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.