I raised, and raised, and raised my line of sight. My God... it was like the North Face of the Jungfrau. This was not a night on Broadway; instead, it felt like A Night on Bald Mountain. So upward and onward we went. Halfway to the summit, er, seats, I had to take a rest. Was the oxygen thinner at this altitude? Probably not, but I swear I wasn't the only one breathing heavily. Finally we reached the seats. At least our "sky box" included one aisle seat, so I was able to stretch out.

"Honey? Did you bring the opera glasses?" I asked expectantly.

Well, of course, she had not. It was full-scale binoculars that my dear friend had brought. Instead of looking through those stereo-optic dinosaurs called opera glasses, and being brought a wee bit closer to the stage action; now I could see almost anything. From our Alpine-esque seats which were not snowcapped or hidden by the cloudbanks, I would be able to count nostril hairs on the lead tenor if I so desired. Fortunately for you readers, I had no such desire.

Regular readers of Mai Pehn Rai already know where this column is heading. For those of you new to BEhavior, I will have to spell it out. Yours truly put those Bausch and Lomb lenses to use to scan the theatre for the most buxom and most fetching amongst my fellow theatrical fans.

Those binocs were very powerful, so I constantly had to take them away from my eyes, and put my glasses back on to pinpoint the exact location of the objects of my enhanced scrutiny. From the next to last row in the balcony, I was denied seeing the patrons in most of the orchestra, but I could see into the boxes on the sides as well as most of my fellow mountaineers in the balcony. Finally, I found her. All the way over to my left. A cavernous cleavage with a nice bauble on a gold chain, which reflected the low light and added a bit of a heavenly glow, no doubt aided by the seemingly endless acreage of alabaster breast-flesh. I could also see a pair of small earrings, which would sometimes emerge from beneath her flowing blonde hair. The woman was quite attentive to her companion on her right, which meant that she was quite often turned in my direction.

There was a slight problem with focusing on this Swiss Miss. She was too far to the left... not a good angle at all. My friend would occasionally ask for the binoculars... to check something out, as she put it. Of course, she would be looking at the action on stage. I would reclaim the binocs, and look stageward. When the Phantom or Christine would break into a moving song, my friend would lean forward to concentrate on the singer.

These were the golden moments I wanted. Because now I could safely scan over to my far left to treat my eyes to the vision of that glorious V-necked sweater and the enormous cleavage that was displayed. I was entranced, and I was also losing track of the action on stage. The undulations and motions of a spectacular bosom are powerful magnets, and I was unable to resist.

So let's do a quick recap. Here I am in the next to last row of the balcony; far below on stage, the New York Company of the award- winning play Phantom is being performed. I am with my favorite woman on the planet, and my attention is gravitating towards another woman, maybe 120 feet away. I can see her clearly only through the binoculars. But to do so, I have to train those high powered lenses where they shouldn't be, away from the play being performed.

Well my friends, there is a denouement. (Since Phantom is set in Paris, let's use that word with a proper Parisian intonation: ö dan ö noo ö ma. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?) Nevertheless, the final outcome of this "play within a play" is not at all pretty...

The binoculars enabled my vision to inch across the terrain of Phantom fans and finally focus in on those fabulous breastworks. But this time, a hand appeared in front of that chest, with the index finger upraised in a waving motion. A signal was being sent, crystal-clear in any language: No, No, No. I raised the binoculars a fraction to see her face and found her head nodding from side- to- side, translated in any language as No, No, No! I had been caught and summarily warned off. Sigh.

From there it only got worse.

"Michael? Michael? Michael!"

I snapped out of my reverie. "What are you looking at?" asked my companion. Before I could answer, I received a poke in the ribs on my right side. A hand appeared in front of me, and as I recall, a voice demanded the binoculars, which I willingly surrendered.

I won't bother to relate the rest of the evening to you. I had been caught twice for the same transgression. My favorite woman on the planet and I have since moved past that little event, and all is well.

But occasionally, I replay the evening in my mind. I always come through it with a question. When the George Costanza character on Seinfeld was reported to management for having sex in the office with the cleaning lady, he defended himself with the same questions.

"Was that wrong? Is there some rule prohibiting this type of behavior?

I can only promise to keep everyone in the loop if there are future repercussions. I don't think it was wrong of me to use the binoculars for purposes other than theatrical viewing. After all, I was viewing a dramatically beautiful bosom.

Oh well. Mai Pehn Rai!