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.

Ron W., California

I haven't always been a silver surfer. In fact, every one of my regular relationships has been with a woman my own age. Some of the other surfers think that's weird.

But for me, the attraction isn't age. It's that these women are the ones I grew up fantasizing about, the ones in my adolescent dreams. So I can appreciate the beauty of today's sex symbols, but no one revs my engine as much as the women who have been my masturbation partners for decades.

Even at that, I probably would never have sought out yesterday's stars. Who'd think those goddesses were attainable? It was only when the bounty was spread before me that I joined the feast.

It started when I opened a small bed-and-breakfast buried in the tall forests north of San Francisco. My wife and I planned to run it as a way to supplement our regular salaries enough to let us afford that dream location. We kept it simple and business was slow but steady.

Then my wife ran off to LA with a younger guy. I guess this life wasn't her dream anymore. Anyway, suddenly I was in danger of losing everything; there was no way I could run the B&B and keep my regular job, and even if I could, where'd I find the extra cash? Our prices had to be low -- we had no cable, no TV at all. No Jacuzzi. No fancy restaurants or much of anything but trees for miles and miles.

In the end, that's what saved the place for me: its isolation. Being out of touch may be boring for normal folks, but it's bliss for a lot of stars.

An agent who happened on my place recommended it to two or three of his clients, and it snowballed. Not only did I have no TV and nothing to do, but I made it even more of a retreat. I pulled the radios from the rooms, unplugged the phones, stopped my newspaper subscriptions. Even if customers wanted to stay in touch, they couldn't: I was so out of the way that cell phones couldn't get a signal.

I kept my own phone, of course. And soon it was ringing off the hook as word spread. I kept raising prices and it seemed to only make my little B&B more popular with Hollywood. I actually was able to quit my job and devote full time to the place.

I even cut back to only one pair of guests at a time so I could offer maximum privacy.

Before too long I was catering to the cream of show business. The guests were generally older -- old enough, anyway, for the excitement of being famous to have worn away to the annoyance of being gawked at wherever you went. But not so old that no one recognized them anymore.

Sometimes the star of the couple was the guy, of course, but over time a bevy of women who had outgrown Hollywood's lust but not mine paraded through my little corner of the woods.

They came in couples, though, so all I could do was watch and dream. That was enough, though, to get my hopes stirring.

Then came the week I went beyond hoping.

The four-day booking was in her husband's name -- her husband du jour, a nobody whose name I didn't recognize. He had the right references, though, so I figured he have been married to somebody famous.

Famous wasn't the half of it.

She was on the passenger side of the 4x4 when it rolled up to my place around 3 p.m. It's not unusual for the nobody guys who marry famous women to insist on driving their own cars instead of using chauffeurs. It may be one of the few manly things left for them.

He pulled up to the front door and I came out to greet them. You pay my prices, you're going to get my best service. I opened her door and held it as she stepped down.

All I'd seen through the window was the side of a big, floppy straw hat that covered up most of her face, and the flowery top of a blouse with puffy sleeves. When I opened the door, a shapely, well-tanned foot in a strappy shoe with an inch-thick cork sole and a thick high heel eased out. It was attached to a beautiful leg that stretched on forever as the bottom of her short beige skirt clung to the leather seat. My eyes crawled up to a firm but not overly muscled thigh, up and up as her skirt was left behind and a pair of bright red silk panties came into view. Then she swung her other leg down, two perfect stems. As she stepped onto the driveway and patted her skirt back into place, I let my eyes roam up to see what rose was atop those lovely stems.

Wow. She had a body like I'd never seen. Curves that would make a snake jealous, tits straining at her blouse.

I took it all in. Her skirt and blouse were like a second skin, but in my head I was peeling them off to see the real skin underneath. It would be tanned all over, I figured, tanned like her legs and arms and...

I think I actually gasped when I saw her face. Even in the shade of her floppy hat, her eyes twinkled above her chiseled cheekbones when she spoke.

"Lovely view you've got here," she said, almost a purr.

"I hope you enjoy it, Ms. Welch."

"Mmm, I hope so too. It looks like you have."

I actually blushed, and I hadn't done that since I was a kid. But after all, here I was talking to -- and gawking at -- Raquel Welch. And she was even better in person than on the page or the screen.

In person I could see the luster of her smooth skin. Age had taken away the roundness of her early years, but to me she was more fascinating with her curves complemented by some beautiful angles.

I was embarrassed that she'd caught me eyeing her, but she'd let me know without ratting me out to her husband, who came around to the front door and flipped me the keys. I nabbed them and grabbed a suitcase Raquel had gotten out of the back seat. "I'll hold these for now," I said carefully to her husband's back, "and later I can show you where the parking space is." Hey, I give good service, but I'm the owner, not the bellhop. If Mr. Insecure is going to drive his own car he can damn well park it.

Raquel chuckled a little and her husband's ears turned bright red, but he said nothing. Just opened the door and went in, letting it close behind him. She slipped around me -- it was a tight squeeze with bushes on either side of the narrow sidewalk; for once I was glad I'd forgotten to trim them back -- and opened the door. Even held it open for me.

I showed them to their suite, told them how to work the hot tub, explained about breakfasts and recommended some places for dinner.

Raquel paid attention, but he ignored me as he scowled at his matchbook-sized cell phone.

"That won't work here," I told him.

"What? Were you talking to me?"

No, I thought, to the other jerk with a cell. "Yes. We don't have a cell tower close enough for reception here."

"Fine. Just fine." He quickly scanned the room. "So where's the phone hiding?"

"No phone."

"What the hell are you talking about? What kind of..."

Raquel interrupted his bluster. "It was in the brochure, honey. Remember? We wanted some place where we wouldn't be bothered."

"You wanted someplace," he said. "How am I supposed to work if..."

"We weren't supposed to work," she said.

I can't say I didn't want to take sides in this little spat, and you know whose side I would have taken. But I did have a financial interest here, not to mention the tradition of innkeeper's hospitality. "If it's so important," I said, "you can use the one in my office."

He snorted in reply. I took that as a cue to leave. A little while later he stomped through the house and out to his car. I was ready when he stomped back in a few seconds later, and I tossed his keys over to him. "The parking spot..." I started to say.

"I can find it," he grunted. On his way back in with the luggage, he didn't say a word. There's a private entrance to the suite next to the parking space, but it's hidden by a rose arbor. I had pointed it out when I showed them around, but if he didn't want to pay attention, not my problem.

That evening they slipped out for dinner while I was at the grocery. I was tidying the great room, where the big fireplace is, when they got back. He stormed past me to their room; Raquel told him she had to ask me about breakfast.

Instead, she apologized for her husband's behavior and asked again about a phone. I said the one in my room was a cordless and they were welcome to borrow it, but that was also my business line so I'd prefer that it not be in constant use.

"Then I better not even mention it," she said. "I don't know why he's so crazy about this. I'd hoped some time away from it all would be good for him. And for..." She trailed off.

"Maybe it'll just take him a little time to relax," I said.

"I hope so," she said, but there was doubt in her voice.

"Did you have a nice time at dinner?" I was casting about for some way to lighten the mood, but I also wanted to keep her talking to me. Hey, if it was you with Raquel Welch, what would you do?

She gave me a sad smile.

"Something wrong? Did you go to one of the restaurants on my list? They're usually reliable."

"Oh, the restaurant was wonderful. It was my husband. He got a little upset when the maitre'd told him no cell calls were allowed. And then on the way back he was trying to call and drive at the same time..."

I winced. The roads around here are scary even at their best, in bright sunshine. Trying to maneuver those curves and switchbacks at night is horrendous for people new to the area. And with one hand on his cell!

"Well," she said, "you can imagine. I offered to drive, but..."

He poked his head out of the corridor that led to their suite. "How long does it take to order our breakfast?"

Raquel excused herself and went to him. I went over to my end of the house, wondering how much he'd overheard.

Breakfast the next morning was awkward. They hadn't requested room service, which I deliver to the suite's vestibule for maximum privacy, so I set up in the morning room, with its wall of glass overlooking the garden. Every time I'd come out with tea or toast or whatever, they'd be whispering, and they'd clam up as I approached. I've got no problem with couples who want to be left alone -- I'm not one of those chatty B&B owners who sees guests as a captive audience -- but this was a little off-putting.

Still, I thought, it couldn't hurt to offer a few suggestions for their day.

Yes, it turned out, it could.

Raquel seemed interested in the scenic picnic spots and the wineries to the south, but her husband -- well, it was the first time anyone had literally snarled at me. I apologized for bothering them and retreated to the kitchen.

Even there I could hear what happened next; he was done whispering. He wanted to leave immediately; she suggested giving it one more day. He insisted; she pointed out that check-out wasn't until 1 (actually, since they'd already reserved for three nights they could check out whenever they wanted; I was still going to charge them the full bill). He got a little snide; she sniped back.

Finally he delivered an ultimatum: He was leaving, period.

She fired back: She was staying, period.

With that, he stomped off to their room. She took one last swallow of orange juice -- fresh-squeezed, of course -- and followed.

As I cleaned the table, I guessed that they'd settle things one way or another with a compromise, and I played a guessing game with myself about how it would come out.

I lost. Just as I was clearing away the napkins, he marched past with one bag. A minute later I heard the 4x4 start up with a roar and pepper the wall with gravel as it sped off.

I was still standing there, staring at the door, when Raquel came into the room a minute later. She answered my unspoken question.

"He'll be back Sunday," she said. "He has some important work..." She looked into my eyes and broke off in mid-sentence. She turned her eyes to the floor for a second and looked back at me, her jaw set. "So I guess I've got a couple of days to fill. Any good hiking trails around here?"

The best, I said, was a 15-minute drive away. I offered her my car, even insisted, but she seemed reluctant. I remembered her last experience on our roads; maybe she'd gotten a little spooked. Finally I wore her down when I said I'd drive.

A few minutes later she met me outside. In plain white sneakers she was a little shorter than I'd expected, no more than 5'6. But if anything she was even more attractive than ever. She wore a blaze-orange blouse completely unbuttoned, just tied below her clearly unconfined breasts. With each step the blouse gapped and revealed the alluring curves and the tantalizing valley in between. Beneath her taut, tanned tummy she had on a pair of white cotton cutoffs that looked sprayed on.

Yet there was no sign she'd attempted to be seductive. She moved easily, swinging the carrying loop of some binoculars over her shoulder and then adjusting the plastic visor she'd slipped onto her forehead. She seemed entirely natural and unpretentious. I guess when you've had a body like that for so many years, you forget the effect it has on people.

In my case, the effect was painfully obvious. When Raquel walked around to the passenger side of my car I quickly reached into my khaki slacks and adjusted my rigid tool so it wasn't bent double by my briefs. At least that took care of the painful part. But it didn't do enough to conceal my condition. I could only hope she wouldn't look down and see my bulge.

She didn't, or at least if she did, she didn't say anything. We drove down to the trailhead and I let her out, arranging to pick her up in about an hour. I put the car in gear and was just about to pull out when I heard a yelp and looked over just in time to see Raquel's head falling out of sight.

I threw open my door and raced around the car. She was already sitting up, rubbing her ankle. When she saw me standing over her, she pointed ruefully to a stone about the size of an egg on the ground next to her. "I just tripped," she said, rolling onto her knees. "That's what I get for wearing tennis shoes to hike."

I reached out to help her up, trying to keep from staring down at her bronzed breasts almost completely exposed. She winced as she took a wobbly step.

"Is it broken?" Without thinking, I'd slid an arm around her bare waist. Her skin was warm and soft like a doe's.

"No," she said, "not even sprained. I just need to walk it off."

I held her for a few steps, but she grew steadier with each step and I felt a little foolish. I pulled my arm back.

"See," she said. "Good as new."

"I guess," I said. "But are you sure you'll be OK?"

"You go on. I'll be fine. Besides, I couldn't pass up a chance to enjoy all this." She swept an arm around her.

She had good taste. We were in a green cathedral. The trees soared up to the clouds all around us, huge, straight pillars. The canopy is so thick that the light gets filtered to the color of fresh limes and the temperature is as much as 20 degrees cooler than in the Napa Valley, sometimes even more. It was 92 in the valley that day, but amid the trees it was almost chilly enough for a jacket. Of course I'm biased because I chose to live here, but to me there is no more serene place. The scale of the trees is so monumental that your cares and concerns shrink beneath them.

All of the attraction of the forest swept through me as I looked around and breathed the cool, clean air. How long had it been since I'd taken a walk in the woods? Wasn't that why I'd moved here?

Raquel agreed to let me accompany her, and we set off down a winding path. The trail was reasonably well-marked, so I had no objection when she took the lead. And I got to liking the idea as I admired the view of her from behind. Seeing her butt swaying was mesmerizing. I had reason to be glad she was herself hypnotized by the scenery before her when I realized my cock was tent-poling my slacks. Only by some intense concentration was I able to get it under control, and I had to repeat the procedure several times.

We'd been walking for some time and were far out of sight of the road when we came to a spot where fallen trees blocked the trail. Raquel tried to get over them, but her shoes couldn't get a grip on the huge timbers. I scrambled up to the top and put out my hand to haul her along. As we jumped down on the other side we clutched at each other's hands, and we didn't let go as we marched on. It wasn't deliberate; it just happened.

In the same way, awhile later, after the trail had begun to curve back toward the beginning, we came to a spot where fallen branches and uneven terrain made the going a bit difficult. We put our arms around each other for support and just didn't let go. My hand was resting just below her right breast. I could feel its weight bouncing lightly onto my hand every so often.

We were both in good shape and the trail wasn't all that taxing, so when we stopped some distance short of the trailhead it wasn't to catch our breaths but to delay the moment when we'd have to return to the reality of roads and car exhausts. We stood side by side, arms around each other. Slowly we surveyed our surroundings, swinging our eyes around.

Then came the moment we happened to turn toward each other. Our eyes locked and I found myself falling into hers. Our lips parted. I could feel her heart beating faster beneath my hand. I was sure mine was doing the same.

Maybe it was a bird that ter-whitted in a nearby tree and broke our concentration. Or maybe it was our minds snapping out a warning. But whatever it was, we moved apart awkwardly and walked back to the car.

We may have talked on the drive back. If we did, my mouth must have been on autopilot. All I was thinking about was what had just happened -- what had almost happened. Raquel Welch was so far out of my league. Had I only imagined the look in her eye? Was it all a dangerous daydream?

As I returned to reality, I realized it was already after noon. Raquel agreed with my suggestion of a deli that had a wide selection of prepared food to go. We filled two bags with olives and crusty French bread, pasta salads and fruit and a bottle of California wine.

The backyard at my place is enough of a clearing in the forest that the sun can cut through and warm things up. With just enough of a breeze from the trees to keep the temperature comfortable, it's the perfect spot for lazing and sunbathing. While I set up our grazing lunch, Raquel went inside to freshen up.

She came out in a red leather string bikini that made it obvious the years had been very kind to her. I couldn't see a wrinkle on her -- and there wasn't much I couldn't see. Two triangles on her breasts could hardly contain the magnificence of her mounds, and not even leather could hide the stiffness of her nipples. The strip of leather at her crotch barely preserved her modesty, and only tiny thongs stretched around her hips. This was the Raquel of "1 Million B.C.," of "Bedazzled," of "Bandolero" and "100 Rifles." This was the body that had stained a million young boys' beds with the evidence of their admiration.

And there it was on my own lounge chair. Tongue-tied doesn't begin to describe my condition.

We sat together, eating grapes and reading books. When she turned over, presenting me with her Botticelli behind, I had to bury my nose in my book to keep from burying something else in her. When she casually reached up and untied her bra string, I had to shift to relieve the pressure on my cock, and

felt a wetness down below. I looked down and saw a small, dark stain on my crotch. All I could do was lift one knee to try to shield the stain from her view and wait for the sun to dry it.

Raquel never seemed to notice the effect she'd had on me. She retied her bra before she rolled over, just as nonchalantly as ever.

It was then she asked if I'd go to dinner with her. She already had a reservation for two, she said, and at the restaurant they'd picked, Friday-night reservations are not abandoned lightly. I accepted quickly, of course.

We read for awhile longer and then I had to go do some bookkeeping. Raquel slipped on her tennis shoes and as I entered the house I turned back to see her doing aerobics. Her breasts were captivating as she jogged in place. Amazing, I thought. She puts the sex in sexagenarian.

I kept busy in my office the rest of the day. Raquel was nowhere in sight when I emerged in time to change for dinner. After a shower and a shave, I walked into the great room at 6, looking dapper -- I hoped -- in my best summer-weight suit, a tan number. I'd hauled out the silk tie that had been the last gift my ex-wife had given me before we split. This is a casual place, but we were going to one of the area's finest restaurants. And, besides, it was Raquel Welch. The evening called for something special.

Something special was exactly what I got.

I was pouring a glass of wine when I heard steps on the stone floor behind me. I turned and held my breath.

Raquel's dress concealed far more than her bikini had, but its impact on me was even more intense.

It was gold -- not yellow, gold. As shiny as the metal itself. A Spandex halter top with a dramatic teardrop-shaped cutout over her decolletage. The Spandex gave way to satin just above the hips, but the fit was every bit as tight, the cloth hugging her curves in a sheath that extended to her gold-sequined heels. A slit on the right ran up to the top of her thigh, exposing all her bare, tanned leg as she strode forward. When she stopped in front of me and twirled around, I saw that the dress was virtually backless -- a deep scoop revealed the shadowed cleft at the top of her elegant ass.

It was as if a golden statue of Venus had come to life, flesh forming from molten metal. I didn't know where to look -- not because I didn't want to be caught staring; I was beyond that -- but because every inch of her was so delectable. I will never forget the vision of Raquel in that dress, just as I will never forget what followed.

I may have gazed upon her for a minute without speaking -- or it may have been a month. When I regained my senses she was speaking.

"I said, is that for me?"

For a second I thought she was referring to my once-again obvious physical reaction to her body. But she was looking higher, and I realized she meant the wine glass in my hand.

I gave it to her and, with shaking hand, poured myself one. I lit the big fireplace to take off the chill in the air that came with dusk -- though I felt distinctly warm, myself -- and joined her on the leather couch across from it. The fire crackled and leaped as we sipped our wine. We stared at the flames without speaking. When I turned back to her, I was startled by an awesome vision. The reds and yellows and whites and blues of the firelight danced on Raquel's shimmering dress like a sensuous kaleidoscope. It was a form of camouflage, making her body seem to flicker in and out of this plane of existence.

I spoke without knowing it; the thought came from my soul, not my brain.

"You are so very beautiful," I said.

The words sounded tinny to my ears, some echo of a really bad pick-up line. Abashed, I tried to retreat.

"Of course, you know that. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so obvious. It's just... just..." I had no words left.