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alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright 
2002, theGreatxIam

Silver Surfer #4: Big Wheel
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. 

-------------------------------

Carl M., Dearborn, Mich.

I'd worked for the Ford 10 years before I got tired of
layoffs. We kept collecting our pay, but I'm the kind
of guy who needs to know he's doing something to earn
his check.

The driving was something I'd been doing for years,
anyway. Started with filling in for a buddy when he
wanted a break from his cab. Got to know the whole area
pretty well. (Around Detroit, that also means knowing
where you DON'T want to go.) Moved up to limos on
airport runs for hotels and conventions while I was
still on the line.

I got some repeat customers who started asking for me
by name and wanted to know if I could drive 'em around
town, too. So it wasn't too much of a gamble when I
quit the auto plant and used my savings to buy my own
stretch job.

Built up a pretty good business and an even better
reputation. Started to get known around town. Pretty
soon I was moving upscale, big-shot businessmen and
your better class of stars -- ones who know what it
means to be a star, not these young punks that puke all
over the car and get upset because I wear a sport coat
and not some stupid brass-button uniform and a
gold-braid hat.

I give the folks what they want, which is just a fast,
smooth ride. I show up on time. If they don't want to
talk, I don't talk. If they want, I can discuss
anything from philosophy to spackling. It's not that
tough: You just nod and say "You're right" a lot:

"Sears has the best scrapers."

"You're right."

"Nietzsche completely ignored the influence of the
non-Platonic ideal."

"I hear you."

You get the idea.

So I got a full appointment book. But when I got the
call that night, I got another guy to pick up the exec
I was supposed to meet at Detroit Metro. Some things
you don't pass up.

I got there just before the show ended. I pulled around
to a hidden exit like they told me. Sat there reading
Albom's column in the Freep until the exit door flies
open and she comes strutting out with two of her backup
singers and a whole herd of security. They aren't happy
when she has me shut the car door after her and the
girls get in, but she rolls down the window and says
they can follow behind.

I get behind the wheel and turn to her.

"Good evening, Miss Turner."

"Call me Tina. And let's get going."

"I'm just waiting for your people to get in their cars,
Miss... Tina."

"Drive, sugar."

So I drove. One car full of bodyguards kept up with me
all the way to the expressway, but Tina told me to lose
'em and it wasn't too hard. They called my cell and
started blistering my ear before I could get in a word.
Tina tapped on the glass and I passed the phone back to
her. Man, she must have had her fill of taking orders
when she was younger, because she told off those guys
so bad she even had me feeling sorry for them. But she
said this was her farewell concert tour and maybe her
last time in Motown and she was going to party.

That they did. I drove from club to club. The second
place we went, her people spun into the lot as Tina was
getting out the door and I had to get a little fancy to
get rid of them. After that she told me to pick the
clubs 'cause they knew her favorites.

We'd run through all the legit places and had hit a
couple of blind pigs -- the all-night unlicensed joints
-- when the back-up singers started belting the blues
about wanting to pack it in. Tina tried to talk them
out of it, but the girls were pooped. I rolled over to
the hotel and jumped out to open the door. The girls
groaned as they stumbled out. After a few seconds I
stuck my head in the doorway to see if Tina needed
help. Ha! She was sitting up straight, eyes bright.
"The night is young," she said, "and so am I. You ready
to show a girl a good time?"

I gave her a smile and walked around to the driver's
side. As I got behind the wheel there was a tap on the
passenger window. I expected to see her security.
Instead, it was Tina. I popped the lock and she climbed
in next to me. "I hate talking to myself," she said.

For once, though, I did most of the talking. She asked
me about the job and what I used to do. I started out
like always, playing it close to the vest. But she was
persistent and before I knew it I was telling her
stories about the Ford and the old neighborhood and
all.

I shut up when we got to the place I'd picked out. It
was a little rough, but not too bad for a club open at
4 a.m. Still, I couldn't guess what would happen when
someone like Tina Turner walked in. She's not their
usual trade. I told her as much.

"So how 'bout if you walked in with me?"

I couldn't turn her down. I would never have forgiven
myself if anything happened to her.

It was a place without a name, unless you count "the
den on 10," which mostly the squares called it on
account it was just off 10-Mile Road. But it was no
den. It was just an old paint store with cardboard over
the windows to keep the cops from seeing the light.
Even that was only window-dressing. Every cop in the
county knew the joint. It wasn't the paper on the
windows kept them away; it was the paper on their palms
once a month.

We walked in and it was hardly any brighter inside than
out. Just a couple of bare bulbs painted red over the
old counter, now the bar, and a few flickering candles
in the corners of the big room. The cigarette smoke and
leftover turpentine fumes made a sweet-sour stench of a
fog in which a few couples were groping each other on
the dance floor -- a space about six feet square carved
out of the crowded card tables and folding chairs. A
trio jammed behind the bar was torturing '50s R&B out
of a guitar, a drum set and a keyboard. Every so often
they had to crank it up to jet-engine level to be heard
over the roar of the old paint-mixing machine, which
had a second career as an industrial cocktail shaker.

My suit and tie got more stares than Tina from the
half-in-the-bag clientele; in that light one old chick
in leather looked pretty much like another. But when we
made it to the bar, the keyboard player dropped a dime
on her. She told 'em three songs was her limit and the
trio cracked open "Proud Mary" like they'd been waiting
for her all night.

Tina blew the barflies back against the wall with that
one. Then she pulled out a slow a capella "Private
Dancer" that had the whole room holding its breath like
it was the solemn consecration at Our Lady of High
Gloss Latex.

Finally, she switched denominations to Holy Paint
Rollers and the girl from Nutbush wailed about her
hometown and how you better keep an eye for the police.
By the end the crowd was stomping on the linoleum and
hollering like a revival. Somebody scratched enough
paint off one of the bulbs to make a 60-watt baby
spotlight and Tina shook her tailfeather, with her
leather coat flapping around her like a flag.
Underneath she wore a spangly tube top and skintight
leather pants; you could see the sweat glistening on
her chocolate flesh.

By the end of the song the whole crowd was on their
feet. Tina punched her fist in the air once, twice,
three times as the drummer hammered the beat. The
keyboard player drove his hands down and the guitar man
twisted three notes over and around and tied them in a
knot in a crashing finish. Tina dropped to the floor in
a split.

Right then and there I realized I'd turn down any pay
for the night. Just being able to see that covered all
the charges.

I kept the crowd at bay while Tina got to a table.
People lined up to tell her how incredible she was and
she sat back, basking in the praise, huge smile on her
face.

I stayed on my feet, off to one side, waiting for
trouble. There's always trouble.

Sure enough, some suburban cowboy, probably pissed
because his date was paying more attention to Tina than
to him, started in on her being a lousy singer. Which
Tina ignored and so did the rest of the crowd. So the
guy pushed his way toward her, getting louder like they
do. I was already moving in to cut him off when the guy
switches tracks and starts in on Tina's history. "Maybe
Ike didn't beat ENOUGH sense into her," he said.

That got Tina's attention and she flashed the guy a
look that could cut steel. I could see she was about to
say something, too. But then she just turned away.

I was almost close enough to touch the guy then. When
she turned her back his eyes bulged. As I lunged
forward I heard him say "Maybe I'll have to finish the
job."

I caught his right fist as he pulled it back and I
swung him around. He jabbed at my jaw with his left. I
ignored that and pumped a few rat-a-tats into his gut.
He got off one or two more punches but he started to
double over. One clean uppercut put him down. By then
the joint's bouncers had arrived and they hauled the
guy out the front while Tina and me got herded to the
back.

We were in the limo and peeling out of the lot as fast
as that super-stock Detroit engine could take us. Dawn
was still just a thin pink line on the edge of the
horizon and I wanted as many miles between us and that
joint as possible before the cops finished their
morning doughnuts.

Tina had started talking as we rushed for the car and
hadn't stopped since, but I had tuned her out. On the
line at the Ford you learned to shut off all your
senses and just do the job; it was the only way to get
through the day -- for some of us, anyway. My brain had
gone on autopilot when the clown took off on Tina and
it stayed there until we pulled up at a light miles
away.

That's when Tina poked me in the side -- she was riding
shotgun again. "What the hell were you thinking? Hello?
Is anybody home?"

I shot her a glance and then kept my eyes on the road.
"I thought I was doing you a favor."

"A favor? Did I ask you to punch someone out?"

I stared a hole into the asphalt. "He was going after
you. You think I went looking for a fight?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, I'm sure. What were you gonna do, high-kick
him?"

"Maybe I could have talked him out of it. You ever try
using your mouth instead of your fist?"

"He didn't look like he wanted to debate. Or maybe you
just wanted him to take a swing at you. For old times'
sake."

I regretted it the second I said it. And I should know
better. My sister hooked up with a guy used to slap her
around. I know the hell she had.

But I was all pumped from the fight and not thinking
straight. Tina shut up and twisted around in the seat
to look out the side window. I just shut up and drove.

The limo sailed through the half-light past boarded-up
storefronts and sleeping neon. Traffic was scarce and
cops scarcer. At some point I hit the radio to cut the
silence; Tina snapped it off.

I stayed off the expressway. At first it was to punish
her for complaining. Then it was to buy time to work
out my apology.

We were closing in on the hotel when Tina finally
spoke, a terse order to pull over. I bumped over the
pockmarked parking lot of an empty factory. "Go around
back," Tina said, and I nuzzled the big car up to a
loading dock sheltered from the street.

The cylinders sighed. We sat looking out the windshield
at busted windows and rusty doors for a minute. We both
started to speak at once, our words bouncing off the
glass. We tried again; same deal. I threw a sideways
glance at her and saw her doing the same to me.

"I'm sorry," we said in unison. It was too much like
every romance movie Meg Ryan ever made. We both broke
into huge smiles as we turned to each other.

Tina had curled up against the door; she looked
fragile, like a blown-glass ornament. Seeing her almost
cowering there, so tiny, I felt like a gorilla. My
smile faded.

She reached out a hand, fingers splayed. It hovered a
foot away from my face. "What's wrong?"

I started to answer, but I didn't have a clue. I just
shook my head abruptly. "I better be getting you back
to the hotel. They'll be worrying about you."

Tina reached into her coat and pulled out a cellphone
smaller than my Aunt Ida's earrings. She flipped it
open and held it up so I could read the goblin-green
glowing screen: six messages. "They've been calling
every 20 minutes," she said, and she laid down a
trilling laugh. Even as she did, I heard a whirring
like angry wasps trapped in a wall. Tina tossed the
vibrating phone into the cavernous back seat. "Let 'em
worry. I'm having a good time."

She slid a little closer to me on the bench seat and
slipped her coat off. "Ain't we having a good time?"
Her eyes were pointed at me, but they were focused a
million miles away. "This is my last tour and I am
officially enjoying it. Didn't you read that? It was in
all the papers. 'Dancing to the End of the Road.'
That's what this is, the end of going on the road." Her
voice was a whisper like the wind through a graveyard.
"The end of the traveling. End of hotel rooms and
dressing rooms. End of crowds. End of the applause. End
of the road."

She blinked twice and re-entered the atmosphere. She
hit the Earth with a splash, staring me in the face and
seeing me this time.

"I'm just a crazy old lady, ain't I?" Her neck arched
like a giraffe as she looked to heaven, or as much of
it as she could see through the roof's black velveteen
lining. "Just a crazy old lady who's over the hill."

Just saying "yes" wasn't going to work this time, but
she didn't look ready to believe anything I said about
her not being over the hill, no matter if it was true.
And, lord, it was true. The cold fingers of a Detroit
dawn showed every wrinkle on her face but she was still
the queen.

I did the only thing I could, the only thing that could
prove I was sincere. I leaned toward her, took her in
my arms, and kissed her.

It lasted only a second or two. But when I pulled back
and opened my eyes, she hadn't shied away.

"Well," she said in that husky voice, "that was nice.
Nice thing to do for an old..."

I cut her short with another kiss. This time she kissed
me back. Her fingers splayed across my cheeks, holding
us together. My arms slipped around her tiny waist.
After a minute we came up for air, but then our lips
locked again. Her tongue slid into my mouth like an
electric eel, setting off sparks of sensuality. Our
mouths open, we kissed hungrily.

My hands began to roam her curves. When the left traced
a smooth arc and I realized I was holding Tina's ample
breast, I pulled back quickly, afraid I had offended
her. But she reached down and took my trembling hand in
her warm one, and lifted it back to her breast.

It was firm beneath the thin tube top, and when I
rolled my thumb around I could feel the rubbery bump of
her erect nipple.

Her breasts weren't very large. My hands could palm a
basketball and her tit fit inside easily. But I was
surprised that there was so little sag when I pulled
the tube top up, exposing her mocha mounds.

Tina gently pulled my head down. I got the idea,
opening wide and sucking her tits into my mouth. I went
back and forth, squeezing one with a hand while the
other was suckled, then switching off. "You've got a
good touch," Tina said. "I guess you've done this
before?"

I smiled, pinned her nipple between my teeth and tugged
softly. She sighed and leaned back against the window,
drawing me with her.

I am not a rough man but this was not some tender
scene. I can't tell you what all was going on in Tina's
head, but mine wasn't making any distinctions about age
or any allowances for our different lots in life. You
put a beautiful half-naked woman in with me and I'm not
gonna sit there with my thumb up my ass.

You want to call it animal, well, all right. All I know
is we were all over each other no holds barred. I never
have found two of the buttons off my shirt. My cock was
already stiff as a tire rod before I could get my pants
off, and Tina didn't waste any time peeling off her
pants. Maybe she ripped off her red satin panties,
maybe I did. It got kind of confusing there.

We were mostly naked and groping each other like two
kids at a drive-in movie before I finally thought to
suggest the back seat. I folded down the front seat and
we crawled through to the back, laughing at the tight
squeeze.

The back of the stretch was like one of those '60s
"conversation pit" living rooms cross-bred with a Vegas
nightclub. Soft black leather seats on three sides; a
bar and entertainment center along the outer wall of
the passenger side, where the rear door was too. Black
shag carpet on the floor, chrome and ebony everywhere
else, with pull-out black Formica tables alongside the
seats that reflected the tiny lightbulbs outlining the
bar and running along the seams of the ceiling. I could
have flicked a couple switches to fill the space with
soft jazz from the SurroundSound and set the lights
twinkling, but we were too impatient.

I pulled off my shoes and socks and threw them into a
corner with Tina's pantyhose. She grabbed some plush
throw pillows from the seats and stretched out on the
floor.

I suppose she looked even better in younger days, but
damn if she didn't look mighty fine right then. Of
course, the smoked glass windows didn't let in much
light and the feeble glow of the little bulbs helped to
hide any minor imperfections. But there were a lot of
major perfections. Her legs were still among the Seven
Wonders of the World, cocoa curves sinuous as a
panther. Her body retained its youthful trim. And her
face -- all edges and planes glowing like well-polished
mahogany -- it was like a goddess had come down to
Earth.

I didn't waste much time on worshipful awe, though.
This woman exuded sex from every pore and there was a
spark of wanton lust in her eye.

I crawled up beside her and we immediately started
pawing each other. Before long her long fingers were
curled around my cock, milking it like a cow's teat. I
squirted out some precum and Tina smeared it all over
my rod. When that wasn't lubricant enough she held a
palm up to my mouth; I licked it liberally and she used
that.

Meanwhile I had a hand skating down to her wiry bush,
and further. I could already feel the heat rising from
her as my palm covered her slit. I squeezed gently
until her legs were thrashing around and then slowly
brought my middle finger to her pussy lips. It
slithered around and over them until I could feel her
fluids beginning to leak out.

I entered her in stages, like sneaking up on a deer.
First riding along the opening, then pushing in, just
enough to spread the lips slightly. Pause. Stroke up
and down, not quite in and not quite out. Push a little
more. Hold there, roll thumb over her clit. Wait until
she stops squealing and advance. You do it right. It
will take 10, 20 minutes and reduce the woman to a
puddle of goo.

This time, though, i wanted action. The third time Tina
begged me I stuck my finger all the way in and started
rocking it back and forth. I got her going so good she
dropped my cock and just lay back.

She clawed at her crotch as she jerked and twitched
more than a trophy muskie. I managed to get two fingers
inside her and picked up the pace, bam-bam-bam. Turned
out Tina moans and hollers in key, too.

Just when she seemed to be on the verge I pulled my
hand away. Tina propped herself up on her elbows to
watch as I crawled between her widespread legs. With my
cock dangling just above her cunt, I bent my head down
to suck on her tits.

"None of that shit," she growled. "I want it in me
now."

Tina grabbed hold of my rod and stuffed it into her
hole. I obliged by shoving it in the rest of the way.
She moaned her appreciation -- a middle C, I think.

I read some stuff that makes sex sound like Emily
Dickinson's poetry. Screw that. This was Delta blues.

I fucked Tina Turner and she fucked me back. It doesn't
get any more basic than that.

She was so pumped from my finger-fucking that she came
just a couple minutes into our humping, with a screech
like the brakes on a runaway train. Her legs scissored
around me and her fingernails raked my back. The song
was true: Tina didn't do anything nice and easy.

I rode out the storm and then recommenced laying pipe.
It was the wildest sex of my life. What she lacked in
tightness she more than made up for in motion. At one
point my dick slipped out of her and I was half afraid
it would crack in two as she frantically slammed her
hips into me before I could poke it back in.

After about 15 more minutes of rutting my balls
tightened, my cock thickened, and a molten shot of jism
blasted into Tina's cunt. I buried my dick deep as it
pulsed a few more times. We kissed for a minute before
I rolled onto my side, exhausted and drenched in sweat.

Tina was soaking wet too, but there was a gleam in her
eye as she leaned her head to mine. "Not bad, Mr. Man.
What do you do for an encore?" Her hand reached for my
cock again.

I groaned as she made contact. The knob was
super-sensitive; her touch was like electro-shock
treatment. Tina laughed and grabbed again, forcing me
to flinch away. I was half-drowsy from the sex and
weak, not ready for a wrestling match. I wrapped her in
my arms and kissed her to get her mind -- and hand --
off my cock.

It was a kiss to build a dream on, with her body
plastered to mine, our tongues entwined. My hands
slowly slid from her shoulders, down her back,
following her curves.

By the time I reached the squeezably soft orbs of her
ass, my cock was coming back to life. As I sank my
fingers into her yielding flesh, I drew Tina's body to
me and my growing erection poked her in the stomach.

She let out a growl that would do a grizzly proud.
"Now, that's more like it," she said, putting a hand
between us and stroking my dick. "I like a man who
comes back for more."

Tina rolled me onto my back, still rubbing my rod. When
she'd gotten it good and hard she climbed on top and
pointed my pecker at her juicy slit.

This time we took it slow. Tina evidently wanted it to
last as long as possible. I wasn't about to argue.

She rode me at a slow canter, barely rising and
falling. I grabbed her bouncing tits and played with
them while we slow-fucked. Every once in a while she'd
slide almost all the way off and stop, my cock just
caressing her pussy lips, then press down until I was
completely buried. And a few times she showed me what a
dancer's body could do, even at her age. Take the time
she started bending backward. At first she was just
arching her back, her breasts jutting out while her
hair streamed down behind her. Then she kept going
back, slowly, bending like a swan. She kept my cock
inside her as she went, lower and lower. Her hair
brushed over my knees. She kept bending. She kept me
inside her hot cunt. At last she was flat, her back
resting on my outstretched legs, her legs bent all the
way back at the knees. I could look down my chest and
see my cock disappearing into Tina Turner's slit.

Just as slowly she rose, her hands never touching down,
her taut stomach muscles rippling.

With a sheen of sweat making her skin slippery as a
seal, she resumed humping me while I tried to keep a
grip on her hips. My dick wouldn't quit. It stood tall
as Tina rocked and rolled, sliding it in and out in
slow motion.

"Oh, lover, that's just how I like my men," she said.
"Stay hard for me, baby. I want to ride this stallion
all day long."

I was happy to comply. I'd been around the block a few
times by then, but I'd never had sex like that. She
made the hair on my arms stand on end. She made my toes
curl. Her cunt clamped on my cock, stimulating nerve
endings I didn't even know I had.

By then the whole limo reeked of our funk and my crotch
was wet and sticky from the fluids pumping out of her
cunt. Still she slid up and down my pole in waltz time.
At times the pleasure was so intense I had to grit my
teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.

Even so, I was a long ways from orgasm when Tina warned
me she was getting close. I slid my thumb onto her
clit. It was like pushing the button in a nuclear silo.
Her body exploded, great hiccuping jolts alternating
with stiff-as-a-board paralysis. She hit higher notes
than an opera singer as droplets of sweat sprayed out
from her flailing hair.

Tina collapsed on top of me, chest heaving, for the
last dying embers. "Whew, boy," she whispered in my
ear. "You about wore me out."

"Almost," I said. "But not quite yet."

I rolled over on top of her and let my hard cock slip
out. It was a bit of a tight fit in the limo, but I
managed to pick her up and carry her over to the bench
seat along the side. I put her down on her back and
took hold of a leg in each hand, lifting them high in
the air, just grazing the ceiling, as I knelt between
them, hunched over to keep from hitting my head.

She was so slick inside by then that I wouldn't have
gotten any friction at all if I'd entered her the usual
way. But when I lifted her legs and crossed her ankles
I made her slit tight enough to send shivers through me
as I plunged into her cunt one more time.

My hands roving her long, silky legs, I pounded away at
her pussy. She was grunting, I was groaning and our
fucking was making a squashy noise all its own.

"Fuck me, honey!" Tina shouted.

"Take it all, baby," I replied.

"I'm taking it. Come on, harder! Harder! I'm going out
in style, honey. Fill my cunt!"

"You want it, you got it."

I had one of those orgasms that sneaks up on you like a
freight train. It rumbled and throbbed deep within my
balls for a full minute before it finally released with
a mind-ripping roar as the hot cum gushed out of me and
into Tina's greedy cunt.

I lifted my face to the ceiling and bellowed like a
bull moose. It was that good.

After the last few spurts escaped I pulled out and
rolled off the seat onto the floor. I watched as Tina
put her own hands on her pussy, rubbing and poking
until her body rippled uncontrollably. Her head fell
back as the convulsions rocked her, wave after wave.

At last her body calmed. Her hands fell away from her
cunt, one dropping off the seat and dangling inches
from my face.

I kissed her fingertips, tasting the mingled fluids on
them. My lips went up her arm, around her neck, until I
pressed them to Tina's own full lips.

As I kissed her, my hands, quivering with exhaustion
and awe, fluttered over her nakedness one last time,
memorizing her slopes.

That's about where the story ends. Maybe we could have
talked some more, but after we got dressed and climbed
back into the front seat she almost immediately fell
asleep on my shoulder. She was out so completely that I
had to carry her into the hotel. One of her guards
spotted me and Tina was lifted away from me. That was
the last I saw of her.

But, sometimes, especially late at night, a song comes
on the radio. Whoever I'm driving, they might complain.
But I don't care. I crank it up.

That's right, Tina. I hear you.