Blue Shirt Blues Revisited (or how I shot into space and never looked back)

When I make love I am a captain piloting the USS Lollipop filled with happy tourists to their 3 week vacation in my dull-headed rocket of love.

Along the way the passengers marvel at the vastness of space and the sights of my living room as we approach the space dock.

A large intercom announces our arrival to the space station and she prepares for the arrival.

Sometimes I try to land in the wrong port. I prepare to dock in the rear of the station and the groans and creaks and the occasional warning shot suggest that I should approach the front bay. Always the front. Sometimes even good captains forget every time.

The passengers wonder at the delay and are in such a mood for getting off. Let me go, says one young lad and I tell him to please take his seat. Please take your seat or I'll have to turn this ship around and no one wants that. Not me, not the space port and especially not me.

The docking takes only a matter of minutes and all the passengers struggle to get out first. It's a mad race for the doors to explore this wonderful new world. I try to tell them to remain seated until the rocking of the docking stops but they don't listen. Ah, youth. Sometimes I think it's the rock of the dock that pushes them on.

When every last passenger has disembarked I pilot home. Sure, I'm tired. Piloting a star cruiser this big takes a lot of energy. But in a few minutes I'm ready for another trip.

I radio the docking station, "More for drop off, over."

That's when my wife tells me to take off my fucking captain Kirk shirt for the week.

"Take that stupid shirt off, Kirk. We've had our weekly tussle."

That stings.

I'm Picard. Not Kirk. She can really hurt me sometimes, you know? I'm sure she doesn't mean to, but ... sometimes I cry.