It’s a strange dichotomy.
On the one hand, being the HERO OF THE WASTES should up your pimp status. Women should be working on your junk like a piece of scrap metal, droves of them coming at you like a nest of frenzied cazadors. What point is there to having a [Ladykiller] perk if said ladies aren’t dying to choke on your melee weapon? What good is fame and glory without a)money, b)free items, and c)groupies? Only when you interact with NCR babes, Vegas vacationers, or with the folks in Goodsprings – folks who would be Powder Ganged and Gecko food if not for your intervention – you sense an almost startling lack of gratefulness. Fuck you, Sunny Smiles, I’m not staying around your cold, frowning vagina one minute longer .
So you play god. And you play god by using mods. You head over to the base of operations, the Fallout: New Vegas Nexus, where you and other divinities construct ways to manipulate your world. One god has taught the NPC’s how to lust. With just a modicum of charisma and oratory skills, suddenly you can do it with anyone, anywhere, with one magic line.
Hey baby, got a moment?
Only the sex is out of character. It comes abruptly, with little foreplay, with no soul. You find it strange when the first woman you come across, Ada Straus, M.D., offers to be your fuckdog in full view of her two hired mercenaries and two-headed pack brahmin. Maybe she wants them to watch. Kinky bitch. Soon, however, you realize it isn’t just Ada. The disease has spread like a pandemic of pussy-cholera, through the irradiated rivers and the iguana-kabobs found in every wasteland refrigerator. Women everywhere are willing to get down and get funky in the most absurd ways, always intimating their alacrity with the same voiceless reply.
For you, good looking, I got aaaalll night long.
Suddenly sex is the last thing on your mind. Yet it’s there, looming in every conversation, no matter how tangled its thread. You could be talking about Deathclaws or Legion raids or a 1st recon woman’s brutal rape, and still with one click of the mouse have your fist in her asshole.
Tired, enervated, you jingle/jangle east, past New Vegas, past the lights and decadence in search of a simpler place, a sanctuary from the depravity and salacious sex. Your chicken needs air. You need a reprieve. You find a city walled off by a chain link fence and incoming missile fire, where people are down to earth and up for anything but casual sex. They call themselves Boomers.
The Boomers are a family in the traditional sense of the word. Here children play, parents work, governed by a kind and elderly matriarch. After speaking with the elder, you decide to sojourn in this den of morality. You spend the night and wake up the next morning, planning to spend the day watching the children learn the basics of aerial flight from the diffident, nameless boomer teacher. Before class begins you walk over and introduce yourself as a common courtesy, just to let her know you’ll be observing class. Then you see it. That line. It’s a pick-up one. The one where you ask her to blow you, right there, in front of the children. You think it must be a joke. Surely, you tell yourself, such a fine and upstanding person would not engage in such atrocious behavior. Truly this is a place, sequestered far from the belly of sin, where modesty is a virtue.
/Or so you thought.