The Ray Gun as Wand

I worry.

Needlessly, most of the time.

But this time, I believe my worry stems from actual exacerbating factors with a basis in reality. My [selfish] worry is that fantasy as a literary genre will not mature soon enough for me to reap the sweet, sweet benefits.

I tell you this not only to rub your nose in the fact that I have an English degree and you, in all probability, do not (except you). Moreover, I tell you this because it is an actual concern. I've lost sleep over this one. And new material like this sh*t doesn't buoy my hopes. The dark age of science fiction was when every story featured in Amazing! was illustrated with a man in a full space suit saving a woman wearing just enough clothing to be printable (the rest presumably having been ripped off of her lithe frame by the BEM who is clutching her in one claw and posing threateningly with the other, all the while oozing... ooze), apparently implying that women can breathe in the vacuum of space (or don't need to breathe at all), but men cannot. Depending on your position, this is feminism or misogyny (but isn't everything?).

This is currently where we find the fantasy genre. Ten seconds playing World of Warcrack will show you shining examples of this very same phenomenon. The same piece of armor that could conceivably, upon visual inspection, provide adequate protection to a male character looks a lot more like dental floss when equipped on a female character. In fact, in some cases, armor which covers less actually provides more protection. Which begs the question: are Yetis, glutted as they are on their vast stores of Yeti porn (what else are they using the silver they drop to buy?), expecting some outcome other than combat when colliding with female characters, and are thus unable to do as much damage in their erotica-fogged altered state of consciousness? Is the armor value of the whore pants on this Human Rogue calculated based on the sex-starvedness of the creature you're fighting? And what about when you're fighting elementals, or undead? Surely when you're made of fire or rotting flesh, you can't be so easily distracted by a well-turned ankle..?

Now, I do not imply that Science Fiction as a genre doesn't have some kinks to work out. But it is a much more mature genre in terms of exploiting the sexual frustrations of its devotees. So the folks on Star Trek still wear spandex, but it at least covers everything, and the men aren't walking around in armor while the women wear strategically-placed napkins. Except for the Klingons, and those are really leather napkins, which everyone knows will turn a swordstroke better than paper ones.