Gigi Sinclair

"No?" Jonathan Archer smiled at his best friend, chief engineer, and prospective away-team partner.

"That's right, captain. No."

"May I ask why?"

"Because every time I leave this ship, something really crappy happens to me. It's a joke. Have you seen what someone wrote beside that picture of me and Zokal in the mess hall?" Jon shook his head innocently, although he knew of the caption, 'Trip: "Hey, Zokal, you're the best thing that ever happened to me on an away mission". He had, in fact, written it himself.

"And now you want me to spend five days with you in a tent on some beach."

"It's a reconnaissance mission, Trip."

"Well, in that case, you don't have to bother, cause if I'm goin', I can tell you exactly what you're going to find. Either," he held up a finger, "The ship's going to break down, leaving us stranded on a blistering hot planet with one pissed-off, ugly alien who just happens to challenge our moral values by belonging to some weird species that can't transport or some shit that's never really fully explained.

"Or," he held up another finger. "The ship's going to break down before we even get there and we'll end up nearly freezing to death. To pass the time, we'll decide to break every rule in the Survival manual, including getting drunk out of our minds, which, as you know, is the perfect state to be in when you're in a life-threatening situation. Or maybe we're going to end up running for our lives in a swamp, accompanied by some woman who looks real good but has the personality of a shih tzu and is about as retiring as Zsa Zsa Gabor.

"Or, we'll end up on another blistering hot planet, get coerced into playing some freaky football game, and nearly die of dehydration. Of course, we could always be lucky enough to find a bar for a little R and R, where, naturally, we'll get mugged and tied up by a couple of gun-wielding transvestites. And, if we do, through the direct intervention of some extraordinarily generous deity, meet an actual, decent female, I'm gonna come back with a hankering for pickles and an urge to redo my quarters in pink teddy bears.

So, captain, if you're asking me to go on another away mission, I have only one thing to tell you, and that is…" Jon leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Trip's. Running one hand over his back, the other nestled comfortably on the engineer's backside. After a good two minutes, Jon withdrew his tongue and leaned back to look at Trip who continued, without pausing for breath: "What time's the shuttle leaving?"

Business Lunch

Dear Penthouse,

It's every guy's dream to screw his boss—well, I'm doing it literally! It's hard to choose just one fabulous time to tell you about, but, since otherwise this would be the length of a Klingon peace treaty, so I'll just stick to my favourite.

My boss, Jim Asher, was in his office. We were visiting some planet (yes, I work on a spaceship, but don't worry, I'm not Will Robinson). Anyway, the people there have a fear of militaristic organizations or something like that (nothing's ever really explained around here, at least not to me), so Jim was wearing a three-piece suit I didn't even know he had with him, complete with cufflinks and a gold watch. He called me into his office, looked me up and down in a way I really didn't mind, and said:

"Mr. Taylor, I'm afraid this report is unacceptable."

"Oh, really?" Now, I like our uniforms. They show off a hell of a lot more than they cover up, but that's OK, since I've got a hell of a lot worth showing off. Still, I lowered my eyes and thought, just to complement him, that I should have been wearing a nice skirt set and pearls. Not that I'm into that sort of thing, of course. Although, if you ask my friend M.R., he might just tell you what really went on during that lost weekend of ours. All I'm saying is, we did get mugged, but they weren't the ones wearing the dresses.

Anyway, I looked at Jim and asked:

"What's wrong with it, sir?"

"The spelling's atrocious. It's like it was written by a third-grader."

"Well, I can assure you, Mr. Asher, I'm not third-grade at anything but spelling. My other talents are…" I winked at him. "First-rate." Jim raised one of his eyebrows.

"Really, Mr. Taylor?"

"Would you care for a demonstration?" I went over and straddled his lap. I could feel he was already hard under his seersucker pants. I could also feel that, probably in deference to those people who were scared of the military, he wasn't wearing any part of his uniform, not even the regulation briefs. I undid his fly, just to make sure. Of course, I was right.

"Mr. Taylor!" Jim gasped like he'd just smoked a dozen Havanas. "Now I remember why I gave you this job."

"Yes," I agreed with him. "It's because I'm so good at taking dic…tation." I slid off his lap, taking his pants with me.

Now, there's something about an executive cock, as my friend Yoshi in the typing pool could tell you. Jim's is big, all right, more of a stogie than a cigarillo, and much better tasting. I positioned myself under his desk so he could look over the report while I went about my business. I'm just that kind of guy. And it turned out to be really convenient, because a couple of seconds later, the door opened and in came our very own executive vice-president, Polly.

I pulled Jim's chair right up to the desk, so she couldn't see that he was, shall we say, a little informally dressed, even for Casual Friday. That also gave me an excellent close-up view of Jim's chief asset. And, although I'd thought they were holding firm, it turned out that stocks were definitely on the rise. There was only one thing to do about that, so I steeled myself to swallow the losses. It was certainly a bull market.

Jim liked that, all right. He grunted, loudly, and I heard Polly say:

"Are you all right, sir?" I tried not to laugh. She's got a hell of a way to go if she hopes to rival me in the sucking up department. And I'm sure her brown-nosing leaves something to be desired.

"Fine, Polly. Just a little heartburn, that's all."

"Would you like me…"

"No, I've got some Alka-Seltzer here. Damned if I'm not going to end up with an ulcer after all." Jim grunted again, and I knew he was close. He knew it, too, because he said, suddenly:

"I'll need those figures on Suliban Incorporated before the end of the day, Polly," and Polly, efficient as always, went off to get them. She'd barely closed the door when a wholesale liquidation occurred and we both went into a slump.

"Jesus, Chuck." I crawled out from under the desk and dried Mr. Asher off with a handy souvenir golf towel from the Risa Country Club. I didn't bother cleaning up myself. I had the feeling I'd want to keep that uniform as a souvenir. "If you're that good at that, how come you can't type worth a damn?" I smiled at him.

"It's because there's no spellcheck on the PADDs. I'm an excellent typist. In fact," I gave him a wink. "One day, I'll show you just what I can do with my fingers."

And that, Penthouse, is a story for another issue.

Your devoted reader,

Chuck Taylor