I'd celebrated Jerome for months before I'd ever even met him. I'd see him in front of his house, rigid and mountainous beside his dog...a marshmellowy wiemerheimer like I'd always wanted. I'd nudge Peter in the car as we drove past and we'd wave to him in unison Leave It to Beaver style.
Of course, when Peter came home from the grocery one day with a bit of nieborhood gossip that sky rocketed my neiborhood friend into demigod superstar status, of course I was jumping up and down again.
'Apparently, your little friend is a porn star'.
moonpie eyes! I couldn't wait to tackle the guy face to face with questions.

There's a drum roll somewhere out in the virtual cosmosis, and one faithful reader with honey smile and impecable innocent makeup pulls up to the edge of her seat to read 'An interview with a Porn Star'

but alas...it's even better.

and I have to go to work now and bake cakes.