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.

Ian M., London

I suppose you've heard about the "casting couch." There was a time, at least so legend has it, when young lovelies slept their way into good parts by paying court to directors' or producers' naughty bits.

It's not like that anymore, more's the pity. If you even glance at a young actress's legs she'll have you up on charges faster than you can say Cherie Blair.

Makes me a bit nostalgic for the old days, which is odd when you think about it because I wasn't alive then, was I? No, just a gleam in my Dad's eye and a lump in his trousers, that's what I was.

But I heard the stories when I began working in the theatre, and they may have spurred my desire to move toward directing. So imagine my dismay when I find no birds ready to succumb to my wiles. Not that I had all that many wiles to begin with.

I had to give up my dreams of easy conquests. Settle for peeping up a few skirts at rehearsals, a bit of slap and tickle at cast parties. Or actually woo the crumpets with dinner and. Bloody hell, that's a bother. But one does what one must. I resigned myself to it. Well, actually, what I resigned myself to was not getting any. I am, I must admit, a bit of a fuddy-duddy. Not to say a namby-pamby. It isn't that I don't want a bit of the all right, it's that I had rather hoped my bit would sort of come with the job. But, sadly, my willy got nilly.

Well, then, as you can imagine, it knocked me for six when the casting couch made a comeback. Only with a twist.

This time, it's not the young starlets getting seduced. It's the aging actresses, and they're not being pushed into it. They're positively leaping.

It all started when Nicole Kidman went starkers on a London stage. She's no vintage star, but she taught producers what the tabloids here have known for years. Give the punters a little tits-and-arse and you'll have to beat them off with a stick. If they don't beat themselves off first, so to speak.

So some brilliant producer thought, any fool can get a young actress to take her knickers off onstage these days. Blimey, it's all you can do to keep some of them on. A drug on the market, they are. Not worth sixpence the lot.

But what if you got some actress who was up there in years to do the peel? Some old girl who'd been keeping her naughty bits under wraps these many decades? The sheer curiosity factor would guarantee six months' run, everybody wanting to see if anything was sagging. They got the likes of Kathleen Turner and Jerry Hall to bare it all, and, sure enough, box-office gold.

Soon every producer was looking to get in on the act. Shouldn't Lady MacBeth strip off to really get that damn spot out? Surely "Mamma Mia" would be more true to the whole Abba sensibility if the older women did a nude scene -- well, not the fat one, of course, that goes without saying.

And so the call went out for older actresses willing to do the Godiva. But a funny thing happened. Once the doors were opened, every fading star saw stripping as a sure thing. Directors could take their pick. The preference, surely, was for the ultimate: women who had never gone naked in public before. That made those who'd already shown their all before a touch desperate.

So it was, when I was selected to direct the Queen's Royal Theatre production of "The Vagina Monologues: The Illustrated Version," I was set upon by a bevy of England's well-aged cheesy actresses. Dames and ladies, "Coronation Street" walkers, a thousand Christmas panto pussies in boots, they all wished to raise their skirts -- all in the pursuit of art, of course.

One day in particular remains in my memory. I had just turned down a pot of money from Diana Rigg to display her skeletal form onstage. I had an appointment for tea at Brown's with Dame Edna Everage -- and the prospect of that edifice starkers would have given the stalls a whacking. I was enjoying a rare moment of solitude when my office door flew open.

Something in a Burberry raincoat -- I couldn't at first make out just what, it moved too fast -- exploded into my small room. In its wake my secretary, a timid lass, appeared flustered and disconsolate in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, sir, I told her you were occupied," Miss Watson said in a soft wail. "But she didn't listen..."

Indeed, it was obvious my visitor was oblivious to all around her, for even as she planted herself in a leather chair opposite my desk, she was chattering away about dinner plans. It was only when I realized that the beetle-like insect she seemed to be trying to dislodge from her face was, in fact, a cell phone, that I understood the reason for her distraction. I waved Miss Watson away, and she shut the door as she bowed out.

The intruder looked at me, wide brown eyes framed by fluttering lashes. I opened my mouth to speak. She held up one well-manicured index finger and continued her telephone conversation. Well, rather. I mean, I must say, I generally do not allow the talent, so called, to treat me so. Establishes the wrong relationship.

And so I ignored her finger and began to speak. That got her attention. Show her who's boss, and all that. She told the person on the phone to wait a bit and turned her full attention to me. I paused to collect my thoughts.

She rushed into the gap. "Do you mind? I was speaking on the phone, darling. It's rather rude of you to interrupt. Be a dear and wait 'til I'm through, won't you?"

She caught me wrong-footed. I could only hem and haw -- mostly haw, it was outrageously silly when you thought about it. I did hold the whip hand, after all: I chose the cast. I sat back to see how long she would play the diva game.

She nattered on for a few minutes. I picked up my desk phone and she quickly ended her call.

I considered pretending to make my own call, but the game was getting old. And I had a point in my favor because she'd gotten off the phone; best not to push one's luck.

Then she made a tactical error. "Don't interrupt your call on my account," she said. "Go on about your little business. No need..."

I cut her off. "No bother," I said. "Indeed, no call. I suspected you'd stop that little act when you were no longer the center of attention. It appears I was correct."

She showed her teeth. "How very droll." She had good teeth. Not a small thing, considering she was British. But then, one had to wonder if, in these days of EU imports, the teeth were quite as British as the rest of her. One suspected she was not all original equipment. She was, according to the recent stories about her young swain, a rather ripe 68.

But on her, it looked good. I said as much, albeit phrasing the sentiment a tad more diplomatically. Not much more, I must say, but she let it pass, which told me everything I needed to know. Joan Collins wanted this part. She wanted it very much.

"Now, young man," she said, bestowing another smile upon me, "I understand you have a play that needs a star. A star of, shall we say, the proper magnitude."

A magnitude of about 50 or older, I thought. Joan was, if anything, overqualified on that score.

"I am willing to consider the part," she continued. "Presuming, of course, that the compensation is satisfactory."

I gave her a thin smile. My own teeth were 100 percent English; I kept my mouth closed as much as possible. "Quite an honor to our little company, I'm sure," I said. "But you surely know that we are not quite in Andrew Lloyd-Webber's league. Our salaries are more modest than I'm sure you're accustomed to."

"Ah, yes. Well, no need for us to worry about such details, of course. I'm sure my agent will be able to come to a suitable arrangement."

"Providing we are indeed interested in your services," I said.

"I assure you," Joan said with one eyebrow raised, "my services will definitely interest you."

"Perhaps," I said guardedly. I waited for her to open her dark, shiny red lips in protest before I cut her off. "Perhaps I should tell you what we're looking for. Are you familiar with the original play? Good. We have taken the liberty of making certain... adjustments to, ah, appeal to a broader audience. In particular, of course, the role now requires some nudity. A fair bit, in fact. I trust you would be comfortable with that?"

A smile flickered across her face. She dipped her head an inch. "I have never been unwilling to do what was required to get... that is, to play a part."

Funny thing: The temperature in the room seemed to be rising. I certainly felt it. Evidently so, too, did Miss Collins, for she doffed her raincoat, revealing what certainly appeared to be her warm-weather kit. The little black dress -- if such an appellation may be awarded to so few square centimeters of cloth -- had such a deep V at the neckline that it threatened to dive straight down to the bottom hem, if not indeed all the way to the patent-leather pumps that had heels only slightly less dangerous than an epee. As for that bottom hem -- two centimeters higher and one would have needed a change at Charing Cross to get from there to her knees.

Speaking of trains, the one carrying my thought was nearly derailed when she leaned forward to tap a pointy silver fingernail on my oak desk.

"So?" she asked.

I was as baffled as Bertie Wooster.

"So," she said, taking my hands in hers, "when shall we start rehearsals, dear boy?"

I shook myself, trying to ignore the thick, musky perfume wafting my way. There was something I needed to say -- but what? My, that was a particularly interesting scent. I...

Just then, my eyes lighted on a sheaf of papers on the desktop -- last month's box-office receipts and expenses. The report had a distinctly carmine tinge. It all came back to me. I pulled my hand from Joan's grasp.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but there's a bit of a sticky wicket here. The theatre is looking for -- ah -- a certain cachet in the actress for this play."

"Darling, I have cachet. I have so much cachet it's just oozing out of me!" She extended a long leg in its silky-smooth black stocking and placed a hand delicately on her thigh.

I stared, for it was indeed a leg worth staring at. Of course, the fact that it was propped up on my desk, pointing directly at me, made it difficult to ignore, like the Ubangi in the drawing room.

Still, business is business, and all that. I kept my eyes on her limb as I spoke.

"I am sure that you have a coterie of devoted fans, Miss Collins. But. Well. To be frank, it isn't so much cachet we're interested in as, er, cash."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Again, to be frank... We need cash. Money. Pounds. Dosh, loads of it. And that means we need someone who must be, shall I say, something by way of a guaranteed draw? We need box office, Miss Collins."

"Young man, I... I... That is..." Joan's pale face had turned a delicate shade of purple. She drew a deep breath, nostrils flaring. As she let it out, her brown eyes bored into mine.

"I have never had complaints about my box office performance," she said in very precise, clipped syllables.

I averted my eyes. "Just how many weeks did 'Over the Moon' run? Or was it days?"

She gasped. Bravo, I thought: Quite convincing. And I noted that she had managed to draw my eyes back to her narrow face, with its aquiline nose and pointed chin. An arresting face, quite upper-class. Which, as I was sure she knew, made her next line all the more shocking.

"Touche. But have you considered the possibility that I had a rather different box... office in mind?"

And then, in a bit of business that made Sharon Stone look like a nun, Joan slowly slid forward in her seat, leaving her tiny dress behind. With one leg still propped on my desk and the other now spread far to the opposite side, I looked directly into a gaping vagina winking below a tuft of dark hair trimmed into a neat rectangle.

It was a somewhat disarming sight, with a curiously bifurcated effect on my body. Above the waist, all was frozen. I believe I did not blink for at least a full minute. My right hand, halfway to reaching for something -- I'm afraid all memory of what I was reaching for fled my brain at that instant -- my hand stopped in midair, suspended like a construction crane at the end of the workday. Most unseemly. But below the waist, there indeed was activity. Most ardent activity. In a word, I became erect.

Or I would have, were there room in my trousers to permit it. Instead, i became painfully semi-erect, my stiffened member being held back by the tight, durable cloth of my Saville Row suit.

It definitely was getting hotter in my cramped office. Positively tropical. I ran a finger inside my shirt collar and found it sopping wet with perspiration. Most baffling. I awkwardly unbuttoned the collar as I spoke.

"Really, Miss Collins. You're putting me in a bit of a difficult spot. Surely you understand that I cannot allow other... considerations to take preference over... Miss Collins! My word!"

"Stop nattering, darling," Joan said matter-of-factly as she rose to her feet. "We both know what's going to happen here."

She crawled up onto my desk on her hands and knees. "Don't we?"

Grabbing hold of my loosened tie, she pulled me forward, so close I could feel her breath on my face. "So let's get to it, shall we?"

Joan crawled forward, pushing me back into my chair. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to mine, muffling my final protests. She tasted like strawberries. Rather irrelevantly, I thought of Wimbledon.

Breaking our kiss, Joan twisted around on the desktop. Papers, pens, phone all went flying. She ended up sitting on the desk, a shapely ankle resting on each of my shoulders. Her open cunt was staring right at me. Subtle, she wasn't. But there's something to be said for the direct approach. I was aroused, to say the least.

All the more so, I must admit, when Joan pulled her legs back slightly, planted her heels on my chest and pushed. My chair flew the short distance to the back wall and fetched up against it with a thunk. At the same time, Joan slid off the desk -- her dress bunching up around her waist, leaving her fully exposed -- and knelt before me.

Up close, Joan age peeked through here and there, like long-ago wallpaper showing through fading layers of paint. The flesh under her arms was bunched up like a shar-pei's neck; the makeup was cracking at the outside corners of her eyes. Oddly enough, that seemed to make her all the more attractive to me. I chose not to dwell on the psychological significance of that.

It seemed wiser to concern myself more with matters of more immediate moment -- to wit, the fact that Joan Collins was undoing my fly. Indeed, she had already undone my fly and was applying herself to my belt.

I shall spare you further sartorial details. Suffice it to say that in a trice the lower portion of my raiment was bunched around my ankles and my staff of life was on full display.

"Well, someone looks happy to see me," Joan said, giving my penis a firm kiss. When she pulled back, the tip was the same bright red as her lips.

I saw it for only a second before the tip, along with the rest of the rubbery head, disappeared into Joan's pursed lips.

Miss Collins does not have the acting skills of a Stanislavski, but when it comes to fellatio, she does have a startlingly good method. She alternated between sucking vigorously on the head like a lolly and devouring it all over like a sausage roll.

Imagine, if you will, looking down at your lad to see your willy ensconced in Joan Collins' mouth whilst she, cheeks hollowed, looks up at you with wide eyes outlined in kohl. Or you see her running her tongue up and down your member and then shaking that selfsame sex organ, slapping it against her cheek so that flecks of your precum spatter her powdered face. Either way, not a sight one would soon forget.

She was a most enthusiastic fellater. In just a minute or two I felt my precious bodily fluids come to a boil. Forthwith, cum was boiling out of me. It gushed mightily, yet Joan swallowed it all.

Even more, she held my member in her mouth as it pulsed and then deflated. When I thought I was through, she showed me how wrong I was. Her tongue danced around my penis -- a soft-shoe, at first, when it was extremely sensitive. But then with increasing vigour, through waltz and foxtrot, samba and bossa nova, to a frantic polka. As my shaft responded, Joan grabbed it by the root and began to massage it quite briskly. In a trice, or so it seemed, I was hard as Gibraltar again.

At that point, she relinquished my penis and rose, slowly, to her feet. She undressed me first, tossing my clothes aside with abandon. Then she stepped back and performed a swaying strip-tease, until she was down to a small lace garter belt holding up her hose.