Being Darth Vader’s lover must suck. If just kinda fooling around, you’re left choosing between a robotic-hand-job or some kind of weird, heavy-breathing helmet-job. And if you get more serious, you just know he’s probably into that force-choking thing in the bedroom.
And it’s probably going to all go down in that strange sphere-thing he (presumably) sleeps in, and that’s gonna be cold, sterile and probably smell a little of his weird suit, which I always imagine (for no good reason) smells kinda like sweaty lemonade. There’s always a chance that a minion will open up his weird, hissing sphere-room too, you know, mid-helmet-job, and that poor bastard is almost certainly going to be force-choked, and not in a sexy way. Unless, oh God, it somehow starts turning into a sexy way, you know, like those fantasies where your girlfriend’s hot friend walks in half-way and she’s kinda into it, only with this it’s a weird, Nazi-looking guy with a British accent and Darth Vader is ‘downstairs’ trying to make sure your junk doesn’t get caught in his helmet grill because, wow, awkward.
No, siree, I would not want to sleep with Darth Vader.
And he insists on calling you Padme.