My family home on Chestnut Street used to be considered a showplace in Boston. Its front bay windows featured the violet-tinted glass peculiar to a few houses on Beacon Hill, the result of a chemical reaction from the sun on a single shipment of panes brought from England in the early 19th century.

Back in the 1950s, when my sister was a budding debutante in Back Bay society, my mother even allowed the Junior League to include the family home among other fine old pre-Revolutionary houses in a tour to finance new instruments for the Boston Pops Orchestra. Conductor Arthur Fiedler had elevated the summer music series at Symphony Hall to a world-class event. He liked to think the Pops had made Boston famous.

Ha! Ha! Boston was around a long time before the Pops! Remember the Tea Party? Ha! Ha!

Fiedler, however, was a gorgeous silverfox. Although I was inclined to go for younger guys like myself, he would have been a delectable treat on the side. You might say I had a bit of a crush on him. I even followed him around sometimes, hoping for a chance to present myself. You never know!

I gave up on him, though, when he up and married a woman much younger than he. I had read about it in the society pages of the newspapers and was a little disappointed.

About five years later, I was in F.A.O. Schwartz, the famous toy store, buying a birthday gift for my niece -- yes, my deb sister had made a good marriage to a Boston attorney and had a wonderful daughter -- and there I found a waist-high stuffed giraffe I thought would look terrific in her nursery.

All of a sudden, this beautiful silverfox walked up to me and gave the giraffe in my arms a big hug. Some of the hug spilled over on to me. It was Fiedler!

"Excuse me," he laughed. "I couldn't resist! I'm shopping for my little boy, and I think your giraffe is right for him. It's the only one they have, and they can't get anymore. Do you suppose....."

The pause was pregnant with an unfinished proposal. I snatched at the chance to pay him back for all the jack-off sessions I had enjoyed for years with him in my head.

"Say no more, Mr. Fiedler," I grinned. "Anything for you!"

He gave me a dazzling smile. Despite the rise in my pants, I knew that was as close as I would ever get to him. We made the deal.

That night, I whacked my pud till it ached, remembering the scent of his after-shave when his face had brushed against my shoulder. The old fart had fathered a child! That thing could still rise! How I would have loved to help it fall!

The Fiedler hug inspired a change in my attitude toward him, though. In a manner of speaking, I had achieved my goal --- or as close as I would ever get to it. I decided to live with that and never again pursued him from afar.

The world was becoming a different place by then. Innocent, anonymous flirtations like mine in following him here and there were evolving into a dangerous game called "stalking." I remember reading about some nut who fell in love with a girl in a famous singing act. He stalked her without success and in his frustration developed the insane belief that her father was keeping them apart. He killed her dad on a golf course one day -- a senseless murder from out of the blue!

I inherited the house when my mother died, and as I grew older and turned into a silverfox myself, circumstances changed. I had to convert my fine old home into four comfortable, rental flats which I leased out for a tidy sum as Chestnut Street and nearby Louisburg Square had retained their toney reputations after the dawn of the Yuppie Era.

I lived in rooms on the lowest floor. My kitchen faced the street below sidewalk level and looked out at passing feet through a small window with an iron grille. My apartment did, however, retain the back garden for my private use, and lace-curtained, glass doors opened out to it from the bedroom and the living room.

I put a lot of work into that garden after my retirement. It was a relaxing place to sit and sip a drink, made doubly private by an overhang on the patio which shielded the view from the flats upstairs.

Oh, sure, I missed the grand staircase and the old ballroom where my family used to entertain, but the modern political slogan, "It's the economy, stupid!", had made the adjustment much easier for me.

It gets hot in Boston in the summer, even more so now with global warming changing the climate everywhere. The humidity can really get you. I don't like air conditioning. It wreaks havoc with my sinuses, so I really need those nice garden doors opened wide to let in whatever breeze might be.

The back gate of my garden is my private entry. I seldom use the impressive front door off the small verandah facing Chestnut Street, which leads into a hallway with my apartment door and others. I prefer that people not keep track of my comings and goings, particularly of my "cummings" with attractive young men and their "goings" at all hours of the day and the night.

Yesterday was hot as hell. I couldn't even work in the garden for the sun beating directly down. The apartment was impossibly close, with not a breath of air. I decided to go out to the little park around the corner in Louisburg Square and sit beneath the trees.

I loved that sweet, green place. I often sat on a bench near the statue of Christopher Columbus and thought about that Italian who explored for Spain and was given credit for discovering the "new world" -- as if there were not already a sizeable indigenous population from coast to coast.

He opened up a hemisphere for the European white man to conquer, and the whites, in turn, enslaved the blacks of Africa to serve them and help build their new world --- with little recompense for the slaves but the opportunity to survive and someday be free.

I could never look at Columbus without thinking such thoughts, and while I was doing so yesterday on my bench under the trees, a beautiful face appeared before me that nearly made my heart stop.

The dusky young man had skin the color of burnished copper, fairly glowing in the sun, perhaps himself descended from slaves. I realized with a start that I had seen him before. But where? I cast about in my mind. He wasn't there. I did not know this guy. At that moment, however, I wished I did.

Was he looking at me? I looked back directly into his eyes. That made him nervous. He averted his gaze and hurried past me. When I looked around, he was already turning the corner. Oddly, he took one last glance at me.

Why did I suddenly feel uncomfortable then? Was there menace in his face? I couldn't say, but I got up from the bench and headed for home. I scurried in through my garden gate.

Distracted by the unsettling feelings over my near-miss encounter in the park, I must have forgotten to flip the latch and lock the gate. This did not occur to me until I came out of the kitchen with a drink a few minutes later and saw the same young man more or less hidden among the dense vines of honeysuckle pouring profusely over my garden wall.

I dropped the drink, too startled to utter a cry. The shards of glass scattered like shrapnel upon impacting the cement of the patio floor. A small one sliced into my leg.

Although I remained mute in shocked surprise, the young man uttered a load groan and ran toward me. He approached so fast, I couldn't get away. He almost screeched to a halt when he reached me, however, and fell before me on his knees.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," he said, taking a firm grip on my leg and deftly removing the piece of glass protruding from my calf.

Unsure of myself and no match anyway for the strength of this sturdy young man, I just stood there hoping his concern was an indication that he meant me no harm.

"What was in that glass?" he asked, not gruffly, but firmly, leaving me with no choice but to answer.

"Vodka," I said, "and tonic."

"Where's the vodka?" he wanted to know.

"In the kitchen, on the counter," I replied, indicating with a nod that it was on the far side of the living room at the front of the house.

"Don't move," he ordered. "I'll be right back."

He left me and returned shortly with the bottle of Smirnoff, paper towels, and a dish towel. On his knees again, he splashed vodka on the wound, dabbed at it gently with a paper towel and then wrapped the dish towel carefully around the leg to cover the wound and tied the ends of it in a clever little knot, then instructed me to sit down in a patio chair.

Still at a loss for words, I did as I was told. He sat on the floor in front of me, his knees hunched up under his chin, looking, despite the frightening circumstances of his presence in my garden, good enough to eat.

I finally relaxed enough to smile. "I guess you were in the navy," I said. "Only a sailor could tie a knot like that."

"I knew you were smart the first time I saw you," he said. "Yeah, I was a medic on a hospital ship stationed in the Gulf during Desert Storm."

He had offered a clue. "The first time you saw me?" I queried. "Then we have met before. When I saw you in the park, I had a feeling we had."

His demeanor changed. He was uncomfortable now. "Not exactly," he offered, "not that you would know me. I've seen you, but I didn't think you'd seen me, at least to remember me. The first time was last month. I saw you walking through Boston Common with a young Chinese guy. I...uh...followed you here, but I kept out of sight. He went in the garden gate with you. He didn't come out again."

I looked at him askance. "How would you know that?"

Shifting his position, he pulled a little away. "I stayed near the gate for hours. Finally, I gave up and went away."

I could feel the sweat of renewed apprehension breaking out on my palms. "That was...the first time? Hmmm! What does that mean? When did you see me again?"

He showed signs of increasing nervousness. "Here and there...around town...I mean...well...I kept running into you everywhere. I didn't realize you might have seen me. I tried not to be...er...obvious."

I recalled my pursuit of Arthur Fiedler. Unlikely as it seemed, I knew I had stumbled on to the answer.

"You've been stalking me!" I exclaimed indignantly. The sudden realization pissed me off. I started getting mad. He saw the fire in my eyes. It changed his demeanor again. He shifted and seized me by the knees. His grip was strong. I would never have been able to fight him off, even if I tried. A failing man in his seventies would stand no chance of survival against an ex-sailor of maybe 30 or 32.

I was in a fix. This guy could be a homicidal maniac, despite his normal appearance, but I opted for remaining calm and rational in the face of my fears.

"You don't have to be afraid," he countered. "I would never hurt you -- unless that's what you wanted."

That was a loaded statement. Was this a sexual come-on? How could he know about that side of my life? Not even my family knew!

"I saw you again with the Chinese guy the next day," he continued. "I followed you to a restaurant. I saw the way he looked at you across the table. He was in love with you, and I saw the way you looked back. It was transparent to me."

"My God!" I muttered. "You really have been stalking me! Why?"

He leapt to his feet and hovered over me with his arms pressed tautly to his sides and his hands clenched into fists. "Goddammit, I need to be with you, man!" he cried. "I know it's not normal, but I have to be near you in an intimate way. I have a girlfriend, and I want to get married, but there is this other thing I can't seem to control. I want to be with an old man! I never knew there was anybody like me until I saw the Chinese guy with you. It was a revelation to me, like clouds parting, and a voice booming down to say you're not alone; there are others like you, and that old man is the one for you.

"I knew I had to be with you, but I didn't know how to do it. I've lurked around corners and tried to keep out of sight following you, looking for some way to approach you, but nothing ever turned up. When I saw you in the park today, it came to me like a message from God. Today's the day, and there's only one way --- go get him! So I did! And I don't give a shit what it costs me. If I have to go to prison for the rest of my life, I'm willing to pay that price, but I swear to God, I won't harm you!"

No matter what this young man said, it was clear to me that I was in deep trouble here, possibly in danger of death if I drove him over the deep end in his sensitive emotional state by being belligerent or testy or threatening him with exposure to the police. I may not have been the wisest man on earth, but one thing life had taught me was the necessity for compromise in certain situations and also that sometimes squawking didn't cut it. It was better to keep your mouth shut.

I decided to play along, even as frightened as I was. Aside from which, he was a beauty. Surely that's why he looked familiar. I had probably glimpsed him a time or two out of the corner of my eye. Always susceptible to a handsome man, I had noticed him, but not consciously.

"I'm sure that's true, young man," I said to calm him, "and let's not have any talk of prison. I won't hurt you that way either, if what you say is true. Now, let's get to it. What is it you want of me?"

His fists relaxed. He knelt on one knee and touched the wound on my leg solicitously. "Does it hurt?" he asked. "It's only a superficial cut. I saw guys torn apart in Desert Storm. I helped put them back together again. Looks like the bleeding's stopped. It's better to expose it to the air."

He unwrapped the bloodied dish towel and wiped me with vodka again. Then he did another surprising thing. He leaned down and kissed the wound. I found myself amused.

"Ha! Ha!" I laughed. "My mother used to do that. She'd say her kissing it would make it well!"

He looked up at me with soft and shining eyes. "Mine will, too."

My perception of his gaze was that it was a look of love. I knew then that he had told me no lies. Still, faint apprehension clawed at me inside. What would he ask me to do? As if he had read my thoughts, his next words addressed this very concern: "I want to go to the bedroom now and undress you. You are the most beautiful old man I have ever seen. I can't believe I worked up the nerve to do this today, but since I have, I want every minute to count."

Without waiting for my response, he gathered me up like a child in his arms and carried me through the apartment to the bed where he set me down and proceeded to slowly remove my clothes. He said not a word, but the expressions in his eyes and on his face were those of someone worshiping at a shrine. It made me feel like a god.

Although a margin of apprehension still remained, gradually I began to feel comfortable with him. Gentle kisses punctuated his ministrations wherever a new part of my body became exposed -- on my nipples, my navel, my inner thighs, but never on the genitals, from which he studiedly averted his gaze.

As a matter of fact, he had me stretch out on the bed when he was done, bringing me a towel from the bathroom and asking me to cover my private parts and smile, as if I were posing for a photograph. I accommodated him, feeling rather like a model in Centaur or C.R.

He knelt on the floor beside the bed and kissed my feet and toes before moving his head slowly up my leg to lick the wound caused by the broken glass. It felt marvelous, that velvety tongue, moist and warm, backed up by his hot breath and the murmur of little sighs. I could see he was in heaven, yet still I did not know what to expect.

The licking and kissing continued -- but not in the area covered by the towel. He deftly passed it by, concentrating next on my belly where he spent at least 15 or 20 minutes probing into my deep navel.

"Naval men love navels," I ventured to quip, but he showed no reaction to my humor, seeming to be lost in the wonder of worshiping me.

All the while, I could tell he was fondling himself down below with his right hand, but I could see nothing of him below the top of the bed. His left hand tweaked me gently here and there. Had I been younger, I believe he could have worked me into a sexual frenzy, but the years had turned down my heat to what was more a warm glow than a fire.

There were occasions, to be sure, with the right man and in the right state of mind, when I could yet rise to meet the challenge with a dose of Viagra to help, but not, however, in this situation, with its attendant strangeness.

At one moment, he stood and removed his own clothes, keeping his eyes on me all the while. I saw before he removed his pants that whatever he had in there was big, and it was hard. Uncovered, it popped into view with a bounce and stood straight up against his flat gut. It was exquisite to behold -- dark as black coffee, with a satin-smooth and shiny tip. I felt assured he kept his girlfriend happy.

There was no preening in his nakedness although his body displayed the grace and lines of a Periclean sculpture. I extended my hand to touch his penis. He leapt away before I could.

"No!" he cried. "Don't spoil it!"

Mystified, I decided to keep my hands to myself.

"But you can do something for me," he said then, softly, as if in apology for his sharp tone of a few seconds before. "Get up with the towel wrapped around you and let me lie on the bed. You stand here where I am now, and when I tell you, drop the towel, but not before I say so."

Silently, I did as he asked, being careful to keep the towel around my waist. When he lay prostrate on my bed, he studied me from top to toe with long, lingering looks intensely charged with emotion. His eyes glistened with tears which I assumed were the overflowing of joy that he was at last in the august presence of his god. Against my conscious will, I was deeply moved.

For a time, he did not speak. Then he took a deep breath as if preparing to face an ordeal and said in a tense voice, "I think you can drop the towel."

I did.

His reaction was palpable. He gasped and clutched his dick, which stood even stiffer than before. "Don't say anything. I want to look at you. Oh, yes! Oh, yes!"

With his gaze glued to my genitals, he pounded his cock in an obvious frenzy of lust. "Closer! Move closer!" he demanded through clenched teeth. I moved to the edge of the bed. My legs pressed against it. My dick was a couple of feet from his face. He turned his head to see better, gasping great draughts of air as if unable to get enough. He worked himself over to within three inches of my flaccid dick, moaning as if he were in a trance. I could feel his hot breath on my balls.

Even without a dose of Viagra, my tool developed extension while not actually getting hard. Had I been younger or in better health, his wish for me not to touch him would have fallen on deaf ears. He may have been the intruder, but I would have raped him on the spot!

I could see his orgasm taking over. Beads of pre-cum had become a steady flow of lubrication for the semen close behind. His left fist grasped the pillow. His right hand pumped his erection like a piston.

Finally, his gaze drifted away from me and bore down on his own cock, but his eyes closed tightly at the instant of ejaculation when a copious spray of cum arced above his belly and splashed all over his chest. His agonizing cry echoed around the room. I was thankful the garden door was closed, or people could have heard him at the top of Beacon Hill!

When it was over, mind and body drained by the intensity of his sexual experience, he rose from the bed unsteadily with a blank expression on his face. He picked up the towel I had dropped on the floor and wiped himself thoroughly before getting dressed.

Not once had he looked at me since his orgasm began. It was as though I were not even in the room.

Having pulled himself together, he turned on his heel without a word and headed for the garden while I, still in the nude and with nothing at hand for covering myself but the cum-laden towel, chased after him awkwardly, stopping on the covered patio.

He paused at the garden gate, turning back to face me once again. "Thank you," he said in a flat, impersonal tone, "for helping me find out what it's like." After a slight hesitation, he added, "Now I can get on with my life."

With that, he was gone.

I donned my clothes and locked the garden gate. Feeling vaguely unsettled, I poured myself a vodka and tonic and drank it right down at the kitchen counter. That wasn't enough. I drank two more in rapid succession and went back into the bedroom.

The pungent smell of his sexing was everywhere and suddenly filled me with desire. I lay down and fondled my penis. It responded in a spectacular way. It was willing and ready for my fantasy. I saw myself lowering over his body and impaling myself on his long, brown shaft. He was ecstatically writhing beneath me as my body rose and fell upon him. A rush of cum sped up through me and erupted like a seething volcano. I came more than I had for weeks.

When I work up from my reverie, I was kneeling on the bed in a nasty mess of cum, having been so transported out of reality that I almost did not know where I was.

Afterward, I put on a robe and sat outside with a drink. Whereupon, I thought again of Arthur Fiedler, remembering his comparison of the Boston Symphony to the Boston Pops as "a good hunk of beef" and "a light dessert."

That brought a smile to my lips. I could have said the same of my stalker's orgasm and mine. His had been the main course, the "hunk of beef," whereas mine was, in essence, only the "light dessert"!

THE END