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 #1: Wisdom 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. Charles B., New York There are some very crude men in our society, men who treat what we do as some sort of contest. It is not. We are performing a service, if you like. I myself prefer to think of it as an homage to greatness. As such, one must observe the proper protocols and ensure that one is quite prepared. Some members of our group seem to think it a sport and try to "bag" the most prominent women -- and then boast about it. That is despicable. I am telling my story not to boast -- assuredly not -- but, rather, in the hope that newer surfers or those aspiring to the clan will learn something about proper behavior. One should not, for example, presume to be a suitable companion for the most beautiful women until one has served an apprenticeship, so to speak. I, myself, had my first experiences whilst volunteering at charity events -- galas, silent auctions and the like. These are excellent opportunities for those with modest upbringings to learn the ways of polite society, so as to be better prepared for the social milieu to which most celebrities are accustomed. I, of course, needed no such acculturation, having been to the manner born. Still, being involved in the charity events as a volunteer rather than merely an attendee allowed me access to information that aided my first efforts. I was able to learn which women regularly sought out escorts, and insinuate myself into their good graces. Having established myself as a suitable companion, I was able to become more selective in the women I accompanied, while at the same time polishing those qualities most attractive to the mature female. It was only a small step from being a dinner partner to more physical encounters. With some practice, I became adept at extracting myself from any possible long-term entanglements. And with that, my training was complete, I felt, and I was ready to move from society matrons to mature celebrities. Even then, I began with lesser mortals -- a local television news personality, a stage actress of small renown. Only after I had satisfied myself that I was truly ready did I seek out more famous names. It is a fact that I came upon my crowning achievement by chance. My point, nonetheless, is that without careful preparation I would have been unworthy of the great honor which fate bestowed upon me. I was walking to a quaint little bistro I patronize frequently in upper Manhattan when I saw a woman up ahead. She was standing outside a boite that had closed two weeks earlier after decades of excellence. Like so many other things, it had been abandoned by the crowd simply because it wasn't "new." So few people can savor the ineffable allure of sustained quality. As I came up on the woman, who was impeccably attired in a simple, well-cut black watered-silk dress with white lace accents, it was clear from her stance that she must have not known the establishment was closed. She was stock still, one hand just under the brim of her white straw hat, peering intently into the darkened window of La Dolce Vita. I was struck by her height -- 5'10 or more in Jimmy Choo heels, I guessed -- and by her aristocratic bearing. Even a bum staggering down the street steered away from her; this was not a woman to bother. No, I decided as I came up on her, this was not a woman at all. This was a lady. "Pardon me, ma'am," I said as she turned toward me. "Perhaps I could be of..." Only years of training kept my jaw from hitting the pavement. "Ah, I could... May I be of some assistance, Miss Loren?" One of my basic rules: Always call an older woman "miss" if you hope to bed her. First, it flatters her. Second, even if she is married, you don't want to remind her of that. You'll note how this self-training kicked in automatically even though I certainly had never prepared for meeting Sophia Loren. She is, of course, the most beautiful creature God ever created. We shan't debate that. Her body was carved from ivory by an artist greater than Michelangelo, stained a rich olive hue by the caresses of the Italian sun. It would be trite to say she has aged like a fine wine. Inaccurate, too. Better to say she has found a new beauty with each season of her life. Photos from her first performances show an earthy, peasant goddess, all dimples and fleshy appeal. In her heyday she was a ripe temptress, every part of her body a perfect example of sensuous form, a lush body hiding an alluring mind that could be glimpsed in her flashing eyes. And there, on a New York street, in the autumn of her life, her beauty still shone. The rounded limbs of her younger days now revealed the muscles underneath. The exquisite architecture of her face was etched sharply. It was as if the sculptor had continued to carve his work, cutting down from rough outlines to the final, essential, unimproveable creation. Miss Loren smiled at me, a smile like an angel's. "Grazie, grazie. The restaurant here..." She pointed one manicured finger. "Closed?" Yes, I told her, unfortunately so. She sighed and said it had been her favorite, a place she could go to get away. "And it had wonderful gnocchi," I noted. Her whole face lit up and we were soon deep in a conversation about minestrone and marinara. Deftly I slipped in mention of a small cafe I had visited in Rome. It happened to be a favorite of hers. In no time I was leading her down two blocks to an intimate little spot that, I promised, had the best risotto in all New York. She asked me to join her and I demurred, but I was careful not to offer a reason, thus leaving her a polite opening to insist, which she did: "Come, come. I like you. So many people, they just want to talk to me about old times. Old movies. I don't want to live in the past. That is why I go off on my own. But you, you talk of today. Join me." Of course, I did. Our meals were every bit as good as I had promised. The wine -- she chose one bottled by a friend of hers -- was perfectly matched. By the time we were done, the candle on the table was casting an ethereal glow on her face. Her eyes sparkled and her rings glittered as she waved them about, punctuating her conversation. We spoke of Rome and New York, of art and the theater. I laughed at her small jokes, laughter that came more naturally than usual for I found her genuinely witty. We walked out of the restaurant into New York at its finest, twinkling in the night, streets filled with excitement. I offered to get a cab; she said her hotel was nearby, "and I love to walk in New York City." She took me up on my offer to escort her. I crooked my arm, she slipped hers through it and we strode off. Her hotel was, like Sophia herself, a beautiful grande dame. What wasn't mahogany was brass; what wasn't brass was mirrored; what wasn't mirrored was gold leaf; what wasn't gold leaf was leather or tapestry. The lobby was two stories tall, a full block long, and teeming with activity. As I hoped she would, Sophia invited me to join her for coffee and more conversation. She had a two-room suite, filled with flowers. Room service was prompt and efficient and unobtrusive. We sipped and discussed the latest MOMA exhibit. She had a way of holding you with her wide eyes so you were only peripherally aware of her sweeping gestures. It was a curious effect. Like all Italians, she used her whole body to speak, but by locking your focus she preserved the aura of a more reserved gentlewoman. Poise and passion, elegance and eloquence. It was an intoxicating combination. But I was not so intoxicated that I forgot my training. I maintained an attitude with just the right mix of interest but reserve, showing that I respected her and appreciated her allure but was not just another fawning admirer. Indeed, I carefully chose to disagree with her opinion of the Met's last production and we had a vigorous debate over the coloratura's timbre. She showed a zest for the argument while retaining a sense of proportion. It was a most stimulating evening. But the night was not yet over. Sophia excused herself and I allowed myself to hope. Those hopes were fulfilled. She re-entered as I was putting my coffee cup down. My hand froze in midair. Sophia had changed into a diaphanous black nightgown. Its billowing translucence revealed the laciest of black bras, barely covering the bottom half of her generous breasts. Her body curved down to ample hips, with a wispy pair of panties concealing the bare minimum. A lace garter belt held up sheer black nylons. Her black spike heels drew attention to her exquisite legs, stunning for a woman in her seventh decade of life. Even I was stunned. I knew this had been my goal from the moment I had recognized her. In a sense, this had been my goal from the first time I had ever seen Sophia Loren on the big screen at the small cinema around the corner from my family's city apartment. This was why I had smiled my way through endless luncheons, endured those early years when I had been forced to lower my standards as I gained experience. This is what I had been seeking. And yet it hardly seemed possible. Sophia Loren was not a flesh-and-blood woman, certainly not a hot-blooded woman standing before me in the flesh and little else. She was a screen image, a silver ghost painting sexual allure and lust for life across strips of celluloid. A statue brought to life, a goddess come to earth. No, she was real. And soon she would be mine. "Well," Sophia purred, "do you approve?" She twirled in place, her gown swirling into a cloud of chiffon. "Or would you like to discuss art some more?" My cup clattered on the saucer. I rose and went to her, but even then I did not embrace her precipitously. I stood just two feet away, breathing in her musky perfume, drinking in her beauty, savoring the moment like the bouquet of a fine wine. She stood hands curled on her hips, staring back at me with a bemused smile. I took a deep breath. "Sophia," I whispered. I could say no more. We moved together. Her body melted into mine. Our lips crushed, big, aching, open-mouthed kisses that stirred the soul. My right arm encircled her narrow waist, drawing her tighter to me. My left hand entwined in her thick, wavy hair. Her left leg wrapped around me, and her hands roamed my back. We broke our kiss only to nuzzle each other's necks, then joined our mouths again. Our tongues touched, a momentary flicker, and then reached out hungrily. Our hands clutched, clawed, tugged at each other. Sophia's gown slipped off her shoulder and I kissed my way down to it. She sighed in my ear. "Yes, yes, cara mia, my sweet one, yes." I continued my kisses down to the tops of her breasts and the deep, delicious valley in between. With her silken leg running up and down my side, my staff grew stiff. Her hands peeled off my suit jacket while I kissed my way back up to Sophia's face. Our lips locked again as she tugged my shirt out and ran her hands up my back. Our lower bodies writhed against each other. Sophia was everything I could have imagined, a woman of raw sexuality, capable of stirring me deeply. When she broke our kiss and led me by the tie to the bedroom, I could only pray I would be worthy. I unbuttoned as I walked, discarding my shirt, tie and undershirt when Sophia released me in the other room. She surprised me by insisting on taking off my pants herself, sinking to her knees on the plush carpet. With long, nimble fingers she unbuckled and unzipped and pulled my pants off. Then she untied my wingtips and slid off my shoes and socks. Only my dark blue silk boxers stood between me and complete nudity. Sophia got up and led me to the canopied bed. I sat on the edge and she tugged off my boxers. My penis bobbed upward, engorged with blood. Looking down, I saw a vision that will stay with me forever. Sophia Loren, still in her seductive lingerie, knelt at my feet. My erect member was just an inch or two from her dark red lips. She was looking up at me with eyes wide open. As I watched, she gently took hold of my shaft with both hands. She lowered her eyes and gazed upon my manhood. I felt it grow slightly thicker under her ministration. Her touch was soft but sure, as one would hold a priceless jeweled egg, and she brushed up and down its length. And then, and then, mirabile dictu -- wonderful, truly wonderful to relate -- I felt the caress of her breath on my organ. I saw her bend forward, pursing her full lips. I felt the subtle pressure as she softly kissed the tip. And then Sophia Loren bent her head down, letting my hard penis spread her lips apart and enter her mouth. She held the bulbous head inside her as she bathed it with her tongue. It was the sight of Sophia's carmine lips wrapped around my rigid member, as much as the physical sensation, that had me reeling. And then she began to slide me in. Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, my shaft disappeared from view. My hands beat on the mattress, my fingers clawed at the bedspread. Sophia's cheeks hollowed as she sucked me in. Her lips were a velvet vise. My breath came in labored gasps. I raised my face, staring blindly into space. When I looked back down, it was to see my penis fully inserted in her mouth, my curly pubic hair brushing her cheeks. O bliss! Sophia's eyelids fluttered gracefully as she fellated me, sliding my member in and out while she gripped the shaft, occasionally taking it all the way in. My toes curled and dug into the carpet's pile as I luxuriated in her awesome sexual prowess. Just as I would think I could take no more, she would slip off my shaft completely, only to plant butterfly kisses along its rigid length and lick it like an ice cream cone -- even extending her tongue to catch a drop of my fluid at the very tip. And then she would take me back into her mouth again, maintaining perfect pressure at its puckered opening, letting it slide slowly inside. "Oh, god. Oh, ggggoddd!" The cries were wrenched from me. My jaw locked open. My hands went of their own impulse to entwine in Sophia's luxuriant dark waves, pulling her face onto me. Until, at last, I felt the feeling come upon me like a tidal wave. I started screaming to my god and to the goddess kneeling before me. She went down all the way as a hot jet of semen rushed out of me, and she swallowed it all. When she pulled her mouth off of my organ, smiling, a glistening strand of semen stretched out. She put a manicured finger on the end attached to my penis and pulled it toward her, gathering a small globule on her fingertip. She slipped the finger into her mouth and then pulled it out through pursed lips. I watched it all and then fell back onto the bed, eyes closed, savoring the moment. "Ah, ah, ah," Sophia called to me. "I think we are not finished. Don't you want to watch? I am not, how you say it, so hard to look at, am I?" I opened my eyes and quickly sat up. Sophia was standing a few feet from the bed. As I watched, she swirled her arms around, turning her nightgown again into a mist. This time, she slipped out of it as it billowed, and it drifted to the floor slowly. She stood before me dressed only in bra, panties and stockings. Keeping her eyes focused on mine, she extended one long, slim leg and placed her foot on the bed between my legs. She unsnapped the top of the stocking and leaned slightly toward me. I rolled the stocking off, caressing the soft skin of her leg. We did the same with her other stocking. Sophia stepped toward me. In an elegant striptease, she shimmied before me as she undid her bra. She let the straps fall from her shoulders but crossed her arms over the cups, holding them in place. Slowly she let her brassiere slip off, but kept herself covered with her arms. Then she began to pull her arms apart until her hands were cupped over her breasts, barely concealing her most notable attributes. She rubbed them, pushed them together, and, finally, with a pinch of each nipple, revealed her magnificent breasts. I breathed in deeply. Even as I was enjoying my first view, in the flesh, of Sophia's famous chest, her hands traced her curves down to her hips. She slid her fingers underneath the sides of her wispy black panties and slipped them down, letting them fall to the floor. She stepped out of them. Sophia Loren stood before me, utterly naked. True, her large breasts sagged. A little. But there was no denying the striking loveliness of her classic figure. I bent forward and paid homage to her breasts, stroking them, cupping them, kissing them, suckling them. To have Sophia's nipples in your mouth, to suck at the great Earth mother's breast: perfection. I rubbed my cheeks against them, traced their contours with my fingers. I could smell her arousal, and she pushed me flat on the mattress and crawled over me, a knee on either side of my body. At my waist she stopped, my penis -- growing erect again -- rubbing gently against her vaginal opening. My erection stiffened. She smiled as she stroked herself across my organ. "You are reviving?" I was indeed. "Ah. You are. But I think it is not yet time. Perhaps you can think of something else?" She lifted herself over my penis and crawled forward on her knees until I could feel the heat of her sex on my face. If there is a skill most crucial to pleasing the older celebrity woman in bed, it is the art of cunnilingus. I will not claim to be an expert. I will only say that no one has ever complained. As Sophia lowered herself onto me, my tongue met her. For several minutes I only licked at her genitals, gentle brushes meant to prepare the way. Her purring said I was on the right track. Then I allowed my hands to drift onto her outer thighs, barely grazing the flesh. I knew it was perfect when I raised goosepimples. Applying slightly more pressure, I stroked in sweeping circles to her hips, to her stomach, at last down to her curling bush. As my fingers began to brush down into her crotch, I pushed my tongue into her bit by bit, sliding between her labia. As I did so, I swept upward and sought out her clitoris. She shivered delicately when the tip of my tongue made tentative contact with her rubbery little button. Soon she was moaning as I poked and nipped at it, while my fingers slid along her slit, spreading her lubricating fluids as they did. The older woman should not be rushed. I continued to play with her clitoris for another few minutes before I turned my attention back to her slit. In broad sweeps up and down I pressed my tongue deeper and deeper. My sweeps grew shorter as I pressed further in until I was using my tongue to penetrate her like a penis. "Bene, bene!" Sophia sighed. Then she squealed as I lashed my tongue from side to side and began to stimulate her clit again, this time with a finger. My mouth was wide open and pressed onto her, my tongue driving into her. To vary her sensations, from time to time I would slip out of her and attend to her clitoris. When I sensed her nearing the edge, I moved back into her, whipping my tongue in and out while my finger played manic attendance on her clit. At last, with choked moans, her moment came. A long, shuddering series of attacks wracked her body. Her thighs closed around me and she fell back onto her arms, calling out my name. Her orgasm ebbed slowly and she rolled off of me, murmuring and cooing. We worked our way around on the soft bed so that our heads were on the downy pillows, our naked bodies stretched out side by side on the white satin sheets. We cuddled and kissed in a hazy afterglow. In time our kisses became more urgent. My shaft had become fully erect and was resting on Sophia's thigh. She stroked it languidly with one hand. Her legs parted; my hand sought out her slit. We pleasured each other a minute or two. Then I rolled into position over her, the bulbous head of my penis at the entrance to her hot, wet opening. I looked directly into her wide-open eyes as I entered her smoothly. She was so well-lubricated by then that I slid in all the way in one fluid movement. "Molto bene," Sophia hissed. And then it was as it ever is. We started out slowly, long strokes in and out, with occasional slight twists to increase the sensations. Sophia's vagina was not as tight as a virgin's, but she made up for it with experience. Her vaginal muscles were well developed; that and some subtle but significant motions of her lower body greatly enhanced our love-making. In and out, we were in perfect synchrony, keeping our pace slow even as our hearts beat faster. "Sophia, Sophia," I cried over and over. We kissed deeply, longingly, tongues intertwined and writhing in time with our hips. Our pace increased. Sophia spread her legs wider, wider, then brought them together again as her heels rested on my buttocks, digging in, urging me on. Faster and faster we went, sliding around and getting tangled in the slippery sheets. She grabbed over her head for the rails of the headboard, holding on as we went on. My erection hardened and relaxed, hardened and relaxed, but after Sophia's oral ministrations I knew I would be good for half an hour or more. Sweat was rolling off us by now, soaking the sheets. We slowed, speeded up, never losing our stride. To tease her I would withdraw almost completely, only the very tip still snuggled in her. Sophia would hump up at me, growling as she tried to push onto me. At last I would give in, exulting in the feeling as the head of my penis parted her lips and they closed behind it, hugging my shaft as it moved in slowly, oh, so slowly. Then again we would pick up speed, bedsprings creaking beneath us, me sliding away and crawling back on my knees, toes trying to dig for purchase. The sheets pulled loose and bunched up around us. Sophia had a second orgasm, if anything apparently more intense than the first, her back arching, hips thrusting, thighs clutching my waist. My arms were weakening and I lowered myself to my elbows, chest pressing on her ample breasts. I ran my hands up and down her sweat-slick torso as I balanced first on one elbow, then the other. And through it all my penis drove in and out of her. She began to direct me, setting the pace, encouraging a little twist of my hips, deep thrusts that buried me in her to the root and held there, flurries of short, rapid plunges. Yet a third orgasm came upon her as she shouted in ecstasy. That one seemed to last forever, a waterfall of shudders and shivers that left her gasping for air. I had been close several times but could not reach climax. As her convulsions slowed I could not hold myself up anymore. I rolled off her, exhausted, arms flopping to the mattress, eyes closed, breath coming in long swallows. But my penis was still erect, still ready for action. When Sophia had recovered she told me she would take care of me. She climbed on top, facing me, letting her breasts hang down to my face. I licked at the salty flesh as she took my shaft in her hand and placed it at her slit again. She sat back and let it slide into her. Completely in control now, she began slowly but quickly built up to a frantic pace. My hands beat on the bed as she administered a delicious torture, a soul-stirring agony, riding my penis faster and faster, bucking up and down, plunging with wild abandon. Our secretions gushed out and coated my crotch, dripping down between my legs. Groans exploded from me as Sophia pounded away without respite, up and down, up and down. Her bouncing breasts hypnotized me; I lost track of time. I didn't even have the strength left to lift my hips to meet her downward thrusts, but it didn't matter. She had me at her mercy and wouldn't quit. I begged her to slow down, tears rolling down my cheeks as my head thrashed from side to side. To no avail; she actually increased her speed. And then, and then, the urge built in my groin as it had before but this time it would not go away. "Oh, god," I bellowed, as Sophia chattered encouragement. I felt my penis thicken within her walls. She nearly lifted off me and then came down all the way, again, again. The surge overpowered me. An unstoppable blast of semen shot into Sophia's eager vagina. And again. And again. It took a minute or two before my erection eased, and even then it did not go away entirely. I was utterly spent, though, wrung out like a dishrag. My entire body was awash in endorphins. Sophia and I kissed tenderly, cradling each other's faces in our hands. I traced her body one last time, memorizing her curves. I didn't want to ever leave that bed. I wanted to go to sleep with Sophia Loren in my arms, to awaken with her beautiful face next to mine, to make love to her in the soft light of dawn. But that was not my role. Never could be. I rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. By the time I emerged, Sophia was asleep. I got dressed and left. I never saw her again. There have been others, but there will never be one like her. There is only one Sophia Loren.