Mutant memories as leading male model Edwards, a.k.a. ""The Kent [cigarettes] Man,"" sleazes through his seven years of cohabitation with Elvis' widow. Long ago, as a down-and-outer in New York, Edwards--he confesses here--tried to mug an old lady only to be chased off by her yapping poodle. Character does win out, it seems, as Edwards now tips off his affair with Priscilla and scatters the loot. Perhaps, as he claims, he did love Priscilla, whom he met shortly after Elvis' death; perhaps, as he complains, Elvis' huge shadow did darken their affair, with the widow never forsaking her memories of the King, and with Edwards gradually shrinking from top-dog Mike Edwards into a second-banana ""Mr. Presley."" Still, Edwards serves up mostly scandal-sheet fodder here, to wit: eccentricities, with Priscilla making random obscene phone calls, and cheating with celebs (including Richard Gere) while Edwards does the same with a bevy of beauties; fights, as when an enraged Edwards chokes Priscilla and sends her ""trembling behind a big pile of firewood""; boozing and drugging; sex (""Feeling our bodies trembling uncontrollably, I sensed the time was right and said, 'Now, Priscilla, Let yourself go now'""); and almost-sex, with Elvis' teen daughter, Lisa Marie (""she wrapped her legs around me, and we continued playfully bouncing up and down. I became aroused""). And then there's Elvis, whose bathroom Edwards excavates (""I slid open the glass shower door and picked up a dried, stiff, wrung-out washcloth and sniffed it""), and who puts in several spectral appearances via Edwards' inflamed imagination (""I dozed off. . .there, hovering over the pool, was a very big Elvis. All of his molecules were separating and expanding. . .""). Kiss-and-yell autobiography with tasteless tattling and shameless self-promotion masquerading as candor. Even gossip hounds, hopefully, will sniff this one out for what it is.