NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

Silver Surfer #2:
Crying Out Loud
By theGreatxIam

NOTE: They used to talk about Stagedoor Johnnies, the men who hung around theaters with flowers and candy for the showgirls. Then women and girls got liberated and got horny, and they called the starstruck ones groupies.

But there are some of us who call ourselves by another name. We are drawn to a special class of classy ladies, to those mature beauties who appreciate a man who appreciates a vintage affair. We call ourselves the silver surfers. And this is one of our stories.

Jonathan R., Atlanta

Let's get the stereotypes out of the way first, shall we? I am a male flight attendant. I like to cook. I like show tunes. But I am not gay, OK?

I like show tunes because I love the brassy, sassy women who sing them. I'm a flight attendant because how many other ways is a guy with no special talent going to get to see the world and all those beautiful stars who live in it? And I like to cook because -- well, I just like to cook. Get over it.

Being a flight attendant is perfect for me. I even volunteer for the long flights -- oh, the mischief you can get into at 3 in the morning somewhere over Nebraska. Even the married stars get a little wild after a few martinis at altitude.

Some of them don't even need the martinis. Take a flight last August.

I was assigned to economy class and I was back there herding the cattle into their seats when Jolene tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to switch with her and take the first-class cabin. She looked frazzled; when I asked her about the swap, she said a VIP up there had something against female flight attendants and insisted that only a man would do.

Of course, first class is a treat any time, but this sounded absolutely scrumptious. VIP plus female plus unreasonable demands added up to a diva, and they're my favorite kind.

As I worked my way through the stream of passengers like a salmon going up river to spawn (an apt metaphor, considering later events), I heard someone complaining loudly.

"I said I wanted a man. Are you a man? I don't think so. What difference does it make why? I have a bad history with you female attendants, OK? Now get somebody with a crotch rocket up here! Now!"

I recognized the voice as I was stepping up behind her, and a frisson of joy raced through my bones, not to mention other parts. I composed my face into a less lecherous smile and stepped forward.

"Good evening, Mrs. Gifford. May I be of assistance?"

"Call me Kathie Lee," she said, and we were best pals immediately.

She was shorter than I'd expected, and once she'd gotten me and a glass of white wine, her belligerence faded and she seemed to shrink into the leather seat. Even so, you couldn't miss her. She was in her full post-Regis saint-turned-sinner regalia. Her bright red pullover sweater fit like a coating of shellac and its V-neck plunged lower than the Dow, leaving no doubt that the superstructure was all Kathie Lee with no artificial ingredients. A black leather skirt ended halfway down her thighs, but lest anyone be disappointed a slit on the side revealed that her sheer black nylons were not practical pantyhose but stockings held in place by black lace garters. It was such an awe-inspiring panoply of trampiness that you might almost miss the four-inch red fuck-me Pradas.

I had always assumed the abrupt change from America's pious sweetheart to the country's slutty little sexpot was a calculated career move, but after that night I'm not so sure. Kathie Lee was by herself in the front row and as the few other passengers in first class fell asleep, she remained wide awake and eager, even desperate, to talk.

Most of the time, when I talk with passengers, they want to know what my job is like, where I've flown, where I live. None of that came up during my chat with Kathie Lee. Oh, she asked me questions, all right: Did I see her latest made-for-TV movie? Her guest shot on "Drew Carey?" Had I ever heard her new album? Did I want a copy? (She had two dozen in her carry-on.)

But don't think she was being self-centered. She's Kathie Lee, after all. What more interesting topic of conversation could there be?

As the flight wore on, though, our chat drifted to the sadder parts of her life. I carefully avoided mention of Mr. Gifford; from her little temper tantrum at the start of the flight, it was obvious that wound was still fresh, no matter what she told the press. But just a mention of dear Cody and darling Cassidy made her sad. Her career was so hectic, she said, that she hardly had time for them anymore. Even bringing up Regis's name brought tears to her eyes. She really seemed to miss the show. And, she said, it was a shame that they'd had such trouble finding a new co-host and had to settle for that Kelly person.

But she positively broke down in sobs when I simply glanced at my watch and noted that it was past midnight. Not since Cinderella had to run from her fella had I heard of anyone taking 12:01 so hard.

Kathie Lee eventually explained, in a quavering voice, that it wasn't the time. It was the date.

"It's August 16," she choked out. "Today is my b-birthday." She paused dramatically. "And I'm... I'm... f... f... forty-nine!" Giant tears rolled down her cheeks, and her black mascara came off in streaks.

It was like my very own Lifetime movie. As she sobbed, her head fell onto my shoulders. I held her lightly and murmured vaguely comforting phrases.

Kathie Lee kept it up for several minutes, bawling her way through a litany of her life's woes, from being cheated out of beauty contests to problems with her first husband all the way to being unjustly criticized for that unfortunate sweatshop incident and Frank's infidelity. It was an impressive list.

But her mascara was beginning to stain my uniform, so I gently levered her upright again and maneuvered her out of her seat and toward the lavatory to clean up...Halfway there, she stopped and turned back toward me. The rest of the crew was in the coach section and the other first-class passengers were sound asleep, so I was an audience of one as she whispered in a classic sotto voce:

"Forty-nine! And I've never done so many things I wanted. Never had my own TV show -- I could have been bigger than Oprah! Never had my own Broadway show -- just a part-time fill-in for a washed-up hag like Carol Burnett. Never made the top of the charts -- all those critics are so mean! And now I'll never have one. It's a young girl's world and I'm over the hill!"

I knew a cue when I heard one. "No, no, don't say that," I told her. "You're still in your prime! Look at you. You've got the body of a 20-year-old!" I turned her toward the lav again. "You can do anything you want. You're Kathie Lee, for heaven's sake." Gently but firmly, I pushed open the folding door and steered her inside. "You go, girl."

The door shut. The "occupied" sign flicked on. But a second later, it flicked off and the door opened.

I peered in. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Kathie Lee said. "No. I just realized you're right. It's not too late. I can do all those things I haven't gotten to. I'm Kathie Lee!"

I nodded. "That's right. You are. Now why don't you..."

Kathie Lee put a finger across my lips to shush me.

"Do you know one of those things I've never done?"

I shook my head.

She smiled broadly. Then, taking me off-guard, she grabbed my arm and yanked me inside the lavatory. As she reached around me to close the door with one hand, the other clutched my crotch. "I've never joined the Mile-High Club."

Well, you don't have to ask me twice. At least not if you're Kathie Lee Gifford. I immediately pulled off my jacket and started unbuttoning my shirt. Instead of taking off her clothes, Kathie Lee sat down on the toilet cover and reached for my zipper. In less time than you can say "Regis Philbin," I was naked, all my clothes strewn around the tiny floor. My cock was already bobbing proudly erect when Kathie Lee took it in her well-manicured fingers. Her bright red fingernails traced its length as she gently blew on its tip. Holding it in both hands, she licked it like a lollipop, up and down, swirling around.

"So this is what I've been denying myself," she said before plunging back into her licking. "I must have been crazy!" She started kissing my prick all over, leaving bright red lipstick prints.

I started to twist my fingers into her hair, but she pulled away. "I just spent $500 for this hairdo, mister. Hands off!"

I held my hands up, palms out. "All right," she said with a nod, and went back to kissing my dick.

When she planted a big, wet kiss smack on the tip of my cock, I felt a little weak in the knees and had to lean back against the door. Kathie Lee put a few more smackeroos on my cock before opening her lips slightly and swallowing the bulbous head.

"Beautiful," I said. She looked up at me with doe eyes as she inched me into her. She got me about halfway in and started stroking me in and out as her hands pumped the rest of my rod. On every out stroke I could see my cock being painted redder and redder as her lipstick smeared from her tightly pursed mouth. Her cheeks hollowed as she applied suction. I gathered this wasn't her first blowjob.

She sucked me, then slid off and licked me, chewed me up and down like an ear of corn.

"Oh, Kathie Lee! Do it, girl!" I whispered encouragement. "Suck that dick, Kathie Lee. That's it! You're the best!"

She swallowed me whole again. This time she started out slowly, putting almost my entire shaft inside her mouth.

"Oh, god, yes, Kathie Lee! What a mouth!"

Then she began to pick up speed. Her mouth flew up and down my shaft, faster and faster.

"That's it! That's it! Take it all! Take it!"

Finally I couldn't hold back any longer.

"Here it comes, Kathie Lee! I'm gonna fill that hot mouth of yours! Get ready. Get ready. Get... Aaaaauuggghhhh!"

Cum shot out of my cock like it was a cannon. Kathie Lee swallowed the first load and then pulled back, letting the rest of my jism splatter over her nose and mouth and cheeks.

With a dainty finger she scooped up the goopy white stuff. Then she licked the finger clean. That was all it took to get me hard as a rock again.

Kathie Lee purred in appreciation of that feat as she peeled off her clothes, folding and stacking them neatly on the tiny shelf.

Her breasts were every bit as good as I'd imagined them after all those years of seeing her braless on "Live." Big melons -- not as perky as they might have been, true, but still an impressive feat of engineering. I reached out to caress them. They were slightly spongy, but deliciously warm. Kathie Lee ignored my hands and continued undressing until she was down to nothing but her black stockings, garter belt and shoes.

We maneuvered around in the delightfully cramped space, rubbing against each other in many interesting spots before I ended up sitting on the toilet seat. Kathie Lee tried to sit facing me, but her knees had nowhere to go. She turned around and backed up on top of my crotch. I held my cock steady as she squatted down. It was a surprisingly tight fit for a woman with two kids -- not quite the tightest I've ever known, but Kathie Lee's cunt was a very enjoyable burrow for my dick.

After we jostled around a trifle to find the least awkward position, she settled in. I was able to wrap my arms around her and grab her tits in both hands as she fucked my cock in a smooth, steady rhythm.

"Oh, yeah, baby," she said in affected voice I gathered was supposed to resemble some movie character's, though the resemblance escaped me. "Shag me, baby!" she said, though I was pretty much pinned to the plastic seat and it was Kathie Lee who was doing all the shagging.

And doing it well. She varied from wild pumping that sent her hair flying to long, slow strokes with her cunt muscles so tightly clenched that it felt as if I could count one by one as individual nerve endings were touched. From time to time she'd stop with her pussy fully impaled on my rod, and I would hold her even closer to me and plant soft kisses along her shoulder and neck. The third time I did that and ended with my tongue sliding into her right ear she launched into a shrieking orgasm, banging back against me so violently I almost got knocked out by the metal wall before her surges subsided.

I was still hard. When Kathie Lee slid off me and got to her knees to pick up her clothes, which had tumbled to the floor as we had jockeyed into position before, I quickly got behind her. Grabbing hold of her hips, I entered her doggie style.

"Hey, what the..." she started to squeal, but then she got the idea and we started moving together. I had much more freedom to move now and corkscrewed my cock into her, trying to reach every last bit of her cunt. Meantime I slipped a hand around her waist and dipped a finger into her, twiddling her clit.

When she shouted then there was no fake accent; it was all Kathie Lee. "Fuck me, baby. Yeah, yeah, ram that poker in there. Ooooh, yeah. Let me feel it!"

Hearing that kind of talk out of Kathie Lee's ruby lips totally jazzed me. I picked up the pace, slamming my hard cock into her. Our fucking got so furious that we actually created some suction when her cunt lips dragged at my retreating prick, and the frenzy of my entering strokes made loud schlorping noises. Kathie Lee repeated her "Fuck me!" cries so fast they turned into a sexual mantra: "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuckme fuckme fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme!"

I could feel my cock swelling even more. I pulled out so only the tip was barely touching her hot, wet pussy lips.

"Don't stop," she begged.

"Tell me what you want," I teased.

"I want your cock," Kathie Lee gasped.

"Like this?" I slid in a bit, stopping just as the bulbous head popped into her tunnel.

"Yes, yes!" She started to hump back at me with abandon.

I pulled out again.

"Damn you! Put that fucker in me!"

"Oh, Kathie Lee. Ask me nicely."

"Please put that fucker in me!"

"Now, you can do better than..."

"Shut up and fuck me! Slam that cock into me, you fucking bastard! I want you to pump my goddamn cunt full of cum. Fuck me, you asshole!"

Even if her cursing hadn't driven me crazy I was already too close myself to back out. I shoved my fat cock into her up to the hilt, forcing a screech from her. Faster and faster and faster I fucked her. Kathie Lee's sweet round ass banged into me over and over.

As my inner turmoil escaped my lungs as one long "Aaaaah," Kathie Lee's body began to quiver and suddenly seized up. "Sweet fucking hell," she groaned, "I'm out of control! Take that, Frank!"

So was I. A gusher of cum blasted out of my cock, filling Kathie Lee's hungry pussy and spilling out the sides. Once more, twice, three times the cum spasmed out before I buried my cock deep into her one last time and then withdrew as it began to shrink.

It was too cramped in their to cuddle in the afterglow. We handed each other our clothes but soon realized we couldn't get dressed at the same time without risking grievous bodily injury. Being a gentleman, I let her go first.

By the time I got dressed next and slipped out of the john, it was almost time to serve breakfast. Kathie Lee ran a red nail up my arm as I poured her coffee, but she was out the door in a hurry when we landed and I've never seen her since -- not in the flesh. I'm hardly crushed, though. Long-term relationships are not what silver surfing is about.

And I did hear from her. A week after that flight, the airline forwarded a package to me.

Kathie Lee's new CD.

I had always assumed the abrupt change from America's pious sweetheart to the country's slutty little sexpot was a calculated career move, but after that night I'm not so sure.

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