If Worf Were My Boyfriend

Michael Dorn’s Worf is back in season 3 of Star Trek: Picard, working with his former crewmates to stop the Borg from taking over Starfleet. Our favorite Klingon is older, wiser, and, in his own words, “working on himself.”

And damn it, my crush on him is back in full force.

’90s era trekkies, you can’t tell me you didn’t have the hots for this guy. He’s so tough and regal! So brooding! He talks like an SAT study guide and seems to have never heard of a contraction! Somehow, he’s even sexier now that he has gray hair.

As a teenager during the Star Trek: The Next Generation era, I never got to the point of actually writing fan fiction, but you better believe I came up with plenty of self-insert scenarios in my head. Now that I’m in my 40s, they’re all flooding back. Look at all this amazing stuff that would happen if Worf were my boyfriend!

If Worf were my boyfriend, I’d come home to find our kitchen full of chamomile tea and prune juice. I’d get him some Rokeg blood pie as a treat—I wouldn’t try to make it myself, since I could never do justice to his adopted mom’s recipe—but he’d demure, telling me he was watching his cholesterol. Later that night, I’d catch him sneaking some anyway.

If Worf were my boyfriend, he’d try to teach me how to use the bat’leth, traditional weapon of Klingon warriors. On the day that I finally got through one of the forms without cutting myself, he would reward me with a nod and a firm “Well done.” I would know that meant he was over the moon.

If Worf were my boyfriend, he’d tell me about that time on the Enterprise when he kept skipping through different dimensions, experiencing countless realities that showed him all the different lives he might have led. I would pretend not to believe any of it happened, so that he’d have to reiterate the best parts a million times.

If Worf were my boyfriend, his family would visit and his parents would tell me embarrassing stories about his childhood on Earth. Later, I would needle him about it until he threatened to disembowel me. That would be our love language, you see.

If Worf were my boyfriend, I would leave for ten minutes to grab a coffee, and when I got back he’d say, “I have counted the days since I last saw you. Like waves in the ocean, constant and unending.” Meanwhile, my spouse would look on, appalled. I apparently have a spouse in this scenario.

Or, if Worf were my boyfriend, we might genuinely go awhile without seeing each other, what with him having all his space adventures. When we finally saw each other again, I’d throw myself around him in a hug. He’d make some clipped remark about personal space. “You mean you don’t want me to … klingon you?” I’d say. I’d never see it with my own eyes, but one quick jerk of his diaphragm would tell me that I’d just gotten that rare jewel of a laugh out of him. He would not, however, return the hug.

Sigh. A girl can dream, right?

Stay tuned for the next 50 articles in my series on how great Worf is, including “If Worf Were My Roommate,” “If Worf Were My Captain,” “If Worf Were My Dad,” “If Worf Were My Daddy,” “If Worf Were My Cinnamon Roll,” and “If Worf Were My Babygirl.”

(featured image: Paramount+)