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.