Compromise can backfire. Sometimes, half your friends want to search tiki bars for chlamydia, and the rest want to explore the original world of Upper Earth. Pick one. Half-measures lead to Book of Erotic Fantasy, which ends your game. For reasons I didn’t expect.
The expected reasons pop up too. We’ve seen sexual boredom warp duller niches than D&D. Idle hands have nothing on industrious ones. Show ten people Sauron, and two say “would.” Book of Erotic Fantasy covers logistics for fighting, fucking, or dick-fighting the Dark Lord, while Gandalf babbles about some ring.
And then it gets going.
“Valar Project” made this, and then evaporated. They are very not Wizards of the Coast, and extremely not Hasbro. Wizards built trust by letting third parties publish whatever the fuck they wanted. It worked, because people really do pay for the Nike Swish.
Later, corporate vampires napalmed Eden. A bit like Cracked and Overwatch and news and parody news and crowdfunding and swiping and food and water and shelter and medicine and the Amazon and winter. But let’s remember Wizards as it lived.
Book of Erotic Fantasy is the tenth strangest unofficial tie-in, and third funniest.
Third edition D&D is the perfect mix of intuitive and very not to amplify fixations. And requires tight-knit social groups, giving Book of Erotic Fantasy a non-zero chance of leaving you single, friendless, or unemployed. Or even the triple crown, the Linehan.
The Book of Erotic Fantasy dodges a few obvious disasters, and walks headfirst into many more. But the surprise is more mundane. Better for human life, and much worse for sales. That spread offers a structure I’m way too tangent-prone to pass on. Much like the teens too lonely to pass on that cover. Or the adults. The authors scried the future, and saw VTuber shrines.
Let’s split this into avoided doom, obvious doom, and surprise doom.
The opening has a whiff of fear, which threw me off. For once, the authors suspect they’re tap-dancing in a minefield. They sprint to get ahead of trouble, which rarely works out in a minefield. Starting with a simple, sane rule:
That’s gamer patois. In English, it means “This shit’s on you. Good luck, and keep this from Tim. You know how he gets. And Dave, he’s a latent incel. And Joan, she’ll never talk to you again. And Ryan–”
It trickles into the legalese. The disclaimer says:
Now that’s a proper life-annihilation warning. With just the right amount of “abandon all wallet condoms, all ye who enter here.” And legal cover for any Linehanning.
Blaming my immaturity? Sharp. I only own this because I’m less mature than Drake’s DMs. Valar Project had their shields up before I wrote a word. However:
I only take half-responsibility.
Quarter-responsibility.
Zero re–nah, half. I’ve got a high school brain. Skip academia if you ever want to grow past class clown. Or stay, and learn to shoot less embarrassing photos.
The art would, with zero text, fuel 2000 words of punchlines. This is the Photoshop-demo gold technocrats want to steal from us. But in the tug-of-war between porn and encyclopedia, encyclopedia won. Hard. The struggle still makes both weirder. Take this fuck-snake species description, which starts out horny:
And spins out into Imperial Geographic:
Important data. In practice, playing a fucksnake mostly meanssss sssspeaking like thissss. But now you can add flavor with Nick Cannon parenting.
The biggest bullet Valar tries to Matrix-dodge: not everyone thinks consent is sexy/real. Here’s where the tone and content divorce. For a minute, they take a “there are no frats in Ba Sing Se” approach.
Fair enough. There’s also a god of noncon, that grants mind control spells. Or, for secular sex pests, a “Dominator” class with minimal interest in play-party rules. Among other bits of premium weirdness, like the ability to cast “Spermjack.”
A classic “have your cake and fuck it too” problem. Though I can relate to tunnel vision. I thought “the spermjack spell is too wordy” before “cut the spermjack spell.”
It’s a civil war. The erotica wants everyone’s kink covered, and the encyclopedia wants footnotes. That’s why the authors come off best when they say “it’s on you.”
I think there’s one more disclaimer:
Now I get it.
Life’s looking up. Most Tuesdays are willful attacks on humanity. The Book of Erotic Fantasy is closer to face-planting a ski jump. I get the goal, it’d be neat if they landed, and it’d be worse if I tried. The results are still hilarious. This isn’t the worst version of this idea, just the dumbest. Case in point:
How do spreadsheets change sex? There’s a Fuckability stat.
Yes, D&D already had stats for charm, triceps, experience, flexibility, endurance, and avoiding dating coaches. But Valar Project added a separate Fuckability stat. I see the logic: D&D’s always been too simple. A seventh stat throws number theory PhDs a bone.
Have some homework:
Sorry, I own a misprint. It says “Appearance.” That’s wrong. It’s Fuckability. In lore, tone, and gameplay, only Fuckability fits. Old editions had “Comeliness,” and suits got rid of it. Because it means Fuckability.
There are Fuckability items.
Fuckability gods.
Fuckability abilities.
They ramble a bit.
Chapter Three’s dedicated to Fuckability classes. It shoots early by putting the funniest first. The Imagist is a hotness-powered wizard, and bends reality to reshape nearby deltoids. I can’t decide if I’ll never touch it, or never play anything else again.
Yeah, this is my limit. It’s too stupid to torment my brother with.
Maybe later.
Vogue magic includes buffs, general brain-warping, and crazy shit like (but not including, don’t DM me) fiendish seed. I thought they’d have illusions, because I’m dense. Imagists demand authentic Fuckability. A master of the Hot Arts does not deal in filters.
Do databases get you going? Here’s 1/12th of the monster Fuckability appendix.
Nerd fact: a ten in any stat is an “average adult.” Making air elementals (10), frost giants (10), and dogs (10) as fuckable as your neighbor. Earth elementals (8) are two points less hot than air elementals (10), because Hollywood devalues clay bodies. Similarly, a copper dragon (18) is exactly one point more fuckable than a brass dragon (17), while black dragons (8) are the incels of wyrmkind.
And that’s just mortals. Eye contact with elite angels (27) gives you a new fetish, while Lemures, Hell’s interns (1), slack on lust. Succubi (21) keep the brand strong, while Satyrs (12) embarrass an entire mythos. Mummies (3) aren’t doing any better, so I’ve ditched my romance pitch. The world isn’t ready for Embalmed Hearts.
High fuckability has consequences: magic crabs. Chapter 2 stars my favorite spreadsheet anywhere: sixteen magical STIs. The third worst part of Sex & Stuttering is lack of latex. The second is listening to your DM describe the size, color, and severity of your dick beetles.
Christ. Well, healing magic’s easy to find, so these aren’t too–
Magic-resistant gonorrhea. Clearly absent in Baldur’s Gate 3, or piles of dead would reach the sky.
In fantasy, you can do anything. Ride unicorns. Raise the dead. Watch your genitals rot after courting the wrong dragon. Or trap unwary sex tourists with your stun-dick:
After promoting sex at the table, this book makes it riskier than provoking giants or playing a Bard. Forget shaftrot; players cling to fake money like they shred real money. It’s easier to be dead than broke, much like real life.
Metaphors terrify me, so vampirism as an STI sounds great. Less thinking, more breathing manually. Let’s keep going. How about dragons running hedge funds? Or the X-Men taking on the Klan? The next time Rodan acts up, Godzilla should punt a nuke.
Edge is fun, but I suspect Mummy Rot’s photo wouldn’t improve your morning. It’s a topless Roger Ailes blonde, rotting down the left side. Think Playzombie cover model. It would kill your breakfast, or send you to Google Images.
That said, magic STIs have nothing on STI magic. Jilted wizards can cast this anytime:
A spell that makes you buy Twitter. Inventive.
I believe in people. But dead dick doesn’t speed up murder, so it’ll never see combat or sane roleplay. Impotency exists to fuck with other players. This gun only fires backwards, and keeping it in the house makes you a statistic.
You might get more out of infestation, which summons combat dick beetles. And has art straight from Pandora’s Box. Slam ads for Victoria’s Secret and a bug zapper together, and you’ve got the idea. I’ll forgive living with that image, because you can turn anyone into damn it I blew the Twitter joke already.
Perfection itself. Use this with impotency for the dumbest combo in RPG history.
Now, let’s flip the question. How does sex change spreadsheets?
All that shit before? Fine.
The Book of Erotic Fantasy tries topics that misguided, lonely, or red-hot groups trip into anyway. The photography needs…reconsidering, but some people only enjoy porn produced at a loss.
The problem with this fuck-manual? It’s OP. Sexual tension immediately gives way to history’s horniest powergaming. The fetish in play isn’t submission, puffy tails, elf ears, or splitting rent. It’s victory. Imagine Conan the Barbarian, except just Conan. He got around.
Well, half of it’s broken. The other half’s useless. Still, before you zip up, you’ll find something game-breaking. Halfway through, if you’re a fast reader or death grip. Excalibur is made of silicone.
Remember Fuckability? God-stat. Forget dexterity, wealth, or being the DM’s little brother. Strap on the Codpiece of Comeliness, roll an Imagist, and shit on mages wasting their lives reading.
At low levels? Cast Disrobe for hi-larious hijinks. It just does what it says. Or, if there’s a hint, a whiff, an atom of tryhard in you, jizzes enemy armor off. By the time jizz-proof gear shows up, you’ll be warping reality with kegels.
Your campaign’s about fucking now. Because all the monsters are dead.
Low stats? Dislike playing the world’s strongest pervert? Fair, fuckability spreads points thin. Try Mormon steroids. Purity culture is The Book of Erotic Fantasy’s Cobra Kai.
Chaste Life is the first kata of Baptist Kenpo. Some tragic innocent thought throwing Satanic Panic types a bone would make life easier. From here, you can take classes and spells dedicated to telling Zeus “not tonight.”
Or play a Harem Protector, and turn sexual frustration into stabbing power and immunity to brain magic. Granted, there’s a catch:
Your warrior can’t fuck? Adapt. Carve a dragonbone prosthetic. Volcellus, the Ultimate Eunuch, can turn anything on four legs into ground beef on no legs. I could babble about real eunuchs fucking all the time, and taking over an empire or two on the way. But we can rewrite history from the throne.
Just kidding. Harem Protector’s for suckers. It’s virgin paladin or bust.
Note the magic horse. It teleports, takes less damage, and teleports. That horse, for lack of a better term, fucks.
Remember Rogue? She could fly and punch holes through countries, and all she lost was mediocre sex with a con artist? That’s the Divine Celibate. Give up stilted sexual roleplay with four other nerds, and you get a teleporting unicorn.
Plus immunity to bang magic, and other niche features that matter less than your teleporting unicorn. For all that sex offers physically, emotionally, and comedically…give me the unicorn. No act of love or lust is better than a teleporting unicorn. I’m sure never starting a family or courting a Rockette sucks, but I could cope with my teleporting unicorn. This book crushes Eric Ludy’s lifelong slut-shaming career with one horse.
Even moderate fuckers are playtest-free. Take this class:
The quote’s a head-fake. Spellshapers have nothing to do with obsessing over/despising sex, or even seducing a spellbook. They’re just normal wizards with twice the juice and no taste in metaphors. And wizards were already the best class, even after this added the Superfriends-with-benefits.
So there’s one consistent kink: dildo-slapping Odin. Stealing lube from the gods. Making Yahweh cut the square commandments. I misjudged this book’s authors and audience. Clearly, it’s for players whose fetish is winning. People that stiffen every time Shohei winds a pitch.
I could go on. Game mechanics tell their own story. The Book of Erotic Fantasy makes Mormon missionaries and ex-Mormon throuples apex predators. Only desert dicks and dessert-covered dicks survive. Plenty of players have fucked dragons. The Book of Erotic Fantasy asks if you’ve fucked one to death.
My diagnosis: this doesn’t need D&D. Crunch and sex go together like skydiving and sex. Valar’s survivors should forget the slings of clowns like myself, split Fuckability into four-ish balanced stats (abs/ego/money/dexterity/listening), and make a better, dumber, simpler wizard sex game.
It still has some lessons for us:
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Haught Phart, the himbo who put all his points into APP and used INT and WIS as dump stats.