Andrew G. Kaufman, squire, smiles and waves at his neighbor, who is walking his ridiculous/yappy/rat of a toy poodle, as he drives through the repetitive cycle of houses that make up his shitty suburban neighborhood. His eyes are on the road, but his head, his head is among the stars. He remembers the time when he performed for kids at birthday parties and he remembers Elvis and he remembers the magic and he remembers the singing; he remembers his father telling him: “A smart, good Jewish boy like you needs a career Andy, not these stupid dreams and this hustle, go to school Andrew, be a doctor or a lawyer. Oh, your mother would like to have a doctor for a son." His life is full of these kinds of regrets. Missed opportunities always show up in his mind; he tries not to fixate on them too much. Furthermore, he knows that his life she's not that bad; her profession is respectable and her house is enviable and her wife is... and her wife has lots of nice clothes and a beautiful car jealous. So while he may not be the famous star he once dreamed of, at least he is envied. Pulling into the driveway, once again, he marvels at its horseshoe shape, long enough that the house is quite far away. from the street to convey power., but not so far that passersby would not be able to see their fountain and lion statues that stop the entrance leading to their front door. It sits in the car for a moment, still with the memories, as he prepares to go home.***The door opens and her scent wafts into his nose. She gets up to greet him, and he's that guy from law school again. Bright hair, dancing on his shoulders, smooth olive skin radiating a heat felt across the room, he... middle of paper... battles in his heart a busty prostitute named Tonya who traps him. It exudes sexuality. His every movement was a tempting call to bed. She struts up and down her block wrapped in an embroidered peach top and miniskirt, thigh-high black fishnet stockings, and a cigarette hangs from her lips revealing a voice that's the growl of a cement mixer. A man looks around nervously and, almost as if prompted by the bulge in his trousers, adjusts his crotch as he approaches her. Kaufman watches as the tacky argument comes to a resolution. And he watches her take him to an alley. And he watches as she falls to her knees. He feels the gravel getting caught between his knees and his socks. And she feels a strange man's smooth, hard cock slide in and out of her mouth. Andrew G. Kaufman may not have been a star, but right now Tonya Clifton is. A thousand thanks.