He came to my door after dinner and asked if he might step in. I had just met him at First Sitting, and Second Sitting was in progress then. He told me he had a problem only an older man would understand. I found this a bit perplexing. We English are not inclined to open our lives to a stranger so quickly, but he was an American, and we all know how forward they can be.

He had come to table with his beautiful young English wife and seemed to find my repartee entertaining, yet halfway through the meal his wife had left the table abruptly. He had not followed, but his participation ended. He sat there staring at his plate and never ate another morsel served.

No one had asked him at table why his partner went missing. The rest of us were British, you see, and all in matched pairs except me, so nosing about in a private matter would have been unseemly, to say the least. They comprised a group of lords and ladies, married to one another, of course, members of the country gentry from somewhere in the northern counties, traveling together on an excursion to the famous Niagara Falls.

They knew me only by reputation as the venerable playwright from London on my way with my male secretary to supervise the New York opening of my latest play. They had fairly fought, in a decorous manner the purser had informed me, for a place at table with me. My secretary, who sat beside me - rather a prude, I must say - was quite an old lady himself in certain ways and blended well with the noisy hens at table who were clucking noisily at me and each other among the withered cocks that passed for husbands, not a one of whom was less than sixty-five. The quiet young man had provided an anomaly in the matter of age for he could not have been more than twenty-five.

One of the more perspicacious of the ladies spoke of me once as the "new" Oscar Wilde. I passed that one by quickly for I had known Oscar intimately in my youth and had assiduously avoided such comparisons since his unfortunate fall from grace. Renowned international playwright I might be, but I lived my life in a closet of British respectability, seldom daring to open the door to the reality which was actually mine.

Perhaps that is why I was overwhelmed by caution when I saw the young man at my door. I opened it no more than a crack. "Whatever do you want?" I asked. "I am ready to retire and have undressed to my body linen. This is no time to receive a guest."

"A moment, sir, just a moment, I swear. I am wrestling with a problem I fear only an older man such as yourself would understand. Please let me in, sir. I cannot talk about it out here in the corridor."

Reluctantly, I opened the door wider to let him in, and despite being clad only in cotton knickers, poked out my head to see if anyone was about. Gossip could be ruinous, as I knew well in the unhappy case of Oscar Wilde. Everyone knew he had snagged his tongue, so to speak, on his saucy young lover's fly.

Luck was with me. The hallway was empty. The passengers from the First Sitting at dinner, including my secretary - who had the cabin next to mine - would now be at cards and conversation in the lounges and bars. The rest of the First-Class passengers would be at Second Sitting in the Dining Saloon. Not even a steward was in sight, and the hall lights were grouped so that the area around my door was somewhat shadowed, thank God!

He stood in the middle of my suite fidgeting with his wedding ring, seemingly too distracted to notice that I was nearly in the nude. I remained at the door, my hand on the knob, hoping his problem would be simple, and I could soon send him on his way.

"What is this problem?" I ventured, determined to brook no delay.

To my great surprise, he burst into tears and sat down on the edge of the four-poster with his face buried in his hands. "Oh, sir," he whimpered, "I know this is not manly, but I cannot help myself. Oh, God, my life is over! Nothing is left for me now!"

His agony wrenched my heart. I stepped away from the door and went to him, where I beneficently laid my hand upon his shoulder. "No, no! Men, too, may shed tears in times of crisis. A good cry often calms the mind to think clearly. I have talked about this with Dr. Freud in Vienna. As a playwright, I must be familiar with the territories of the human soul."

He lifted his chin and looked upward directly into my eyes. Until that moment, I had viewed him in a most impersonal way, but I realized now that his eyes were lovely. A cloud of soft, ash blonde hair floated on his brow. He was an exceptionally handsome, if childlike, young man.

"Dr. Freud?" he queried. "You know Sigmund Freud? I have read his book about dreams. He says that our deepest secrets are revealed in them. My secrets are so deep, sir. That is why I am here. When I saw you across the table at dinner, you quite took my breath away. You are so stately and so dominant at conversation, so commanding in every way, I knew that I must seek you out quickly. Sir, only you can save me now."

Intrigued by his earnestness, I sat down beside him with my arm stretched out behind. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. I could no longer see his face. His shoulders and back were broad and manly. His suit was expensively tailored and suggested narrow hips and trim waist.

"I have to look away from you, sir, to say what I have to say. I never thought I could talk about this to anyone, but I know now God has led me to the right place. You are familiar with Dr. Freud. You understand the human heart!"

I shook my head. "Not really, young man, but I try."

"I have read all your plays, sir. I am perhaps your greatest fan. When I boarded this ship today, I had no idea you, too, were on board. Of course. this sailing is a great occasion - the maiden voyage of the most magnificent ship in the world. How honored I am to share it with you."

"...And with your wife," I ventured softly.

His shoulders stiffened. "This voyage is our honeymoon. We were married a month ago. My family has already returned home to the United States. My wife and I have been staying with her family at their Yorkshire estate."

"She seems a proper lady," I observed.

He sighed. "Yes, sir, hers is a noble family with a famous ancestral home, but I discover that they have no funds except for the generous sum my wealthy father laid on them when he and her parents arranged this marriage. He is a self-made man. I realize now that he has studded me out to a blue-blooded mare to enhance our family line, but has paid the stud fee himself. He believes he is buying Old World respectability by means of this marriage."

"How do you know this?" I asked, being aware that such arrangements were not rare in the upper classes.

He heaved an even heavier sigh. "My wife told me. She has locked herself into our bathroom, and told me from the other side of the door. She said that she had only married me for the sake of her parents. She thought she could endure it, but realizes now that she can't. You see, sir, she continued to occupy her childhood room in the family mansion. Her family did not know that she required me to sleep in the adjacent nanny's room. She claimed to be frightened of the marriage bed."

"Ah!" I responded. "Your union has not been...consummated?"

He shook his head. "She is as virgin as she was before." He hesitated, then spoke on. "As am I."

We were both silent for a moment. The voyage had been relatively calm, but the noises of the ship and its pitching sway seemed more pronounced now that our talk had died away. I was very aware of his leg pressed against mine. The heat of his youth warmed me, and although I did not interpret it as sexual, the intimate contact was more pleasing than I dared to acknowledge. His shoulder leaned against me. My arm rested against his back.

He broke the silence. "She told me it all changed when we entered the stateroom together. She realized that In those tight quarters, she could no longer escape her wifely responsibility to have intercourse with me. She went in to dinner this evening only to delay the confrontation she knew would take place. Then, something happened at table which so profoundly disturbed her that she got up and ran, after whispering to me that she wished to be left alone.

"When I returned from dinner, the stateroom was locked against me. I was furious and made such a fuss she had to let me in, but fled to the bathroom and again locked the door. She was still in there, making her last stand. when I left. A generous tip convinced the purser to give me the number of your stateroom. I told him you had dropped your gloves at dinner, and I wished to return them personally."

"You want my advice on how to win her to you?" I asked further, still unsure of where I fit into his scheme.

"No, sir. What happened this evening at table ended any hope of that. She wants the marriage annulled as soon as we reach New York. The money be damned, she says. She wants nothing to do with me. "

Mystified, I searched my memory of the dinner conversation and found it wanting in wit and substance except, of course, for mine. "I do not understand."

"The comparison to Oscar Wilde," he said enigmatically, but his words put me on my guard.

I instinctively shrunk away. I had disliked it when the old biddy across from me had made that remark. Now it had come back to haunt me.

He turned his head and looked me in the eye. He was no longer tearful. As I had suggested, crying had left his mind crystal clear as country air after a sudden rain. "Oscar Wilde. My wife thinks I, too, am that kind of man. She thinks it also of you."

I blanched. Certain women have the fatal instinct toward this perception no matter how well one thinks it is hid. Still, I proceeded with caution. "What kind of man would that be?"

"A man made for other men. Excuse my boldness in this matter, sir, but I have reached my extremity. I am being torn apart. This must be resolved, or I shall throw myself overboard and be done with it. She saw it in the way I looked at you, she told me through the bathroom door, and declared I have never looked at her that way. You are like him, she said of me, and like Oscar Wilde. You dared to look the same way at my father, she said, and even at the old vicar when he married us in church! It is unnatural, she cried, adding, you disgust me! And then she said she would denounce me to my father and demand more payment to keep her from telling the world. She intends to ruin me, sir. I don't know what to do."

Stunned by these revelations, and sensing great danger to myself, I suggested we remain quiet and sort things out. "Dr. Freud insists that his patients make themselves comfortable, perhaps lying down, resting the body, breathing deeply and helping the circulation of oxygen to the brain. Oxygen is brain food, he says. At times of stress, first feed the mind, and the mind will feed you."

I indicated that he should lie down on the sofa and told him I would recline on my bed.

"We should both close our eyes and and try to clear our brains of the turmoil this situation has brought on, " I volunteered. "Let us hope the answer will be revealed."

We lay still, each in his place. I really intended to mull over his dilemma in search of a solution, but his beautiful face intruded at every mental turn, and after a time my thoughts undressed him in my mind's eye. Gradually, my perception of him changed from a young man who needed my help in some undetermined way, to an object of desire. I had enjoyed no sexual contact whatsoever with another of my sex for more than a year, my last brief affair having come to a sorry pass when the young postal clerk who had caught my fancy at the post office one summer day began to pester me for funds, making me realize the relationship was not what I had supposed, or hoped, it to be. Truly, there is no fool like an old fool. Now here I lay in my parlor suite in mid-Atlantic, alone with a magnificent youth whom I fantasized on his knees in my bed, lifting his shapely buttocks to invite me to perform an act of love. Sweating like a horse by now, I brought myself quickly to think of cool water casacading over me from a waterfall. Otherwise, I would have burst at the loins!

An hour passed. I thought he must be asleep. Thoroughly rested, I felt quite at peace and decided to let him be. I began to drift away.

Suddenly, I felt him slip into bed beside me. He was naked. Although startled, I kept my eyes shut, not sure what would happen if I let him know I was awake. It seemed an awkward situation.

I could hear him breathing softly, then his tender lips gently touched my cheek. It was not a proper kiss, just a brush of warmth against my face. He sighed and remained still for a moment until his fingers began slowly to explore my body beneath the sheets. He lay his head on my breast and draped his arm across me in a gently loving embrace.

I decided it best to continue feigning sleep. I doubted he would have dared be so bold were I awake.

Pushing my knickers aside, he began the delicate twisting of my pubic curls. As his fingers drew closer to my most private of parts, I willed myself not to have an erection, but my libido overruled me. My penis arose at the first touch of his hand.

Shifting his head downward, his moist lips settled on my penis tip and applied a sucking motion. With the fingers of one hand, he grasped the shaft and tugged the loose flesh up and down. With the other hand, he gathered my gonads in his palm and caressed them with his thumb.

It was a delicious sensation. I strained to maintain my stillness. It seemed the best thing at that moment to let him believe I was not awake. I resolved to make no sound despite my inclination to moan with sheer pleasure. He faithfully continued his ministrations, like a priest in silent prayer.

I struggled against the desire to stroke his beautiful head when I felt my juices rising, wondering if I should apprise him of my imminent ejaculation. His lips never moved from my corona. He had pushed the foreskin aside with his tongue. It circled the exposed scarlet tip which was the most agonizingly sensitive part of my anatomy.

My hands clenched into fists as my semen rushed toward the moment of truth. I sought desperately to maintain control, but my buttocks tightened, my gonads strained, my thighs twitched. Still, however, I pretended to be asleep.

He took the full force of my explosion in his mouth. It was a massive charge as I had not come to orgasm for several weeks, not being inclined to masturbate, relying for release on what are known as "wet" dreams which had grown rare as I grew older. I heard him gag and snort a bit. Drops of yellowish liquid dribbled past his lips, but he caught them and cleansed my genitals thoroughly with his tongue.

Then he knelt over me with his handsome face buried in my privates, his arm jerking wildly as he manipulated himself. Suddenly, he gasped, lifted his head and uttered, "Oh!" as I felt the pellets of semen he ejected like gunshots on my legs. He, too, had carried a powerful load. His breath came in heaves, but between them his licked his own semen from my legs.

I watched him dreamily through narrowed lids as he stepped out of the bed and quickly donned his clothes. At the doorway, he glanced back at me with his hand on the knob. Smiling faintly, he then turned and went away.

I opened my eyes. Had it happened at all, or had it been only one of my wet dreams? I wrapped myself around a pillow and fell into sleep as deep as if I were dead.

I saw the young man one more time, while strolling on the Boat Deck. He came up behind me and fell into step at my side, speaking softly so that others could not hear.

"Thanks for being so kind the other evening, sir. I have resolved the situation to my wife's satisfaction. I have cabled my father that my marriage must be annulled and a tidy sum settled on her. I gave him no reason, telling him simply that after this transaction, I shall no longer require his support. As soon as we dock, I'm heading out West where I hear that San Francisco may be a good place for...our kind of man."

He stumbled slightly over those last words, glancing sideways at me. I showed no response, feeling that he had made peace with himself on that remarkable night and had got all he needed from me.

One question, though, did come to mind. "Tell me, young man, have you and your bride worked out the sleeping arrangements while on board?"

"Yes, sir, we have. The purser found a place for me in steerage. It is all I can afford now. Thank you for asking, sir. Good-bye."

That was the last time I saw him, but I did see his wife once again.

There was a dreadful emergency that very night, and during all the confusion I somehow fell overboard. Luckily, the last lifeboat was manned by the friendly purser. He hauled me into the crowded little craft, and we rowed away.

When we were rescued by the Carpathian in the morning, I saw the young man's wife, clad in a nightgown, on deck. She was alone, looking vacant, no doubt from the shock. I contrived for her not to see me.

I heard later, after reaching New York, that hardly anyone escaped from the steerage. My young man's name was not on the list of survivors. The poor lad had "found" himself that evening with me, only to be "lost" at sea. Life is so strange.

I shed tears for him still. It is as though I have lost a great love. Perhaps I have. If I had not feigned sleep that night...if I had been more responsive to him on the Boat Deck when he came to my side...if I had invited him to stay in my cabin for the remainder of the voyage...if...if...if...Oh! The pain will never be washed away no matter how many tears I cry, but at times I am given pause to wonder if...if...if somehow he did survive the Titanic and go West! Well, my play has been taken on an American tour. Perhaps I shall join the company when they reach San Francisco, and then........