Pissing off Lt. Walker

 

 

On some days, it isn’t even worth my time getting out of my bunk.

I can sense something will go wrong.

But when nature calls, you got to go.

All right, so maybe I should put my pants on since the john is a few doors down the corridor from mind.

But this seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through in zero gravity when all I need to do is pee.

To tell you the truth, I’m used to traveling on Rim shops – those all male little flits where you spend the whole trip naked and nobody cares.

Here on a co-sex corporate ship, everything is tied up in regulation where a man can’t even breathe too hard without getting written up and fined – if a man is unlucky enough to run into an officer at the time.

Which is exactly what happens now.

And worse, I run into Lt. Walker, perhaps the stiffest bitch in the whole corporate navy, so stiff in fact, a lot of people call her “Mrs. Jack Frost” behind her back, and make jokes about what kind of fool might want to marry her.

At first, she doesn’t see me and then sees more of me than she likes, yelling my name as if I have a cosmic billboard on my back broadcasting it from three decks down as I run.

Then, as if she had rockets on her shoes, she pops up in front of me and demands to know just what I think I’m doing, and is clearly unimpressed when I moan and groan about needing to relieve myself in the head.

Yet it’s not my needing to pee that’s concerning me.

For all the frost Lt. Walker wears, she also has a body any space sailor would kill for, and just at that moment, I start to react.

Maybe it’s just how snug her uniform looks and how I haven’t had shore leave in months.

I find myself saluting her without the benefit of using my hands.

She’s as stiff as I am, only with scorn and a sense of duty I don’t have.

I guess maybe she gets more than her uniforms starched.

She scolds me for failing to address her as my superior officer, and informs me that I am in violation of the ship’s dress code./

Just what she is doing prowling the men’s quarters at this time of space night when any respectable woman is back in her own bunk asleep, she doesn’t say.

I refrain from pointing out that if she’d stayed where she belongs I could have been to the head for my pee and back to my bunk without any bother.

She asks me where my pants are.

I tell her on the gravity hook next to my bunk, and try to explain how long it takes to dress in zero gravity and how much I needed to pee.

But she shows no sympathy and says she’ll write me up in the morning, then tells me “that is all.”

I think her, turn and head towards the head, only to hear her shout again.

What is wrong with me, she wants to know.

Didn’t I hear what she says.

But I have to pee, I tell her.

She says I should dress first and that she intends to wait on that spot until I do.

I sigh, head back to my bunk, by which time everybody is up including a bunch of co-eds, all of whom are hooting at me as I pass.

I would piss on them except nobody knows where it might end up in zero gravity, even on the still glaring Lt. Walker, giving new meaning to the concept of pissing her off.