence of something grander, something more meaningful than themselves. It was an utterly spiritual experience.
Viv's smile was almost as glittery as the sacred artifact in her hand. She hardly took notice of the broken, lifeless faces of her begrudged coworkers who had foolishly placed bets on her sporting a new scarf or jeweled necklace. Instead, she held the bag out with one hand for everyone to enjoy and worship, passing out cards from where she purchased it with the other. "We could all have matching ones, we'd be adorable," she cooed to the room over the bustle beginning to surround her. Life, for a brief moment, seemed beautiful.
It all ended in the most dark, evil way imaginable.
"Let go of me Brigitte! There's nothing anyone can do now!"
Viv's cries jolted Brigitte back to the moment in front of her, mascara now staining her cheeks as the tears continued to cover her face.
Viv pulled against Brigitte's grasp, sliding another inch closer to the edge of the dusty cliff, this time straining her free arm so that the bag-- the marvelous, sublime relic-- swayed in the wind and hung dangerously over the deep pit below. Brigitte watched in horror as a slip of paper floated out of Viv's bag, torn from its safe resting place inside by the rapid, wild wind whirling around them. It floated in front of her face for a brief moment-- an ink and blood splattered, wrinkled piece paper partially torn on one edge. It looked like a poem, but it flew by too fast for Brigitte to read it.
"Viv! Look what you're doing! You can't want this! We'll make this right-- we have before, many times! It is the price we pay for our lifestyle-- you know it better than anyone!"
Viv opened her lips, the protest ready to pour forth, when suddenly, they heard a voice beckon them from behind. It boomed ominously, sending a stinging chill up both of their spines that threatened to topple them both off the cliff.
"Vivienne-- you and I have unfinished business."
TBC
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