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Bringing a whole new meaning to 'undercover work'.

Who knows but whoever they are, I was ready to meet the celebrities and discover who my secret admirers were.

They escorted me to a small table where I was given a blank circle and a magic marker. They were all busy talking at me and to one another and no one told me what I was suppose to write in the circle and that I was suppose to write my age, 35. So, I did not write my age in the circle. I figured I was supposed to write the year I was born, so I did. I wrote 72. I peeled off the double tape backing and stuck it on the front of my tuxedo. I mean, c'mon, would you have thought that Bo Derek was 50? Loni Anderson 61? Lynda Carter 55? Candice Bergman 59? Cheryl Ladd 55? Farrah Faucett 59? And Shelley Long 58? No way!

Lynda and Cheryl opened the doors as Shelley and Farrah escorted me inside the huge, darkened room that was as big as a movie theatre. The room was tastefully decorated but very ornate with chandeliers, gold sconces, and oriental rugs. They sat me down in an overstuffed and very comfortable chair and left me there alone closing the doors behind them. I was a bit nervous and I really wanted to spend more time with Bo, Loni, Lynda, Candice, Cheryl, Farrah, and Shelley.

Suddenly, across from me on the stage appears Frank Sinatra. Not the real Frank Sinatra because he is dead, of course, and Elvis Presley, again, he is dead, too, but a hologram of them both. They start talking to me like they are alive.

"Welcome Freddie, we would like to serenade you with a song."

The music starts playing and they begin singing a duet to me. Now, I am so floored by all of this that I could not even tell you what song they sang when, suddenly, at the end of their song, they fade away and disappear and a huge wall to wall and floor to ceiling curtain opens. A bright spotlight shines upon me and I can hardly see what is behind the curtain that is slowly opening. Once my eyes are accustomed, somewhat, to the bright light, there behind the curtain are 35 women all wearing remarkably lifelike masks and all wearing round numbers on their chests and sitting behind a huge table that must have been 100 feet long.

They can see me better than I can see them. I hear all of these gasps and different conversations. I am able to make out some of what they were saying.

"I don't believe it. He has 72 on his chest."

"He looks damn good for his age."

"He doesn't look 72, at all."

"I thought by the stories that he wrote on Literotica that he was in his thirties. I cannot believe he is in his seventies.

"Well, I am glad he is my age and not some spring chicken."

"Maybe, we'll get lucky, tonight, girls."

The bright light fades over me and the lights over the table full of women brighten. There sitting at the table, in alphabetical order, all wearing masks of what they used to look like and with numbers of not the year that they were born but of the age that they are now are:

Ursula Andress, 70, Julie Andrews, 71, Bridgette Bardot, 72, Carol Baker, 75, Leslie Caron, 75, Diahann Carroll, 72, Joan Collins, 73, Julie Christie, 65, Angie Dickinson, 76, Barbara Eden, 72, Linda Evans, 64, Annette Funicello, 64, Lauren Hutton, 63, Jill St. John, 66, Gina Lollobridgida, 79, Sophia Loren, 72, Tina Louise, 73, Ann Margaret, 65, Mary Tyler Moore, 71, Rita Moreno, 75, Julie Newmar, 73, Kim Novak, 73, Debra Paget, 73, Suzanne Pleshette, 72, Jane Powell, 77, Stephanie Powers, 64, Debbie Reynolds, 74, Diana Rigg, 69, Jean Simmons, 77, Elke Sommer, 66, Stella Stevens, 69, Elizabeth Taylor, 75, Shirley Temple, 78, Mamie Van Doren, 78, and Rachel Welch, 67.

I was stunned. There before me are all the women who I have lusted and masturbated over, I mean, admired and respected through the years.

How can anyone forget Ursula Andress in that bikini with those 39D's in Dr.

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