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“Oh, God, yes! Oh, right there, love. Harder. Oh, God, you’re so good…”

Jim and Spock were on shore leave on Earth. They had their own cabin in a resort in the Rockies, next door to the one Bones was occupying but far enough away to be private, and Jim was taking advantage of said privacy to vocalize long and loudly in bed.



“Jim, did you pack the lube?”

Jim tried to focus, not an easy task with Spock’s hand wrapped around his….well, never mind. “I thought so. Isn’t it in the shaving kit?”

Spock’s clever fingers (only Jim knew just how clever they were) riffled through the bag on the nightstand. “It is not here.”

“Oh, Hell.” Jim was good and pissed at himself. “Oh. Wait a second.” Jim scampered out of bed (not an easy maneuver with a battle-ready erection) and into the small kitchenette that was part of the cabin. Jim loved to cook and seldom had the chance in space, so he’d brought plenty of groceries along in order to whip up a few of his favorites. He returned to bed with a small can in his hand.

“Here. We can use this.”

Spock concurred. Crisis averted.


The next morning, as previously agreed, the two of them met McCoy for breakfast in the main lodge. Full tray in hand, Spock sat down across from Jim and next to the doctor.

McCoy sniffed. “I can’t figure it out.”

“What?” Spock asked.

McCoy sniffed again and looked at Spock in total bewilderment. “Spock, why do you smell like my grandma’s fried chicken?”

Always honest, Spock explained. Jim laughed until he cried. McCoy fled, resolving never to eat fried chicken (or eat breakfast with those two on shore leave) again.


Classic products—like Crisco—never go off the market.

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