#actually i may have bought graceland

[imaginariumgeographica]

Friends will mention a song and ill be like ah. yes. and then proceed to lose my beans*

[hooked-on-elvis]

[STORY TIME] 🤢🍹 DRUNK ELVIS (1968)

Story told by Charlie Hodge.

Next to him are Joe Esposito and Larry Geller. All men, Memphis Mafia. You can hear the story on the video above, if you prefer, or you can scroll down and read it (Charlie is the way to go, press the play button). But before the story, just wanted to say: Charlie was so funny! The "huey" joke! LOL! I adore him. ♥ Rest in peace, sweet Charlie, also Joe. God bless your souls.

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[STORY TIME] 🍹

Well, as we know, Elvis was not a drinker. Hardly he'd get interested a few drinks, but that's the thing: when a person like that drinks and gets carried away, he goes all the way, not knowing his own safe limits; in reality it doesn't take that much alcohol to make 'em tipsy. As any person who didn't drink often, Elvis' tolerance for alcohol was very low - taking from the stories told over the years. Sometimes disasters happen when one not used to drink have too much drinking, other times just funny things take place. Charlie is talking about one of those moments for Elvis, a funny one.

According to Hodge, he and the guys (Memphis Mafia) were with Elvis in Palm Springs, on set while he was filming a movie during the 60's. Charlie recalls it as being 'Live A Little, Love a Little' — for which filming began on March 13th, with principal photography ending in May 1st, 1968, so that story happened in early 1968.

Elvis and Michele Carey on scene from 'Live A Little, Love A Little" (1968)

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Charlie says Elvis was filming one of the scenes he's in the sea, when he complained the water was too cold. He then asked his guys if they happen to have anything to drink, so could use the liquor to help keeping his body warm while he was filming that sea scene. They didn't have any, so they sent Charlie to buy some. Charlie bought a peach brandy and rum, so he came back with it and Elvis drank it... but it turns out he liked the peach liquor, a little too much.

Normally people who don't drink they go ease with sweet tasting liquor and they don't stop drinking, simply because don't feel getting drunk... until they are hammered. This happened to poor Elvis a few times.

When he finished the one peach brandy drink he had, on their way home after shooting day was over, Charlie mentions how Elvis was already slurred speech/swaying drunk but he said he liked the drink and wanted to go buy some more. The guys stopped by a liquor store. There, silly Elvis enters the store and absentminded goes walking around, calmly checking the options as if nothing was happening around, while "poor Joe", as Charlie says, was desperate to get him back in the car, in fear some mob took place if people found out Elvis was there.

Well, they got home safely after all, and El had all the drinks he wanted until everybody heads to their own bedrooms. Charlie says Elvis was wearing his blue nylon jammies and, he jokes about it, saying all the guys too were wearing blue nylon jammies that night, actually; in his words, "because we figured, if Elvis looks good in blue nylon jammies, we do too!" 😆

Scene from 'Live a Little, Love a Little' (1968)

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Shortly after, Joe Esposito hears a knock on his bedroom door. He opens the door and sees Elvis standing two-hands leaned against Joe's bedroom door frames, ill looking (clearly sick from the drinking).

El looked at Joe and said,

"Joe, I'm dying."

Esposito tried to calm him down, telling him he was alright and he should go back to his bedroom and just lay down and sleep, but Elvis ignored.

"Call daddy" (Vernon)", he said to Joe.

"Tell him to sell Graceland. He doesn't need that big old place... and sell all the cars, he don't need them too."

Joe continued trying to calm Elvis down, ignoring the nonsense the man was saying, but El (as any good wasted person who thinks he's in perfect clear estate of mind), insisted,

"I'm not kidding, I'm dying!"

Finally Joe got to send Elvis went back to his own bedroom, but soon EP was back repeating the same things. "I'm dying." According to Charlie, this went on for about three times. On the third time, as soon as Elvis said, "I'm dying" again, he threw up right in front of Joe. 🤢

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Can you picture drunk Elvis? (LOL) Those little anecdotes of Elvis Presley's life are just so fun to hear about! That bring him closer to us, making that god-like looking man feel like any friend of ours, or even ourselves. I love hearing those "hammered Elvis" stories, don't you?

Elvis in scene from "Wild In The Country" (1961)

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What kind of drunk person you think our sweet El was?

I think he would get extra affectionate, mellow and even needy, which makes me crave to be right there with him. ♥

[missmaywemeetagain]

Pink Scarf - PART 18.2 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years.  [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: Sex. SO MUCH ANGST. Medication/drug use/overdose. Dub con (sort of?). References to medical trauma, miscarriage, infertility. Blood. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.  

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact)        ||     Word Count: 16.3k (LOLOLOLOLOL)

A/N: Y'ALL, I'M SO SORRY, it's a monstrosity. I couldn't help it. There was just so much to be said while still in E's POV, so that's how we ended up here, over 16k. But we finally learn Elvis' BIG SECRET and experience the mighty fallout from that in his eyes, so hopefully it's worth it. This is my Thanksgiving gift to all of you, but you may want to pace yourselves. I feel like I had to rip my heart out a little bit to really get in E's headspace. Prepare yourselves emotionally. That's all I will say.

A quick note about the pictures...the first is actually from when he bought Graceland in March 1957 and it just works PERFECTLY for the beginning. I couldn't resist the pics from Red West's wedding in 1961, even though I know the timeline and the people don't match but the VIBES, the VIBES my friends, are oh so Jack and Reader's wedding so I just had to include them. The one for 1960 was taken the night of the Rollerdome. *sob*

If you so desire, you should now have the ability to tip my blog or different chapters in the story! Some of you have been asking about this, and of course, no one is obligated to do so! If you do choose to tip, thank you so much! I've never had anyone want to pay for my work before, so this is a big step towards my romance novelist dreams. 💜

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I am so FREAKIN' GRATEFUL for every single one of you babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARY which is always evident but especially so when someone tried to steal PS last week and y'all went 'ride or die' for me instantly, without question, getting it taken down in record time. I didn't in a million years expect this kind of support and response for Pink Scarf, and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat! 

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch. 

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my AO3 account, as well as my NEW Wattpad account. so if you are so inclined, you can check it out/support me over there with kudos and votes and whatnot!)

(Elvis in March 1957, Graceland)

March 1957

Elvis parks in front of your house, his mind whirling with noise. He’s not exactly sure how he ended up here, but as soon as he’d gotten off that train, he knew he needed something that he couldn’t get from any of the guys or even his mama. So, he finds himself unexpectedly here.

Turning off the car, he seeks any sort of relief from the heartache he feels. He’s been holding it all in since the train stop in New Orleans, the one that sent the world crumbling under his feet, destroying the pretty picture he’d had for the future. But all that is gone now and here he sits, hands tapping on the steering wheel with nervous energy.

He nods to himself, finally leaping out of the car, and then he saunters down the walkway to the front door. The chime of the doorbell can be heard through the door, and he listens carefully, grateful to hear light footsteps from beyond.

When you open the door, it’s like he can breathe again for the first time since the train pulled away in New Orleans. You look surprised to see him, those big eyes of yours widening the slightest before you speak.

“Elvis, you’re home?” you ask with a hint of confusion, but overall, you seem pleased at finding him on your doorstep.

“Just got in, baby,” he says, that boyish smile curving up. He gathers you up into a big bear hug and instantly feels better as he breathes in the unique scent of your shampoo and lingering perfume. A scent that feels like home.

“And you came right here?” you ask, brow furrowing when he pulls away. He notices that you look a bit worn around the edges, darker circles rimming your eyes as if you haven’t been sleeping well.

You’re right to be confused. Of course, he hadn’t planned to see you right away. He’d planned to sweep June off her feet in New Orleans, wanting to show her Graceland immediately, the home he’d thought they’d share together for the rest of their lives. But all that had been dashed as soon as she’d blurted out that she was engaged to another man. Engaged. His June.

“I want to show ya something,” he blurts out instead of saying any of this. “It’s a surprise! Will ya come?” Oh, god, you have to come, he thinks. His heart might shatter if you don’t, though he’s not exactly sure why. You’re not his—you and Jack have been dating for nearly a year—so it’s not as though if you don’t come that it really means anything. Yet, still he hopes. He needs this. He needs to share this moment with someone he cares about.

Despite the fatigue in your eyes, you nod quickly, and then as if you can’t leave the house fast enough, you grab your purse and coat and shut the door behind you without a word.

He smiles gratefully, and relieved, he grabs your hand and practically skips to the car. Once he has you tucked in safely, he runs around the front of the Cadillac, jumps in, and peels away. It’s not too far of a drive, and he yammers on about the last few months he’s been away, the words flying out of him. You nod and ask all the right questions, but he notices that you are pensive, quieter than usual.

His verbal diarrhea halts for long enough for his brain to take into account that you don’t seem your usual self, and he asks, “Are you okay?”

You look down at your hands and then out the window, as if contemplating if and how much to share, which makes him a little nervous. Your fingers twist in your lap.

“Honestly? It’s been a hard few weeks, E,” you finally say, still unable to meet his eyes. “My nana passed last Tuesday.”

He’s mortified that he’d just been going on and on about himself and here you were dealing with such a loss. “Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know. I know how close you two were,” he says remorsefully, reaching his hand over to clasp one of yours.

You shake your head, sniffling back tears. “It’s okay, you’ve been away. There was no way for you to know. And I keep telling myself that she’s in a better place now, but that doesn’t really help all that much. I guess it still doesn’t seem real.”

He nods, because he can’t seem to think of anything to say that will make any of this better for you. “We can do this another time, baby, if you’re not feeling up to it,” he finally gets out.

“No, no. I need something to do instead of moping around the house. I’m worn from being sad and worrying about the rest of it. No, I’m glad you showed up, E. I can’t wait to see your surprise,” you add quickly, trying for a smile.

“The rest of it? What’re you so worried about, baby?” It’s obvious you don’t expect him to pick up on that because he sees the quick look of panic that flashes over your face at the question, so he’s quick to add, “I mean, you don’t hafta talk ‘bout it if ya don’t wanna, but I can tell somethin’ else is weighin’ on ya.”

“You could say that,” you sigh, raising your eyes to the roof and back down again. The twisting fingers are back. “God knows I haven’t been sleeping, and it’s giving me these terrible headaches.” You pinch the bridge of your nose for respite. “I…well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell you, Elvis, because it’s about Jack, and I really don’t want him to think I’m running around telling everyone our business.”

A warning rush rolls over him at this because he suddenly and very desperately wants to know what has happened with Jack, and that is a dangerous game for all kinds of reasons, many of which he’s not ready to admit to himself.

“I swear and cross my heart I won’t say a word, if you wanna tell me,” he says instead, a little too eagerly, so he quickly adds, “If it’ll help ya feel better and all.”

He forces himself to watch the road and not you, but he can practically hear your mind whirring.

“Oh, fine, but not a word out of you to anyone, Elvis Presley, I mean it. I know how bad you are with secrets,” you glare at him.

“I promise, I promise!” he concedes, crossing his heart. “I swear on my mama!”

“Well, in the midst of all this with Nana, I found out that Jack was dating other women a while back while we were going together. Apparently, I thought we were exclusive, but he didn’t, and well…” you trail off bitterly.

Elvis has to bite his tongue and bite it hard because somehow this wasn’t what he expected, and oh, lord, he knows too much for comfort.

Thankfully, you take this as him listening intently, because you continue, “I know I shouldn’t be too mad at him. I suppose it’s an honest mistake, seeing as maybe we didn’t communicate clearly enough about where we stood with each other. But it was so obvious to me, and I don’t understand how it wasn’t obvious to him. It’s not like I was going around with other guys all the time! I know it was months ago, but damn if it doesn’t really sting. Part of me feels like such an idiot, you know? What else don’t I know about him and what he’s doing? It just makes it hard to trust him, even though he was truthful about it when I asked.” He can sense the conflict in you, as your voice fills and shakes with the emotion of your held-back tears.

His heart is beating fast now, and all he is seemingly able to do is nod furiously, as if agreeing vehemently with all you are saying. The problem is that Elvis is complicit in all this and you have no idea. You have no idea that he was the one who pushed the showgirls onto Jack when he came to visit him in Vegas in November. You have no idea that “dating” didn’t have much to do with it at all. And now he feels altogether shitty for being the one to put Jack in that position in the first place. He’d managed to spread his own unfaithfulness and debauchery right on over to Jack, and now you are the one paying for it.

Shit.

Although, knowing Jack, it’s also possible that there was other dating happening, too. Either way, Elvis knows he’s got to tread real careful here and needs to keep his trap shut.

But Elvis can’t stand that hurt look in your eyes when he dares to take his eyes off the road to glance at you. He hates how angry and sad you look, the blue-black circles under your eyes conveying your distress.

And his emotions feel complicated, too complicated for comfort. He suddenly wonders if he didn’t present Jack with those temptations on purpose because there is a very deep and selfish part of him that desperately wants you to kick Jack to the curb for this, and that terrible, selfish part of him wants you to finally see Elvis in the same way he sees you.

Maybe there’s a reason that things didn’t work out with June, that voice pokes at him hopefully.

Stop that shit right now.

All this is playing through his head and leaving him outwardly silent. He realizes he has to say something, anything, because you are waiting for him to do so.

“I-I’m sorry that happened, ‘specially finding out at the same time as all this with your Nana. W-What are you gonna do about Jack?” he says, trying not to gulp.

He watches your eyes narrow and then he quickly looks back at the road. He can feel you shift in your seat.

“I…well, right now, I wanna pummel his brains out, so I told him I need some space to figure out what I want to do. I just—I thought we…” you trail off dismally. “I don’t want to go through this again,” you add quietly.

Elvis knows you are talking about Ted. Stupid Teddy who stepped out and got Judy Cole knocked up and then left you brokenhearted in his wake. It still pisses him off, even though he knows he’s got no right to judge Ted, not now, not after all the foolin’ around he’s done.

But when it comes to you, he can’t help but be protective. It’s in his bones, the way he wants to take care of you. In fact, he wouldn’t mind punching Jack in the face right about now for hurting you like this. And he’s even more pissed at himself for his part in it all.

Elvis just wants you to be happy and to be with a man who deserves you, and deep down, he doesn’t know if that man is Jack, even though he loves Jack like a brother. But the real problem is he’s not sure if he thinks any man will ever be good enough for you.

But his brain is wary to dwell on the meaning of that, wanting to avoid anything else that feels uncomfortable, so instead, he lets the excitement of showing you his new home overshadow any other unwanted feelings he might be experiencing.

“Okay, baby, we’re almost there, so close your eyes,” he says excitedly, changing the subject abruptly, before pulling up the long drive.

“Alright, Elvis, this better be a big surprise with how hyped up you are,” you chuckle, letting the mood turn by doing as you are told.

“The biggest,” he breathes, sliding to a stop in front of the Colonial mansion. “Don’t open your eyes yet! I’ll come around!”

You wait until you hear the car door open and feel his hand take yours. He gently brings you out of the car to standing, an excited energy vibrating through him.

“Okay, darlin’, open!” he drawls dramatically.

You do, blinking out the early Spring sunlight. He watches your face light up as you take in the architecture.

“Oh my god, Elvis, it’s beautiful,” you say in awe. “Is it yours?”

“Yes, baby, it’ll be all mine very soon. And for Mama and Daddy, of course,” he adds hastily, as if you’d thought he’d abandon his parents.

“Of course,” you smile, looking at him with those pretty, though tired, eyes of yours. “Can we go inside?” you ask.

All he can do is nod excitedly. Elvis takes your hand, pulling you up the steps and past the huge white columns on either side. He can’t unlock the door fast enough, the keys rattling and shaking in his hands. Once inside, he pulls you through the house, mouth running a mile a minute about what he wants to do in each room, how he wants it to look.

Finally, you make it to the top level, the last room. “This is gonna be my bedroom,” he rambles on. “I’m gonna get the biggest bed you’ve ever seen in your life, made special.”

You gently pull your hand out of his, and he watches as you take a small pill bottle out of your purse and pop two of the pills before downing them dry. Aspirin, probably, for the headache you were talking about in the car.

“E, stop a minute,” you say. “This is all amazingly wonderful and beautiful, and I am so excited for you, but…well, what exactly am I doing here?” You look at him with curious and concerned eyes.

“I…uh…I…,” he stammers, unsure of what to say or how to say it, as it’s all been spinning inside for hours and hours. He looks away, unable to meet your eyes. He certainly doesn’t want to put any of his stuff onto you, not now, not after what you told him earlier. His hands fall to his sides, and he shakes them, wiggling his fingers like he does to come down after a show. It doesn’t help. There’s just too much emotion rolling through him all the sudden.

You step to him, first putting your hands on his shoulders, then you run them gently down his arms before grabbing his flailing hands, absorbing some of that wild energy. The feeling still manages to send little electric shocks through him, even after all this time. Only then does he finally still and dare to look at you.

“E, what’s wrong? You let me talk earlier, so why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” you ask, your eyes searching his, open and concerned. He should’ve known you’d see right through him. Maybe that’s why you’re here, because he knew you’d understand, that you’d be able to tell he wasn’t okay when no one else cared to.

It takes a moment for him to gather his words as his emotions get in the way. Emotions he stoically hid from the guys the rest of the way to Memphis. Emotions he pushed down when he saw his mama because he just couldn’t bear to break her heart yet with the news. God, he’s spent so much time recently learning how to hide everything real about himself in order to become the man everyone wants him to be. But here, now, with you, it all begins to overflow.

“I-I-I told June to meet me in New Orleans. I-I w-w-was gonna bring her back here, to show her w-what I-I wanted to buy…for us,” he says, bouncing on his toes, tears welling and clouding his vision. He hates how it’s tearing him in two to say this.

You squeeze his hands, urging him to continue, and for you, he does.

“But when I-I got there, she was acting so strange. There w-wasn’t much time and, uh, she told me she’s engaged to someone else.” He blinks and the tears run over, finally spilling down his cheeks. Saying it out loud suddenly makes it feel all too real. His chest aches with betrayal, with loss.

You look at him with such care, though you do not look shocked at this news.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, E. I know you how much you loved her,” you say, squeezing his hands again gently.

‘Loved.’ As in past tense.

“Did you know?” he asks suddenly, stepping back, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

You take a conscious deep breath. “No, I didn’t. But she did call me a few times wondering where you were, if you were okay. She said she hadn’t heard from you in months…” you say awkwardly, petering off.

“Aw, shit,” he curses, running a hand through his greased hair. A wave of anger rolls through him, burning him from the inside, but as much as he wants to put it on June and her spiteful engagement, he knows the anger is mostly towards himself. He fucked up. He fucked around. And he’d expected June to just sit back and wait for him while he did it. He didn’t even make the time to call her.

And you know what he’s done. He can see it on your face. He looks down, unable to meet your eyes.

You don’t speak. You don’t lay into him or tell him he’s an asshole, although it might be better if you did. God knows he’s already thinking it. You just look at him with sadness and understanding and forgiveness, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

With that ache in his heart, he finally realizes that he couldn’t have loved June the way he said he did and then leave her hanging like that. But he did love her…at least, he had. They’d had such a beautiful summer together and he was sure he wanted to marry her, once his fame was settled. Three years, he’d told her.

Shit, I didn’t even make it six months, he thinks absently.

And then everything changed almost overnight. His fame exploded. There was Hollywood, then Vegas. And the girls, good god, there were so many beautiful girls who wanted him, needed him, who threw themselves at him. He’d been weak. He hated being alone. He couldn’t help it. It was just sex, he’d told himself, just a way to blow off steam as his world became smaller and smaller and nearly suffocated him. A thousand excuses run through his head, but in the end, it was his choice not to pick up the phone. It was his choice to screw around, to live this life.

It’s no wonder that June moved on, he thinks. I’m a first-rate asshole.

“Y/n, I messed it all up,” Elvis finally chokes out. The sob fully breaks the dam holding him together, the pressures of his fame and the realization hitting him like a truck: he is never going to be able to have that normal life with a wife and kids he’d once dreamed of. His knees buckle under the weight of all of it—his decisions, both good and bad, the fame he doesn’t know what to do with, the unexpected consequences of this privileged but isolating life he’s chosen.

He sinks to his knees, defeated, on the carpet of his future bedroom, the one he’ll probably never share with someone who loves him for who he truly is. Because he isn’t just Elvis Aron Presley anymore—he is “Elvis Presley,” the celebrity, the commodity, the fantasy.

While he relishes in the luxuries of it all, in being able to provide the life his family deserves, a small part of him cannot help but feel like he’s made a deal with the devil. That this talent he has been blessed with will also be the thing that damns him. He is overcome by the feeling that he’ll never know ever again if he is loved for who he really is, or if it is his fame and his image they love. And there is something about that that crushes his soul.

But he can’t say all this to you because it sounds dramatic and indulgent, and he knows there are very few people in this world who’d actually understand.  This is his cross to bear.

And yet you still comfort him. You are still here. “Oh, hon, I know. It’s okay, I know,” you say, kneeling down with him.

In the midst of all he’s achieved and gained these past few years, June is the representation of all that he stands to lose, all that he’s already lost. “She was my last chance, y/n. I’m never gonna be able to trust that a woman loves me for me and not for my fame after this. And I screwed it all up,” he says quietly, tears running freely. “I just feel so fucking alone.”

“Oh, that’s not true, Elvis, it’s not,” you say, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You’ll find her, I know you will. And you have so many people who love you for just being you, not for the fancy cars or the mansion or the fame. You’ve got your family, you’ve got Jack and your true friends. And you’ve got me.”

The way you say it, so softly, yet so matter-of-fact hits him hard, so hard that his heart stops beating for a moment. If he wasn’t already kneeling, the honest way your tired yet beautiful eyes search his face might knock him right off his feet.

It’s you, it’s you, it’s always been you, he thinks suddenly. This is the feeling he was avoiding in the car. The feeling he’s been avoiding since he watched Jack kiss your cheek in the diner a year ago.

It takes his breath away. You take his breath away, you always have. He’s been enamored with you since you plowed into him all those years ago in the hallway at Humes High.

Suddenly, June is all but forgotten because you reach up, cupping his face in your cold little hands and wipe a tear off his cheek. He cannot help the way his eyelids flutter closed at the sensation of the pad of your thumb dragging softly across his face. His breathing, rapid from his cries is now labored for another reason entirely.

Opening his eyes slowly, he shouldn’t be shocked to see tears in yours, your grief and sorrow, not only for yourself, but for him, too, welling there, as if you are connected to him. In fact, Elvis feels like his brain is short-circuiting because you are too damn close and the tension in the room is suddenly so thick, he feels like he might suffocate.  

Every cell in his body feels on fire as you lean in closer and closer until your lips press against his forehead. You’ve never kissed him, not once in all these years, and this alone sends heat rushing through his young body. Then when you kiss his nose, and then one tear-stained cheek, he holds his breath, feeling like he might die from this chaste sensation.

Warning bells explode in his brain because suddenly he wants you more than anything in this world, always has. And now you are so close. This is Jack’s girl, he thinks, and she’s my dear friend. Don’t be an idiot.

But when you lean in to kiss his other cheek, you place your lips alarmingly close to his, his tears wet underneath your soft lips, and his body is on high alert as only a twenty-two-year-old’s could be. His heart flutters as you pull back just enough to look deeply into his eyes, tears shining in your own, and then you lean in once more.

This can’t be happening. This should not be happening, his mind screams, but then your lips are grazing his and all rational thought ceases to exist.

You taste so sweet.

Heat blooms through the ache in his chest, and in his disbelief, he freezes. Part of him wants to devour you whole, but he is terrified that if he moves, he might spook you and he cannot bear that.

His confusion is overridden when your hands, shaking but demanding, pull him closer. Your lips are soft and sure, and he cannot help but be swept away by them. He’s kissed so many girls, too many to count, all over the country, but not one has ever made him feel like this, like his heart is going to leap out of his damn chest.

But this is a betrayal of a monumental kind, for both of you. While he is no stranger to betrayal, he does not want this for you. As much as he wants you with every fiber of his being, he does not want to be the source of your regret or heartache. He’s already done enough in that regard already, though you don’t know it. Mustering up every ounce of his self-control, Elvis pulls out of your kiss.

“Y/n, baby, you don’t want this. I’m no good for you this way,” Elvis says in a hushed tone, his forehead resting against yours. “I-I can’t have you regretting me, I-I-I couldn’t bear it.”

You lean back the slightest bit, and he thinks you might be listening, reconsidering, making him feel mostly dismay but also a little relief. What he does not expect is for you to press your little pointer finger up against his lips, hushing him, as you stare into his eyes. It’s as though your soul is as weary and needy as his and it feels as though you see him, truly see him, which is a new feeling for him. This sends a welcoming shiver down his spine, and he knows that despite every scrap of logic and propriety he is trying to lean on, with you he is powerless.

When your finger drags down his lips, catching on the bottom one, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight to his groin. Yet still he resists (even though he wants more than anything to see where this is going), thinking you might realize your mistake, and this will all be over in an embarrassed, yet still salvageable, flash.

Instead, you very deliberately scoot closer, your knees bumping his on the carpet. You lean in again, your lips grazing his again with a yearning he cannot help but return in kind. It’s barely a kiss, but the intent is there and when you pull up, effectively opening your mouth to him, the way he can feel your warm breath mingling with his own has him struggling to control himself.

You are testing him, testing the waters, hesitant but somehow insistent at the same time. His long lashes flutter closed when your fingers brush his jaw then rake into his perfectly styled hair. But it’s when the tip of your tongue touches his, sending a hot shockwave through him, that he can stand it no longer and closes the gap between your mouths with a longing sigh.

Pressing his pliant lips to your yielding ones, he rolls his tongue softly but firmly against yours, earning him a quiet moan from you. This is like fuel on the fire, finally spurring him into action, and his hands fly to the back of your head, pulling you closer.

If there is one thing besides music that Elvis excels at and loves to do, it’s kissing. He plays with it the same way he plays a crowd, listening to you and adjusting his performance as necessary. The buzzy way it makes him feel, like every nerve is magnetic, is one of the only things in this world that is anything like how it feels for him to perform for an audience. He loves the way it makes him feel.

But kissing you is unlike anything Elvis has experienced before. It’s as though you are tuned to the exact same frequency, finding his rhythm immediately, adapting easily. The usual fumbling of people getting acquainted in this way does not seem to apply to the two of you, the ebb and flow so natural it’s as though you had done this with each other many times before.

But the passion of it stokes a fire that has been denied a long time. Intense heat crashes over him, sending tendrils of warmth through his limbs and deep into his belly. He drinks you in as deep as he can without being desperate, and oh how close he is to being desperate for you. His grief over June melts away the more he tastes you, and he wonders how he ever lived before having the taste of your lips on his.

It's all very dramatic and romantic, which he is both at heart. From just a few kisses, he suddenly knows that if he could kiss you and only you for the rest of his life, he would be a happy man indeed. This surprises him.

But what truly shocks him is when you lean so far into him that it pushes him over, his knees screaming a little, and he falls back into the wall with a thump. He scrambles backwards, maneuvering his long legs into a more comfortable seated position while you don’t even miss a beat or attempt to come up for air. And when you crawl into his lap, hoisting the flowing fabric of your dress up just enough so your warm, bare thighs are straddling his, his heart actually flies right out of his goddamned chest.

Speaking of which, you are currently running your hands down his, pulling his silky shirt up enough to dance your fingertips over his stomach. His breath hitches then hisses at that, his arms involuntarily encompassing you, large hands splaying across your back to draw you ever nearer.

And you go willingly, inching up his lap until you are straddling his hips. When you grind down into his lap, he thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven, his blue eyes rolling back into his head with a low moan.

He'll admit he’s dreamed of this, fantasized about this, but nothing could truly prepare him for the reality of the way you are making him feel. A trickle of attraction that began six years ago is now a roaring river, and is so, so much more than anything he’s felt before with anyone else.

He doesn’t understand it. He loves women. He always falls in love too fast, enjoying the rapid descent into the madness of it all. There have only been a few that he feels were true, though every girl he’s with, he loves in his own way.

But you are not like any of them, not at all. With you, it has been slow, so gradual sometimes that he didn’t even realize it. A teenage crush turned into friendship, and within that has blossomed a love that he didn’t know he was capable of. It is not until this very instant that he realizes it truly for what it has become. He doesn’t just care for you. He loves you.

He is in love with you.

Fuck.

Realizing this as your hips begin to rock steadily over his crotch is not the best timing. He’s as hard as a rock, fighting both the swell of his physical need for you while wrestling with the emotional needs he’s quickly realizing at the same time.

If he didn’t love you, he might not care if this is just a quick fuck between friends, but he does care. And he’s worried about where this is coming from, likely your overall grief and your anger at Jack. No, he doesn’t like the messiness of that at all.

But another grind of your pelvis into his, coupled with your tongue down his throat has the physical quickly taking over any and all rational thought. He wants you, more than he’s ever wanted anyone. And he desperately wants to give you what you need, which based on the mewls escaping your lips, is a physical release, a connection.

God, he can feel the wet heat of your cunt now through your panties and his pants as you slide over his length, back and forth, again and again. He clings to you as your hands wind through his hair, burying his head in your neck, his lips taking in as much of your skin as he can. He revels in the scent of you, your perfume and your irresistible musk that is permeating the room. He is positively dizzy with it.

You are frantic in his lap now, chasing something he’s not entirely sure you’ve ever had. He knows about Ted, but he highly doubts Ted knew what to do with you. And with Jack, well, he’s not sure how far the two of you have gone, but he can only guess based on Jack’s recent actions and your desperation for no one to know that Ted had popped your cherry that you’ve been trying to be good and pure and wait.

But as you reach for his belt, pawing at him, for the first time in this whole event, he gets the distinct impression that you’re not sure what to do next, only that you are needy for something. And goddamn him, he is willing to give you what you need, but only if you really understand what it is you’re asking for.

“Wait, baby, just…wait,” Elvis pants, stilling your hips with one hand while grabbing the hand at his belt with the other. You whimper a little at the interruption, rolling your hips for emphasis, but despite the groan he can’t help, he’s having none of that.

“Baby, I need to know that you really want this,” he says, brushing your hair off your deliciously pink cheeks, your lips swollen from his kisses. He looks into your eyes, almost getting lost in them and forgetting what he set out to do. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes,” you whisper, and then add, “Elvis, please,” in a begging tone that sets him completely aflame.

“Oh, damn, okay, baby, okay,” he breathes, barely able to contain himself with that. He’s only human, after all. He races to help you with his pants, pulling them over his hips and down his legs in record time, his erection springing free, precum already glistening the tip. You lift up on your knees, you move your panties aside, and touching the silky soft skin of his cock, you help him line up with your entrance. He can’t help but gasp at the feeling of your cool little fingers circling his shaft, losing it a little more when he feels how incredibly soaked you already are.

He can’t believe this is happening. It shouldn’t be happening. But all logic is gone from him, replaced by the sweetness of your mouth and the wetness of your pussy and his desperate need for whatever love you have to give him.

He watches as you bite your lip in concentration, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you try to take him in. You are incredibly tight around the sensitive tip of his cock, and he moans a little at the constriction. That’s when he knows for sure that no one else has touched you like this for a long time. You aren’t ready for him, not yet.

Reaching under your skirt, he deftly finds the delicate little bundle of nerves there and begins to work it ever so gently. He shifts his hips down, his cock regretfully released from your hold on it. Sliding his fingers through your folds (oh, god), he gently slips one finger into your tight heat, then two, allowing you to adjust around him before pumping them in and out. Your eyes go wide and you gasp with the intrusion, but then they flutter closed with a sigh, and then another, and another before your hips begin to rock again.

He watches you in your ecstasy, taking in every delectable reaction he can and committing it to memory. The way your brow scrunches and your mouth falls open into a little O. The feel of your thighs clenching around his hand as he massages and fingers your dripping pussy. Those alluring little breathy moans escaping your lips. Every part of you has him completely mesmerized and he knows it. He knows his mouth is agape and he is moaning softly right along with you. He is so aroused just by watching you, he feels like he could come without you even touching him.

“E, I need more…I need you,” you breathe with your eyes closed and brow concentrated, and oh sweet lord, those might be the best words in the English language with the way they come out of your mouth.

He is utterly unable to deny you this. He can’t even speak, he just pulls his fingers out of you, lifts your hips, and maneuvers his cock back to the place it wants to be most. And you are more ready for him now, your tightness yielding much more easily around the sensitive tip of him.

It’s in that moment, as you sink down ever-so-slowly onto him and he is enveloped by your wet heat, that Elvis realizes he is utterly ruined for any other woman, ever. They cannot and will not ever hold a candle to you. He should’ve known before. He should’ve stopped this while he still could. But as you finally settle in his lap, taking him in completely, your fingers relaxing and your eyes bright and glassy, he knows he is well and truly fucked in every way.

He kisses you deeply again and again, memorizing your mouth, as you begin to raise and lower yourself on his cock. You feel so good, so completely perfect, it’s as if you were made just for him. He is drunk on you, hands wandering your body, finding what makes you keen, and he’s unable to get enough of you.

But you are so needy and ready that unfortunately it doesn’t take very long of you riding him and him playing with your clit for you to begin falling apart at the seams. Based on your surprised gasps, he’s not sure you’ve ever come before, so he does his best to help you get there while holding on to his own release for dear life. You begin to shudder around him, clenching his length, and with a strangled moan you hit your peak. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the way you are coming undone on top of him, around him, your eyelashes fluttering closed and then popping open, all wild-eyed and rosy cheeked as the hushed sound of his name falls out of your perfect mouth.

He's so fucking enraptured that his orgasm hits harder and faster than expected, chasing yours almost immediately, not giving him time to pull out like he should have. But he can’t bring himself to care because it’s all you. All he’s ever wanted or needed—it’s you.

Oh, sweet Christ, I love you, I love you, I love you, he chants in his mind as he follows you over the edge.

He clings to you, head pressed into your breasts as he pulses hard into your warmth with a grunt, then stays there as he comes down from the high. And then you are both gasping in the silence, and there is an air of disbelief that fills the room that the two of you just did that, together.

This is making love, he realizes suddenly. It must be, considering the incredibly overwhelming feelings he has for you that are pouring through him in unreasonable amounts. He never wants to let you go, not ever.

He pulls back enough to kiss you tenderly, lingering a little too long. There is a sinking, nearly unbearable feeling that this may never happen again, and it threatens to break him, so he pushes it as far away as it will go.

You press your forehead to his, silent, you still enveloping him as he eventually begins to soften inside you. Neither of you rushes to move. He cannot read what you are thinking and that makes him nervous.

“Are you okay?” he finally whispers, his thumb grazing your cheek.

You nod but say nothing.

“Okay, baby.”

You both sit there a while, simmering in what you have done, and he wishes you would say something, say anything at all to let him know what is going on in that head of yours. But you are quiet, unreadable.

Finally, you remove yourself from his lap and stumble your way into the ensuite bathroom to clean up.

Elvis runs a hand down his face, wiping away the mixture of salty tears and sweat that has collected there. He uses his handkerchief to wipe himself off and then puts himself back together. Blissed out in his refraction, he is so full of love for you that he almost can’t stand it. He thought he’d known love before, and perhaps he did, but this realization of love for you is so big that he doesn’t know what to do with it. God, he feels like with you by his side, he could conquer the damn world.

But you’re not his girl.

Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.

His head falls back onto the wall with a thump.

Somehow, he’s both on top of the world and completely buried by it at the same time. You interrupt his thoughts, coming back in quietly and falling, exhausted, into his arms. He takes off his coat and puts it on top of you both. He can’t help but pull you closer, up into his lap, so your head rests against his chest. This is where you are supposed to be, he can’t help but think.

He knows the two of you need to talk about this. While he has been having his epiphany, he has absolutely no idea what you are thinking. He has no clue if you feel anything even close to what he feels for you. It is possible that all of this was just some sort of revenge on Jack, and that breaks his heart a little. And even if you did do it for that reason, you chose him. You felt safe enough with him to choose him.

But something deep inside him tells him it isn’t just that, not with the way you kissed him, not with the way he felt like his damn soul was connecting with yours. That deep connection he’s always felt to you, it can’t possibly be one-way.

But what if it is? a worried little voice creeps in.

He wants to ask you, but he looks down and sees you passed out on his chest. Fatigue begins to hit him, as he hasn’t slept in over a day.

It’s not long before he, too, falls into an exhausted slumber.

*

He’s not sure how long you sleep, but when he wakes, the sun has moved and the room is nearly dark. Disoriented, it takes a moment for him to realize that it’s you in his arms, and when he remembers why, his cheeks flame with heat.

Oh. Oh.

Drowsy, he rubs his eyes with one hand, trying to wake up. As the memories of your lovemaking resurface, his heart beats faster, and he knows the moment you wake you will both have to face what you’ve done. You’ll have to decide what comes next. And more than anything, the hopeful little voice inside him realizes that he wants to share this all with you—that’s why it is you he brought to Graceland today, and why it was so important to him that you like it.

“Y/n, honey, wake up,” he says quietly, not wanting to shock you awake, but you don’t even stir. He shifts under you, hoping that might get you moving, but you just lie there.

“Hey, baby, it’s time to wake up,” he says at full voice now, but you remain still, too still, and silent.

His heart starts to pound. Something isn’t right.

“Y/n! Honey, I need you to wake up!” He is getting frantic now, his hand gently tapping your face, which feels too cold. But still, you do not wake.

“Fuck. Fuck! Y/n, wake up!” He shakes you. Panic and confusion roll over him as he tries to figure out why you are knocked out. His sleep-addled brain runs through what happened before you both fell asleep, before you made love.

Her headache, he thinks. She took pills for her headache.

He had thought they were aspirin, but as he frantically rummages through her purse, pulling out the little prescription bottle, he reads “Percodan, one tablet every 6 hours for pain and sleep relief” on the label.

Elvis swears you took two tablets, not one, way too much for a girl your size. You hadn’t read the bottle.

Shit.

Having been in Hollywood, he knows that this happens. People overdose from taking these narcotics, usually to get high, but he knows that you did it on accident. Based on how full the bottle is, he’s guessing that you maybe hadn’t even taken the meds before today.

Regardless, he’s not taking any chances with you. There’s no phone hooked up at the house, so with his adrenaline now working overtime, he lifts your unconscious form and quickly carries you to the car. He peals out, driving to Baptist Memorial Hospital as fast as he possibly can.

The those few hours are some of the most terrifying of his life.

He bites every nail down to the quick in that waiting room, pacing there as your family sits, equally worried. He can’t help but feel that they are judging him for letting this happen, even though it was an accident.

He can’t bring himself to call Jack.

Guilt eats away at him, even though he knows he had no idea about the pills, but if he hadn’t fallen asleep, maybe he would’ve realized sooner that something was wrong. Part of him feels like this is punishment for his sins, for what he let happen in the house. He prays and prays to God, harder than he’s ever prayed before.

Please, God, I love her. I can’t lose her. Do what you want to me, just let her be okay.

His prayers work.

You wake up. The doctors say you are going to make a full recovery. His heart nearly explodes with relief.

He offers to stay while your family goes home to get some rest. It is past visiting hours, but being Memphis’ own superstar, the nurses take pity on him and let him stay, as long as he doesn’t keep you awake.

When you finally stir, it’s the middle of the night.

“E—Elvis?” you croak. “What happened? Where am I?”

He sits up straight and leans forward to take your cold little hand in his. “Y/n! Oh, baby, you took too many of your headache pills and I couldn’t wake you up. You scared the hell outta me. You’re in the hospital, but you’re gonna be okay,” he whispers, squeezing your hand.

“Wake me up? Why—why was I asleep?” your brow furrows in confusion.

His heart drops into his stomach, dread like ice in his veins. He doesn’t want to ask, but he knows he must:

“What’s the last thing you remember, honey?”

Obviously still groggy, you close your eyes for a moment to think. “Um, I remember you picked me up and took me to…to your new house,” you say, then your eyes pop open, “You were showing me your beautiful new house, and then my headache got really bad, so I took some of my pills, and then…” You stop, looking at him blankly. “And after that, I don’t remember. You said I fell asleep?”

Oh, God, no. No, no, no. He feels like he’s going to vomit.

The force of his dread hits him like a tsunami as he runs through what happened in his head again. You took the pills first and then he told you about June and then you kissed him.

But you don’t remember. You don’t remember because you were accidentally fucking high.

“Elvis, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you say.

“Sorry, baby, I-I-I was just really worried about you, is all. I-I guess it’s all kinda hittin’ me at o-once, now that you’re o-o-okay,” he says, unable to keep his voice from shaking, unable to keep from stuttering through the half-truth.

“Please, go get some rest, E. I’ll be fine. I’m so tired, I feel like I could sleep for days…” you say, drowsily, eyes fluttering closed.

“Okay, okay, baby, I will…Get some rest,” he says, kissing you on the top of your head as you drift back into slumber.

In a panicked daze, he manages to make it down the hallway and to the men’s room before his stomach rolls and he is violently sick into the toilet.

Oh, sweet Lord, he took advantage of you. You were drugged and didn’t know what you were doing, and he had sex with you.

He vomits again, tears running down his face.

I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have ever let it happen if I’d known! I would never hurt her! the reasonable part of his brain cries out.

Shame eats at him from deep inside, cutting him. He deserves it.

How could he do this? How could he let this happen?

I should’ve known. I should’ve known the moment she kissed me that she wasn’t in her right mind.

But he didn’t, and what the hell does that say about him? He’s fucking selfish and he took something from you that you weren’t in your right mind to give.

He dry heaves, wanting desperately to expel his regret but knowing that he never will, not until the day he dies.

And what’s even worse is that he is still left with the fact that he is desperately in love with you. You don’t remember what, up until a few minutes ago, was one of the most amazing moments of his young life. You can’t share that with him. And that makes him feel even more selfish because the last thing he should be thinking of is his own damn feelings.

Sitting there on the cold floor, he tries to convince himself it’s for the best. It’s much less complicated for you this way. For you, there was no betrayal. For you, making love with him can never be a mistake you once made in a moment of anger and desperation. For you, there is only the love of friendship between you two.

Yes, it’s better this way, he thinks. He can carry the burden for both of you. He deserves to.

Because he knows he cannot give you what you need. He cannot be there for you, day in and day out, holding you tight and keeping you safe. Especially not now. Not after what he’s done.

He has to lock this away. You can never know, not ever. He must protect you from this and from his guilt. He knows you wouldn’t be able to look at him if you knew.

Oh, God. Please forgive me.

He can’t stop crying. He has to stop crying because he has to go out there and he has to look fine. He has to be fine, for your sake. You’re alive and going to be okay, and it’s that which he latches onto as a mantra in order to slide into the persona that has made his name.  

He manages to make it to the car without losing it again, as the dawn starts to break on another day. He can’t bring himself to go home; he can’t look his mother in the eye right now. So, he drives aimlessly, for hours, his sins eating away at him until he finds himself at the church.

He waits for Reverend Hamill in a pew, his thoughts dark and churning. This is just the straw that broke him, for he knows that since his fame began two years ago, he has fallen so very far. He has been self-centered and vain. He has fornicated and broken hearts and caused pain to those he claimed to love, all in the name of this new life of his. And he’s pushed his friends to do the same. His stupid, selfish actions have had a ripple effect that has completely ruined lives.

Not only had he driven June away and into the arms of another man, he’d played with your life and Jack’s as well. If he hadn’t pushed Jack to cheat, you would never have needed those pills in the first place. You almost died because he didn’t want to be alone in his debauchery, and he knows that some sick part of him pushed Jack to it because he wanted to sabotage your relationship.

Then he realizes that, on top of all that, he did another incredibly selfish and stupid thing. He came inside you, which means that you could be pregnant. And that would ruin you completely, and you wouldn’t even know why, you wouldn’t understand. He would do the right thing, of course, and maybe, someday, you would learn to forgive him, but it would ruin you all in the process.

Oh, Lord. Oh, Jesus.

He thinks he might vomit again.

When the Reverend emerges, he looks surprised to find Elvis sitting there.

“Pastor, I am the most miserable man you’ve ever seen. I am doing the things you taught me not to, and I’m not doing the things you said I should,” he sobs, “Please, please pray for me.”

“Oh, son…come in,” Reverend Hamill says.

Deflated, consumed, and heavy with his guilt and the repercussions of his actions, he follows the pastor into his office. He can’t bring himself to admit what he’s done, to admit how horrible he is. He just cannot get the words out. Instead, he weeps and prays, over and over, the Reverend praying with him.

All he can whimper out is, “Please, please forgive me for my sins. Please.” He’s not sure if he’s asking the minister or God or both. He only knows he cannot live with himself for hurting you, even if you don’t know it.

After over an hour of this, by the grace of God, he finally calms some. His entire body and soul aches.

But he knows what he has to do now. He understands the deal he has made.

It doesn’t matter what he wants or needs. You being okay is all that matters. He has to make sure you’re taken care of. He has to make sure that you are happy.

In the days and weeks and months that follow, Elvis pretends he is having the time of his life, becoming every bit the budding superstar that the country insists that he is now. Sometimes, he even believes it; sometimes, he even forgets. Though every time he sees you, his heart breaks a little more, his love for you permeating him to the core.

But he knows he can’t have you. He knows he doesn’t deserve you.

Instead, he plants seeds in Jack’s ear. “You love her, don’t ya, Jacky Boy? When are ya gonna make an honest woman of her?” He pushes Jack to fully commit to you. He even goes with Jack to buy the ring, though he stops himself from paying for it. Jack has his pride, after all.

Instead, he throws himself into work, grateful for the grueling cycle of touring and recording and appearances and acting. He throws himself into fixing up Graceland for his family, building a life of extravagance that he never could’ve dreamed of.

And, God help him, he starts seeing other girls. He leans into the image of the playboy they all want him to be. He dates and he fucks, thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of these girls will make him forget the perfect way you fit into him, forget the way your face looked when you came undone around him. That maybe one of them will come close to the wonder that is you. That they will help him forget his past sins by cutting new ones. He cannot seem to help but do the sinful things he swore he wouldn’t do, lest he drown in his sorrows, but the girls help keep him from the one thing that is off limits: You.

When Jack finally pops the question in the summer, and you accept immediately, he can barely keep himself together. He convinces himself this is the right thing, that he is happy for the both of you as he stares into the night sky knowing deep in his soul that it should be him. He reminds himself that this is the deal, this is what he wanted, to see you happy and taken care of.

And he will damn himself for your salvation every time.

December 28th, 1957, Graceland

Oh, God, what have I done?

The moment you appear down the aisle, looking ever the most beautiful, blushing bride, every part of him aches with love for you. He’d thought that by giving you the life you dreamed of, the life you needed, that it would be enough to let you go. But as Elvis stands by Jack’s side at the altar, he realizes that no matter what has happened, no matter what he has done, he is always going to love you and it’s never not going to hurt, especially not after this.

Not after the quick look you shoot him as you step up to meet Jack, your pretty, wide eyes full of excitement and emotion. Not after seeing you all in white and wishing to God that it was him marrying you right now. Not after he keeps his peace after the minister asks if there’s a reason these two should not be married.

He somehow manages to keep himself from openly weeping during the ceremony by biting the inside of his cheek repeatedly but still finds himself caught in your radiance more than once and must force himself to look away. During the wedding pictures, he cannot help but maneuver himself close to you to press a lingering kiss to your cheek, to be memorialized for all time on film. The press of his soft lips into your warm cheek sends that tell-tale shiver through him, one that drives in the fact that he still loves you. He gives himself this tiny thing, and no one questions it because they all know you are close friends, and a congratulatory cheek kiss on your wedding day is not strange.

Discretely, he makes sure to let the photographer know he wants copies of the pictures, with the excuse that he is paying for them and wants to make sure they are perfect. This, too, is not questioned, as if it is the most normal thing in the world.

To torture himself even more, he offers Graceland up for the reception. These are his two best friends, after all, now cleaved together in holy matrimony for the rest of their lives. No expense should be spared because they deserve all the happiness in the world.

And they do, he reminds himself throughout the day. They do deserve all the happiness in the world.

At least if you are with Jack, he thinks, he still has you in his life. He can still see those beautiful, wide eyes whenever he wants without question or suspicion.

He clings to this.

Even so, he feels as though he is being sucked into a riptide. It seems fated that his life is going in a much different direction than the newlyweds. The draft notice he received a week ago confirms this, weighing heavy on his heart and feeing like a nail in the coffin of his hopes and dreams.

God is testing him, he thinks. It is all a very clear and stark reminder that where he goes, you cannot follow. He cannot help but feel that God is punishing him for his sins by taking him away from the fame he has just settled into to, taking him from the people he loves and the things he loves to do. He wants to lament that it isn’t fair, but part of him knows that he deserves this, too, for what he’s done and for what he’s done to you.

And perhaps God works in mysterious ways, as while he is loathe to leave his parents and his career and his fans, he cannot help the small part of him that is relieved he doesn’t have to watch you and Jack in your newlywedded bliss for the next two years. It’s the only upshot to this entire disaster.

But he won’t let his sorrow overshadow your big day. With a smile plastered on his face, he gives a charming and loving speech of how wonderful it is to see his two best friends find such happiness with each other. He only stutters once or twice, which comes across as endearing rather than damning. But the thing is, even though he is miserable, he is still happy for you two. He wants more than anything for you to have everything you’ve ever wanted and more, and if that is with Jack, then so be it.

The only time he truly falters is during the dance.

Your little sister (who at 18 is not so little anymore), Rosie, as the Maid of Honor, dances with Jack, while he, the Best Man, dances with you. The moment he touches you, sparks fly through him and down his spine, and he cannot help but pull you in a little too close, even though everyone is looking. His large hand wraps around your smaller one and the other clings to your waist.

The thing is, you do not react to this at all, not outwardly, anyway. You let him hold you and press his cheek against your temple. You let him breathe in your scent and lean into you, as if memorizing everything about you. You let his hands contract, pulling you in closer. You let him lead because it’s like somehow you know, in your soul, that he needs this, even if you’re not exactly sure why.

And for that he is grateful. He is grateful as he takes in every bit of you, committing you to memory, knowing that soon that is all he will have of you. All you will be is a memory, imprinted on his heart, for the rest of time.

When the song comes to an end, he leans back slowly, his eyes searching your face for any recognition, any understanding of his plight, any feelings of your own that might linger in your subconscious. You stare back at him openly for a moment, and for a second he thinks he sees a glimmer of something in your eyes, but then Jack is pulling you away and the moment is gone.

As the party continues into the night, he feels like he is suffocating and escapes upstairs to his room. And as people know not to enter his bedroom without express permission, he feels safe to let out the shaking sob he’s been holding back for hours.

He’s not sure how long he cries before a tap at the door startles him into motion, frantically wiping at his face.

“Bewbie, sweet boy, can I come in? It’s just me,” his mama’s voice echoes through the door.

“Yeah, Mama, come in,” he croaks out, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. While he is relieved that it’s her and not one of the guys, or God forbid, you, he still doesn’t know how he’s going to explain the state he’s in.

His mama comes in quietly, shutting the door quickly behind her. She looks him over and in one fell swoop seems to understand, even though he’s said nothing, even though he’s spent months perfecting his nonchalantness for the world, what is going on.

But a mother knows.

His mama sits next to him on the edge of the bed, putting her arm comfortingly around his broad shoulders. “Oh, my wittle baby, it’s her, isn’t it? Our beautiful y/n. You love her,” she says, less of a question and more stating a fact.

That does him in, the way his secret is exposed so easily by his mama. It terrifies him that she knows him so well, and terrifies him that if she knows this, what else does she know? There’s no point in denying anything, so he curls into her like a child and lets go of it all, the tears streaming once again down his cheeks as his body shakes with quiet sobs.

His mama has always loved you, taking quickly to your genial ways and how you always made time to spend with her. Maybe she suspected something from the start, he doesn’t know, but she doesn’t judge or scold him now.

“H-hurts so bad, Satnin,” he hiccups out. And it does, now that he’s letting it. It feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest.

“I know, baby, I know,” she coos, rubbing his back. He can sense all the questions she wants to ask but doesn’t.

“I-I-I couldn’t…I-I ain’t w-w-what she needs or wants, Mama,” he stutters out. It’s as close as he’s willing to get to telling her the truth.

“It takes a brave man to let the girl he loves marry another, when he knows that’s what she wants, though I can’t say I wish it didn’t work out the other way,” his mama tuts.

“Y-you knew?”

“Course I knew, Bewbie. A mother always knows. To be fair, I been watchin’ the way ya look at that girl for the past few years and it didn’t take much t’put it all together, baby,” she says. “But the question is, does she know?”

He stills and stays silent for a moment, before answering truthfully, “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” she tuts, “I’m gonna trust you had good reason for lettin’ that wonderful girl go without tellin’ her how ya feel?”

His heart constricts, causing him to doubt his choices, but he can’t explain how he nearly killed you with his terrible decisions. He certainly can’t tell his mama that he made love to you when you weren’t yourself, no matter that it was you came on to him. And he knows his mama would balk if he told her how much he doesn’t deserve your love because of his sins.

“It’s better this way, Mama,” he says quietly, sitting up and staring at his hands. “And she’s happy, both she and Jack.”

His mama nods, resigned. “Alright, my sweet baby, puttin’ your friends’ happiness before your own…I know ya made the choice ya thought was best,” she says, wiping his face and pinching his cheeks, “but ya get yourself cleaned up now ‘n go be at least a ‘lil happy for your friends, okay?” She leaves the obvious unsaid—that he’s leaving to film in a few days and straight from there, it’ll be into the Army, so this will be one of the last times he can spend with them.

He nods. “O-okay, Satnin.”

And with that, he does as he’s told.

*

And then, in a blink of an eye, she’s gone. His mama is gone and his world fully collapses and it’s all his fault.

You are the only one who saves him from being completely swallowed in the blackness of his despair, and he’s not in his right mind to think or care how that looks. All he knows is you’re there when he needs you the most. You’re there to get him through the absolute worst of it before they send him a world away, and then, he loses you, too.

He loses everything that means anything to him—his mama, you, his career—and he wonders how long God will continue to punish him for his misdeeds, until he can’t bring himself to care much anymore about anything at all.

Germany feels like a cold fog that clouds his brain, even when he brings his Daddy and Dodger and Red over to live with him off base. In his haze, he writes Anita promises he wishes he could keep but deep down knows he won’t. Then, he turns around and does all the things he shouldn’t do because he can and what does it even matter if it’s all lost anyway? He takes the pills they give him to keep him awake in the field, and those make him feel pretty good, for a time anyway, and then he starts taking other pills they give him to bring him down after. In his off time, he screws and tries to forget the life he used to know.

And in those horrible quiet hours when he lies awake, trying to sleep when even the pills won’t let him, trying to escape and can’t, he thinks of you. He thinks of his love for you and your hold over him even now, a world away, and when he’s extra lonely, he imagines you on top of him, writhing and beautiful. And when he comes undone, there’s nothing left but a gaping hole in his heart and a mess in his hand.

*

March 1960

Elvis bites his nails to the quick on the long journey home. It’s not just because of the planes and the exhaustion and not knowing if he’ll ever get back to being “Elvis Presley,” but he knows he’ll be seeing you in a matter of hours. Not years or months or weeks, but hours.

And he thinks that maybe he is finally over you, that maybe he’s healed enough from everything and that he’s on his way to start something new, something fresh.

But, God, somehow you are more beautiful now than before, but you act so strange around him, and his heart wants to leap and implode all at once. Somehow everything has changed…but you, you still own his heart.

Once he discovers your pregnancy, he is over the moon for you because he can sense how badly you want this. He doesn’t care that the baby is Jack’s—he loves it more than anything because he loves you and seeing you so happy brings him true joy for the first time in a long, long time.

His career is taking off again, his new image impressing those who denounced him a few years ago, and he already has appearances and recordings and films lined up to go. Life feels…almost good, like maybe he’s finally paid his karmic debt.

Then you almost bleed to death in his arms.

His terrified confession of love is spoken in an act of desperation, a singular hope that if you know he loves you, you won’t be able to go, that the string of fate that draws you both together cannot be broken, that he can somehow will you back to life with the power of his love.

He begs God, begs as he’s never begged before, an inner wail of blood-soaked prayer that does not cease as he rides with your near-lifeless form to the hospital, nor when he calls Jack and your parents, nor as paces the waiting room.

Singularly focused on his pleas to God, he doesn’t even realize he’s covered in your blood until Charlie and Jerry arrive shortly after the ambulance and look at him in shock.

“Jesus, EP,” Charlie gasps quietly, taking in the macabre scene, “We need to get you changed and cleaned up before Jack gets here.”

That’s when he looks down and sees your life’s blood staining his pants, his shirt, his arms, his hands. God, it’s even under my nails, he thinks as he watches his hands shake, feeling utterly disconnected from his body.

He’s frozen, unable to move, repeating his prayers again and again, until Charlie whisks him away and has to physically help him strip down and wash the blood from his body in the bathroom. As he watches the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, he cannot bear the thought that maybe it’s the last thing he has of you, these stains, and that maybe he’s truly lost you.

He just got you back. He can’t lose you. He won’t.

No, his inner mantra of prayer doesn’t cease until he is absolutely sure you are going to be okay.

Though “okay” is relative, he learns quickly. You have a long recovery ahead of you, the surgeons say, wiping their sweating brows, and the next few days will be crucial. The baby is gone, and the doctors say that more tests need to be done once you are well to see if that is even an option in the future.

He is heartbroken for you, and for Jack. But you are alive. You are alive.

Lamar and Red have to physically drag him from the hospital in the morning to get him ready and put him on the train to Florida for Frank Sinatra’s special, which is the very last thing he wants to do. But it is absolutely pivotal in his career comeback, so he tells Rosie in no uncertain terms that she is to keep him posted about her sister and any developments.

As he showers and packs, exhaustion seeping into his bones, it suddenly hits him that he told you he loved you, and it’s likely there will be fallout from that. It makes him incredibly worried, and he is even more loathe to leave until he knows where he stands with you. It’s possible you won’t even want to see him again.

Or it’s possible she loves you, too, a little voice hopes. But he knows better than to feed that monster. You don’t love him, not like that, and it’s selfish of him to even consider at a time like this.

“It’ll take your mind off things, EP,” Jerry tries to convince him, seeing his trepidation, prodding him along to get on the train. “And it’ll give y/n and Jack and her family time to get situated.”

The message is clear. Elvis is not in the inner circle of your life, not anymore, not as he wants to be. This fact is both sobering and cutting at the same time. It reminds him yet again that where he goes, you cannot follow, and where you go, he is not always welcome or needed.

He nods solemnly, thinking he finally understands, yet again, the terms of his deal with God. You live and he keeps his distance, he keeps his sins from tainting you. You live and he lets you go.

He pops a couple of pills, brought over from Germany, to wake him up, to get him in the performing mindset, to rev him up to being THE Elvis Presley. “Anything she needs, anything at all, comes to me,” he tells Jerry, “Hospital bills, recovery costs…and I want the best doctors helping her figure out her pregnancy issues. Oh, and send flowers, every day.”

Jerry nods, eyes observant and keen. “Of course, EP. Anything for y/n and Jack.”

Yes, anything for you.

*

You don’t remember a thing from that night, he learns from Rosie, and most of him thinks it’s for the best. But a small, egotistical part of him thinks bitterly that you certainly have a knack for forgetting anything monumental that happens between the two of you.

But he is busy. So busy, in fact, that he barely has time to think of you at all after that.

Except half the songs he chooses for his comeback album have something to do with you, which he only consciously realizes when he steps up to the mic to sing. And just as he thought of you the night of the talent show, he thinks of you now, singing about the girl of his best friend and how it feels so right being with you. He pours his hopes and dreams and frustrations and sorrows right into that album.

Perhaps it will cleanse him of needing you. Perhaps it’ll help him let you go.

When you find out that children are likely not in the cards for you and Jack, he sends more flowers, every day for a week. Jack is devastated and practically begs to come out to Hollywood to escape the sadness, so he agrees.

Anything for his friend, right?

He takes care of you from afar. He takes care of everything. Anything you could possibly want or need is yours. But he keeps his distance.

That is the bargain.

He falters at Christmas, almost letting his grief and yours ruin everything. He swears that you feel something for him, that maybe your impulse to be with him was not entirely driven by the drugs all those years ago. That maybe you do somehow remember his confession. Part of him swears if he had let it happen, you would’ve been his once again.

But you are not his, you never really were.

And while he knows this on a logical level, the more he is away, the more he fills his days with mindless movie making and wooing his costars and taking pills that bring him up and more that pull him down, the more he lets himself imagine you are his. From a distance, he can take care of you. From a distance and in the deep recesses of his mind, you belong to him and him alone.

“Elvis Presley” becomes a household name, now with a clean-cut image, alluring to both housewives and teenagers alike. His fame and wealth grow, and so does his isolation and loneliness. So does the need for the pills and to bring the rest of the guys into it all with him. Even Jack.

Especially Jack.

But he doesn’t like to think about why that is.

He manages to destroy his relationship with Anita along the way. He loved her, in his way, he really did. But she was not you. Neither is Ann, though he thinks for a moment that she may be the answer to his prayers, but in the end, he screws that up, too.

As the years drag on, he thinks he finally understands why he sabotages every relationship he’s ever had—it’s you—none of them are YOU. So he flits from fling to fling without ever truly landing because all he really wants is your love. But he doesn’t deserve it, he never has.

He knows this as he watches Jack descend into alcohol and drugs and women, and a small, horrible part of him wants Jack to self-destruct, and even though he knows this hurts you, he is too selfish to stop it. And the guilt of this, coupled with the downturn in his career, pushes him to self-destruct, too.

Still, he keeps his distance. When he’s home, he tries not to shoot you too many lingering glances. He reins himself in, most of the time, but in moments of weakness, he allows himself to get too close. He catches you alone, he makes a pass. But because you are you, you always rebuke him with a laugh. Silly Elvis, ever the jokester.

But sometimes, in the dark of night, in your beautiful, wide eyes, he sees something else. That deeper connection that drew you together in the first place, mixed with a heat he has only seen once or twice. And it is that which keeps his hope alive.

In an attempt to bury it and fill the hole in his heart, he almost marries, but in the end, he can’t go through with it. He’s wildly unhappy and dissatisfied, and it’s not until he finally gains some control over his career again that things take a turn for the better. He finally starts to clean up his act. He seeks knowledge and spiritual clarity. He finally finds his passion for music and performing again after nearly a decade.

But it’s too late for Jack. He managed to drag Jack to hell and while he made it back, Jack has not. And you are miserable because of it. This breaks his heart.

He tried to give you everything you wanted and needed by stepping back to let Jack do so. He kept his distance. He did what he’d promised God, and yet life still destroyed your dreams.

Jack no longer makes you happy. Jack is no longer the man who can give you what you need.

And suddenly Elvis wonders if he was wrong all along. That perhaps he wasn’t the man you needed then, but he is now. Perhaps his sins have been forgiven. Perhaps the more he pushes you away, the worse things become for both of you because you are indeed supposed to be together.

You are his. You’ve always been his.

So, riding high from his first Vegas performance, he finally allows himself to pursue you. He pushes away a decade and a half of guilt and shame and lets his charm and confidence entice you. He lets the sparks fly between you, finally free after all this time, and more intense than ever. To his gleeful surprise, you accept him willingly, if not a bit hesitantly.

Maybe it is just sex, he thinks at first, this carnal need he has for you, but he knows better. As soon as he tastes you after all these years, he knows he can never let you go again. As soon as he coaxes, then watches you come undone again and again, he realizes that still, after all this time, this is it for him. You are it. You always have been. And he will do anything to keep you, to make sure you know that you are his.

He thinks you might remember it all after that first night, but you don’t, not right away. He senses your fear to let go, to let yourself have him, to have this affair. He knows you want this to be only sex. And maybe it is for you, at first.

But he will have you. He doesn’t care how many mountains he must move or what he has to do to convince you to stay, but he loves you more than anything in the world and he’s not willing to part with you, not anymore.

It’s true that his fame, wealth, and influence have spoiled him into always getting what he desires. Of course, what he truly desires always has been you. Now unlocked, his love and want and need for you is insatiable, and he will do anything to keep it that way.

Anything for you. Anything but letting you go.

*

As the blackout of his rage starts to dissipate and he comes to, he assumes that his friends are holding him back from quite literally killing the disheveled and beaten man who used to be his best friend, and he watches with deep satisfaction as you slap the shit out of your husband.

He also feels the immense guilt of letting it get this far, of not knowing just how bad Jack was to you, and his part in all of it.

But when you vomit and promptly fall to an unconscious heap on the ground, his fear is what overshadows his rage and guilt. Something is wrong, he knows it.

Not again, not again, not again.

Triggered by your history, Elvis, with untold strength, wrenches himself from the four men holding him down and clamors to your side, everyone else forgotten.

Pulling your limp body into his lap, he screams for someone to call the doctor. His heart pounds so hard he thinks he might need one, too.

Please God, please God, please God. Not now, not after all we’ve been through.

That deep-seeded, old shame creeps back in as he rocks you: This is your fault. Your selfishness did this. You destroyed Jack, he took it out on her, and you’ve put her at risk, yet again. You are a scourge on this woman you claim to love so much. A pestilence.

He’s getting lost in this fearful despair, and then Jerry’s voice in his ear snaps him back: “EP. EP! You have to let her go, man. The doctor is here.” Jerry pulls his arms off her as the doctor examines her.

Elvis’ fingers go straight to his mouth, his obsessive habit of biting his nails taking over as he watches the doctor carefully.

The doctor looks up, taking in the scene. He looks at Elvis, then at Jack bleeding against the wall, and purses his lips. “Will somebody tell me what happened to this young lady?”

“There was an incident…” Jerry begins diplomatically.

“Her husband slammed his fist into her face!” Sandy yells over him, furious, earning scathing looks from the entourage. They knew better than to give details, knowing to keep things close to the chest and avoid any legal issues, to protect him at all costs.

“Sandy!” Jerry admonishes her.

“No, it’s okay, Jer,” Elvis says firmly, waving him off. “I’m sure the doctor knows to be discreet.”

The doctor looks up at his hovering, intimidating form, and says nothing for a moment. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I need to get her to a hospital and stabilized as soon as possible. She needs x-rays. It’s likely she has a serious concussion, Mr. Presley.”

The men start to argue, knowing that as soon as she leaves this room, a whole host of problems could fall down on them, but that’s the last thing he cares about right now. All that matters is you.

Elvis holds up his hand and everyone goes silent. “Do what you need to do, Doc. Anything she needs.”

The doctor nods and asks that someone phone for an ambulance.

Elvis looks up and sees that the men cleared the room at some point, leaving only the major players. Jack still sits, leaning on the wall next to Red, his face battered and bloody, watching the doctor. Elvis can’t tell if Jack is sorry or not. Elvis walks towards Jack, his anger tempered only by his concern for you.

“EP!” Jerry says in a warning tone, signaling for the men to flank him.

“I’m fine,” he commands, crouching at Jack’s side.

Jack flinches.

“Are you proud of yourself, Jacky Boy? Are you satisfied, seeing her laid out on the ground like that? Is this what you wanted?” he hisses.

Jack says nothing. He sees the tears in Jack’s eyes, the regret through the pain, and for a second, Elvis almost sees the man he used to know in there.

“Hmm,” he tuts, looking over his friend with disgust, shaking his head. “I’ll deal with you later. And you, too,” he says, with a low, deadly calm, pointedly to Red. Then he rises easily from the floor, his attention on the men with the stretcher who just entered the suite.

“It’s never enough with you, EP, you selfish motherfucker. The man who gets everything he wants, no matter how many lives he has to destroy to get it. The rules never apply to you, do they? Dammit, you coulda had anyone, anyone! Why did it have to be y/n?” Jack spits out mournfully from behind him.

Shame snakes through him, through the anger that continues to boil under just the surface, covering the sorrow that flows under that. There is truth in Jack’s words, he knows that, even though he wants to deny it.

“How long, Elvis?”

He supposes he owes Jack that much, though he doesn’t even turn his head.

“Opening night.”

“No, you bastard. How long have you been in love with my wife?”

The room goes silent yet again.

Elvis turns around, but he cannot bring himself to look Jack in the eyes for a moment. A lifetime of memories flashes through his head, of times much better than this, of times when they had each other’s backs. Ultimately, he knows what Jack has become is partially his fault. Ultimately, he knows it was wrong of him to want you when you weren’t his, wrong to have sex with you, even before the debacle of you and the pills. It was wrong of him to manipulate Jack into marrying you.

As much as he hates Jack right now, he once loved him, and still, he betrayed him.

Jack chuckles darkly, “That fucking long, huh?”

Elvis finally looks Jack in the eyes but says nothing. Nothing he can say will make any of this less of a fiasco. Nothing he can say with make it right, no matter how much he wants to jump in to defend himself, to tell Jack he saw you first, to tell him he wanted you first, to fucking explain that you’re his goddamn soulmate and he’s had to watch you be with someone else for almost two fucking decades.

“Ahhh, and she didn’t even know, did she?” A hint of a smile plays on Jack’s bloodied lips. “Didn’t even give the King the time of day! Well, at least I got that goin’ for me,” he laughs.  

His brow furrows as he fumes, and he steps towards Jack again. Lamar puts himself between the two men.

“It’s fine, Lamar, let him at me. What do I have to lose now anyways?” Jack laughs, which turn suddenly to sobs, “You were my brother. I gave up my life for you! I loved you, man!”

The words cut Elvis to the bone, flooding his fury with more guilt.

“And I love her,” Jack sobs.

“You don’t fucking love her,” Elvis says, infuriated, pushing past Lamar to grab Jack’s chin, wrenching his head to look at you being put on the stretcher. “You hurt her. You been hurtin’ her. And Jack, if she dies, I don’t care what brotherly love was between you and me—I will fucking kill you,” he says, low and vehement in Jack’s ear, for only him to hear.

He pulls back to stare Jack in the eye, to let him know just how serious he is, to make sure he understands that through the pain and the alcohol and whatever pills he might be on.

Jack blinks through his tears and nods his head once, shakily.

Elvis releases him.

Then he steps in behind you, still unconscious, on the stretcher as they take you out of the penthouse and to the elevator.

“EP, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to…” Charlie starts, hustling behind him.

He turns, seeing the stares of the men who have given him their lives to stand by his side. Some of them are befuddled, some understanding and resigned, some even a little suspicious after tonight’s events.

“I don’t give two shits if it’s a good idea or not, I’m goin’ with her. Anyone wanna argue with me about it?” he says impatiently, shooting up an eyebrow.

No one does.

It’s good it’s the middle of the night, otherwise he would’ve caused a huge scene at the hospital. But the nurses and doctors seem to gather by his demeanor that now is not the time for autographs. Instead of putting them in the waiting room, they set up an empty room at the end of the hall for the lot of them, a gruff old nurse warning them they best be quiet and not wake any of the patients before she closes the door on them.

And for the third time in his life, he waits to know your fate.

He waits for you, just as he’s been waiting for you for the last 18 years.

He waits and he prays, though this time, he makes no bargains with God.

He stills when the doctor finally comes to tell him that, yes, you do have a concussion and though you will likely experience symptoms as you recover, you should recover fully. He feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.

When the doctor leads him and him alone back to your room, the doctor mentions the other symptoms you’ll likely experience and that you might have issues with your memory leading up to the event. Elvis cannot help but chuckle at that.

“Oh, I’m betting she will,” he says under his breath, though this time, he thinks it might be best after what you went through tonight.

He sits by your side in the quiet, dimmed room, and is taken aback by the angry bruising already spreading over your beautiful face. His fury at Jack swells through him once more, followed immediately by sadness. You look so innocent and fragile lying there. Suddenly, he feels afraid to touch you, as though you might break.

So, he waits. He waits for you to wake and he prays. He thinks of the lifetime he’s had without you and the life he wants with you going forward. And this time, he knows he won’t be leaving your side for anyone or anything.

But his secrets still lay heavy and dark on his heart. There are those things he cannot tell you of that day at Graceland so long ago, and the things he still cannot bring himself to admit to, like his confession of love as you almost died in his arms and his meddling in your life. He doesn’t want to tell you how all of it has led to you lying here in this hospital, hurt and fragile but somehow still his, he hopes.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do about it yet, so for now he just waits for you to come back to him.

He’s been too rough with you, he thinks, in his quest to show you how you are his. Pushing you too hard to keep up with his rockstar lifestyle and his insatiable need for you sexually has not been good for you. You’re exhausted, not eating, and have been on an emotional rollercoaster for days, and he was too consumed by his own selfishness to listen, so much so that he almost drove you away. The hurt, the feeling of pure panic that shot through him when you said you were leaving was enough to bring him to his knees, but of course, he could not tell you that. He couldn’t show you that weakness. Instead, he’d covered it with anger and passion, fucking you into submission.

He realizes his dominance, while fun in the bedroom, is perhaps masking his true feelings. He has told you in so many words how desperate he is for you, how he wants you to be with him, to let him take care of you, how he is yours, that he needs you. But in truth, he is afraid. Afraid that you don’t and never will feel the same towards him as he does towards you. That it is only his coercion, manipulation, and his sexual prowess that keeps you here with him. No matter how much you say you are his and that you will stay as he fucks it out of you, he’s not convinced that you’ll feel the same in the light of day, of your own accord.

Lord, the way you said you needed him tonight flashed him right back to that first time with you at Graceland. The time you don’t remember. He is putty in your hands now, just as he was then. But that need of yours was only sexual. If it is truly just sex for you and you are only staying for that…well, that scares him and makes him want to hold onto you so tightly that you can’t leave even if you wanted to.

If you don’t ever feel that same pull inside your heart, in your soul, that he has for you, he’s not sure what he will do.

Gone is the bravado and confidence gleaned from years of being Elvis Presley. Instead, he sits here at your bedside feeling stripped to his core: a nervous, stuttering boy with a funny name who loves you more than life itself. He is that boy who picked your books up off the ground, the one who you calmed backstage with your sweetness and wit. For you and you alone, he is just Elvis. And he’s worried he won’t recover if you don’t ever grow to love him.

Anxiety courses through him, a throbbing pulse that serves to remind him that for all he has and is in this world, he is still only a man. And you are the girl who has comforted him through some of his worst moments, yet now after all this time he’s still terrified to let you truly see him. If he lets you in, you will see him for all that he is and all the terrible parts of himself he’s ashamed of: his selfishness and possessiveness, his overindulgence, his obsessive tendencies, his goddamned vanity and ego. His secrets. If you know the things he’s kept from you, he’s not sure you’ll ever forgive him. Certainly, you could not love him.

His heart aches at that thought, flooding him with despair. He needs you so badly that he cannot bear to risk showing you everything; however, a deep part of him wants to flay himself bare to you, to expose himself in a way that he has never done before, not with anyone.

Elvis puts his head on the bed near your hand. He is going to be gentler with you, especially after tonight. He will prove to you that he is worthy of your love, that this is so much more than just sex. He’s going to take care of you and give you the life you’ve always deserved.

God has humbled him once again tonight, and he knows he must do better.

He loves you so deeply he can hardly breathe.

So, he waits. He prays.

And he hopes that one day, you will love him, too.

*

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[matttgirlies]

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - semi smut (not really)

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 18

My attitude toward the usual wedding formalities was naive and unsophisticated. If it had not been for my good friend Amber Doe, I can’t imagine what I would have done. Amber was great that way. She was raised in Missouri, where her mother was somewhat involved with political events and ventures. Amber knew all the social graces along with proper etiquette.

Before the wedding there had never been an occasion for formalities—the same people came around for years and were always included when there was a special party such as New Year’s at a local club or fireworks wars in back of Graceland.

She reminded me to order my own personalized stationery for later thank-yous and a guest book for later memories. She registered our name with the city’s finest silver and crystal dealers for the convenience of family and friends buying wedding presents.

I had never attended a wedding as large as ours—nothing even close. I was nervous. The bounty from the wedding showers took me by surprise. Graceland had always seemed to have everything anyone could want. We were content with what was there, plus little things I’d bought over the years, such as simple dishes and plain glasses (in case of breakage).

“What’s wrong with those?” I wondered. I was raised to be practical and it was showing. Amber introduced me to dining luxury, the top names in silver, crystal, china—Baccarat, Lenox, Steuben.

The wedding ceremony itself took place on May 1, 1967. Colonel William handled the arrangements. His plan was for Matt and me to drive from L.A. to our rented house in Palm Springs the day before the wedding, so that any inquisitive reporters who got wind of the event would think it was going to take place there.

In fact, we planned to rise before dawn on our wedding day and fly from Palm Springs to Las Vegas, where we were scheduled to arrive at the city clerk’s office at 7 a.m. to get our marriage license. From there, the plan was to rush over to the Aladdin Hotel, dress, have a small ceremony in the private suite of the hotel’s owner, and then—we hoped—slip out of town before anyone noticed.

Time was of the essence. We knew that once we applied for a marriage license, the news would flash around the world. It actually was only a few hours after we got our license that Rona Barrett’s office began calling to ask if rumors about the marriage were true.

Matt and I followed the Colonel’s plan, but as we raced through the day we both thought that if we had it to do over again, we would have given ourselves more time. We were particularly upset at the way our friends and relatives ended up being shuffled around. The Colonel even told some of the boys that the room was too small to hold most of them and their wives, and that there wasn’t time to change to a bigger room. Unfortunately, by the time Matt found out, it was too late for him to do anything about it.

Now I sometimes look back at all the commotion of that week and wonder how things could have gotten so out of hand. I wish I’d had the strength then to say, “Wait a minute, this is our wedding, fans or no fans, press or no press. Let us invite whomever we want, and have it wherever we want!”

It seemed that as soon as the ceremony began, it was over. Our vows were taken. We were now husband and wife. I remember flashbulbs popping, my father’s congratulations, my mother’s tears of happiness.

I would have given anything for one moment alone with my husband. But we were immediately rushed out for a photo session, then a nationwide press conference, and finally a reception, with more photographers.

Mrs. Matt Sturniolo. It had a different ring, a nicer sound than previous labels such as “constant companion,” “teen heartthrob,” “live-in Lolita,” “lover.” For the first time, I felt accepted by my peers and the majority of the public. There were exceptions, of coursethose who had that little hope that they might be the one to finally catch Matt. I didn’t understand that at the time. I was in love and just hoped they would be happy for us.

When I read in the newspapers that I was the best-kept secret in Hollywood, I felt very proud; it was good to be acknowledged. The years of doubt and insecurity of where and if I belonged were over.

I was both exhausted and relieved when we finally returned to Palm Springs aboard Frank Sinatra’s Learjet, the Christina. There were more photographers and reporters waiting for us as we stepped off the plane, and others were parked outside our home.

I was surprised that Matt was holding up so well, considering how nervous he’d been about this ultimate commitment. Yet he was charming with the press and dealt easily with endlessly clicking cameras and flashbulbs, all of which he could usually tolerate only for short periods of time. On top of everything else, we hadn’t slept for nearly forty-eight hours.

In his own way, Matt was determined that our wedding day would be special for us. He joked with Nate Doe, asking, “Is this the way it’s done?”

He carried me across the threshold of our house singing “The Hawaiian Wedding Song.” He stopped and gave me a long, loving kiss, then proceeded to carry me up the stairs to our bedroom, the whole crowd teasing and applauding.

It was still daylight and the sun shone brightly through our bedroom windows as Matt carefully placed me in the middle of our king-size bed.

I don’t think he really knew what to do with me. After all, Matt had protected me and saved me for so long. He was now understandably hesitant about fulfilling all his promises about how very good this moment was going to be.

I have to laugh at how nervous we both were. One would have thought that it was the first time we had ever been together under intimate circumstances.

Gently, his lips touched mine. Then he looked deeply into my eyes. “My wife,” he said softly, as he drew me close. “I love you, y/nn,” he murmured, covering my body with his.

The intensity of emotion I was experiencing was electrifying. The desire and lust that had built up in me throughout the years exploded in a frenzy of passion.

Could he have known how it would be for me? Had he planned this all along? I’ll never know. But I do know that as I went from child to woman, the long, romantic, yet frustrating adventure that Matt and I had shared all seemed worthwhile. As old-fashioned as it might sound, we were now one. It was special. He made it special, like he did with anything he took pride in.

Within a few days we were in Boston, where Angela Sturniolo held a small wedding shower for me. At the end of May we threw a big reception at Graceland for all our friends and relatives—and some fans. Matt and I wore our wedding clothes, greeted everyone, sipped champagne, and shared cake just as if the party were taking place after the wedding ceremony. It was much more comfortable and relaxed than Las Vegas.

Laughing and somewhat high from the champagne, we could really have a good time. There were no photographers or strangers watching our every move.

It was fun seeing James get loose.

“Dad, you want some more champagne?” Matt asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Don’t mind if I do, Son. That’s pretty good stuff.”

“Yeah. Well, don’t drink too much. I don’t want my dad gettin’ in trouble. I see that blonde you’ve been eyein’.”

James stole a glance at the girl and, with the same twinkle replied, “She ain’t too bad, is she? Think I’ll go see if she needs anything.”

Matt turned to me and said, “I like seein’ Dad happy. He hasn’t had too much of it lately, poor ol’ guy.” He watched James make his way through the crowd.

The reception at Graceland was our way of trying to make everyone happy—those who hadn’t known about the wedding ceremony, those who knew but couldn’t attend, and those who knew but weren’t invited. It was a way of including everyone, of making up to anyone whose feelings might have been hurt during the rushed hours in Vegas.

One person who had been very upset was Red West. He had not been invited to the wedding ceremony in the suite, only to the reception afterward. I believe the reason Red was so hurt was because Matt did not demand that he be present, did not take a stand over Colonel William’s decision that only the immediate family and best man attend. I also believe that Red wanted to be best man. After all, he’d known Matt the longest, since their days at Humes High. When Red found out he could not watch the ceremony, he refused to come at all.

Matt was aware of Red’s decision but was determined not to let anything mar the wedding. I understood that but was never able to figure out how Marty Lacker made it to the ceremony. In a last-minute decision Matt had included him as best man along with Nate Doe.

It took a long time for Red to come around again without showing his displeasure. This bothered Matt and he discussed it with many of us, justifying himself and blaming Colonel for putting him in an awkward position.

“You didn’t make the decision—I did,” Colonel reportedly stated. “No matter who you picked, there was gonna be someone left mad. You got too many as it is. You oughta listen to me and let go of some of ’em, then these things won’t come up.”

There’s an old Southern belief that holds that a woman goes into a marriage thinking she can change her man, while a man wants his woman to stay the same as when he married her. I didn’t want to change Matt, but I did have the romantic delusion that once we were married, I could change our life-style.

For the first few days after the wedding, I thought my dream had come true. We divided our time between Graceland and the ranch, where Matt and I had taken up residence in a large, three-bedroom trailer.

It was typical of Matt to choose the trailer over the quaint little house. He had never lived in a trailer before and it intrigued him. The place was completely furnished, including a washer, a dryer, and a modern kitchen. It turned out to be very romantic.

I loved playing house. I personally washed all his clothes, along with the towels and sheets, and took pride in ironing his shirts and rolling up his socks the way my mother had taught me. Here was an opportunity to take care of him myself. No maids or housekeepers to pamper us. No large rooms to embrace the regular entourage.

I got up early, put on a pot of coffee, and started his breakfast with a pound of bacon and three eggs, proudly presented it to him the moment he woke up.

“You see, if we were ever stranded somewhere alone, you know I can take care of you.”

It must have been difficult for him to eat the instant he opened his eyes—but he wasn’t going to disappoint his new bride.

Although the rest of the group traveled with us, they respected our privacy as newlyweds and, for the most part, left us alone.

I understood Matt’s need for the camaraderie the entourage provided, and I didn’t want to take him away from the people he loved, especially now that we were married. He had always criticized wives who tried to change the status quo. He told me about one wife, saying, “She doesn’t like him to be around the boys so much. She’s going to cause problems in the group.” The last thing I wanted was for Matt to think I’d be the kind of wife who’d come between her man and his friends.

I decided one evening to show off my cooking skills for everyone by making one of Matt’s favorite dishes, lasagna. I invited the regulars, bragging to one and all about how well I prepared this Italian specialty. Despite my outward confidence, I must have made ten longdistance calls to my mother in New Jersey, checking and rechecking on quantities and measurements. It was important for me to prove myself a success. Nate Doe, our only Italian and a “gourmet chef,” kidded me all week about how he bet that my lasagna wouldn’t be as good as his. All that ribbing only made me more nervous. I kept thinking, What do I know about pasta? I’m not even Italian.

Finally, the night of the dinner came. Everyone was seated at the table, watching me expectantly. I tried to appear cool and confident as I brought out the fancily prepared platter and started cutting individual squares for my guests. I did notice that when I started slicing the lasagna, it felt a little tough, but thinking I was holding a dull knife, I continued dishing it out.

I sat down, smiled anxiously, and said, “Please start.” We all took a bite and—crunch. There was a look of shock on everyone’s face. I looked at my plate and was mortified when I realized I had forgotten to boil the pasta.

Matt began laughing, but when he saw I was about to cry he turned to his plate and began eating, uncooked noodles and all. Taking their lead from him, everyone followed suit.

Nate Doe still laughs about it, frequently saying, “y/nn? How about some lasagna?”

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - married!! 🎀

[elvisabutler]

smut prompt 6 w big daddy pleaseee 🥹🥹 I LOVE YOU AND CONGRATS U DESERVE IT!!!!!!

birds sing for you and me

fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: m pairing: elvis presley x gender neutral reader, i think. wordcount: 610 warnings: no use of y/n. mentions of fights. mentions of elvis's insomnia/sleep issues. brief madonna complex undertone thing it's a very much blink and miss. me deciding to write in a way i very rarely break out, it's not everyone's cup of tea. it leans more poetic than anything else. smut isn't super graphic. author’s note: elise was having soft elvis hours and this happened because i opened this up like a idiot at the same time. this is for my 1k gala that's still going on. i don't know how to explain this y'all, even down to the image, but i hope you like it. austin elvis or actual elvis works for this. also thank you elise baby, but i already said that in private but it bears repeating! and if y'all saw a different word count originally no you didn't.

Sometimes- sometimes Elvis sleeps. Graceland is usually where Elvis can sleep the best, wrapped up in the one place that's always been home from the moment he bought it. It's the one place that's uniquely his. His place to settle his body and hsi mind and- recenter himself properly. On those days he wakes up to the sounds of birds singing and your breathing.

Sometimes- sometimes Elvis doesn't sleep. Graceland can center him but Graceland is also where he can bring his friends together. Where he can bring everyone he cares about under one roof and for the most part everyone knows to get along. Knows that if anyone's starting a fight it's you or him. Possibly with each other but more than likely with someone else because something was said about how you stay in his lap, curled up in some combination of an animal, a lover and a child all at once. It's fights started because someone wants to make fun of how you and him baby talk with each other as if they haven't been used to it when he was with Linda or when he was married to Priscilla. Elvis doesn't usually stand for the comments though, it's his house, his domain and while some of his friends might not still work for him- they're- he reminds them where his loyalty lies, where he hopes theirs does as well. On those days he goes to sleep to the sounds of birds singing and your breathing.

Sometimes- sometimes it's both. Sometimes he sleeps so well in the beginning hours of the night or the ending hours of the night but wakes up and finds himself wishing you'd make more noises than just breathing. You're intune with him in a way Linda wasn't and in a way Priscilla wasn't so he usually wakes up to your eyes blinking at him with a sleepy sort of grin on your face.

These nights you roll on top of him or he rolls on top of you with a hum because you both may be awake but words escape you in the moment, words require too much brain power in the beginning. The hums turn into sighs and gasps and growls as his hands move across your skin, across your back and hips and ass. As your hands move across his stomach, across his shoulder blades and under his paunch to feel his hardened cock straining in what you and him affectionately call his lil scarf. You pull it back and maneuver yourself so that you can slip him in. His thrusts aren't forceful when you two are like this, not like they are when you're both properly awake. They're slow and gentle and yet you whimper just the same.

"Music t' my ears." He murmurs, his lips against your skin. "Love that sound ya make. Do it again, Buntyn. Tell me how much ya love-"

You always cut him off with a kiss and a soft smile before you make the noise again, this time more exaggerated as you both laugh a little. When you come it's slowly, a fire that's been stoked to the roaring intensity before it burns itself out. It's the same with Elvis, sometimes before you sometimes after you but he makes sure you do no matter what. You deserve that for that sound and for your love.

On these nights- on these nights he thinks the birds only sing for you and him on the nights and mornings there's silence in your shared bedroom. On these nights, he'll take the sounds of you and him together over any bird or any song he can sing.

taglist: @thatbanditqueen only because i promised i would tag her so she didn't miss things. normally i don't tag my gala stuff. hi y'all.

[vintagepresley]

Did you see Linda Thompson’s latest Instagram about Elvis? I do not like her at all, she seems so narcissistic. She thinks those photos were taken because of her when in reality the paparazzi focused on Elvis 😂 He was getting sick of Linda, that’s why he bought her an apartment in LA so she would stay away. This is her Instagram caption, she leaves a bad taste in my mouth

“Throwback Thursday… It’s amazing how many photos were actually taken of Elvis & me during the 4 1/2 years we lived together since there were no iPhones then! I am sharing with you just a few…Most of the shots were taken by paparazzi or fans. If you want to know who spent the most time with Elvis in the last years of his life, all you have to do is scan the photos. A few other “friends” may have passed through and gotten their photos taken once or twice, but they were just passing through. 😉 I was the constant in his life during those years.

I have been appearing at a few Elvis events this year, & I am looking forward to sharing my rarified memories at Graceland’s “Elvis week” in August. Elvis has the most loyal and best fans in the world, and I am looking forward to seeing many of you there!💜🙏🏻🎶”

Lmao, yeah, I saw gategirltcb posted it. Now, I don’t mind what she said but this part:

“A few other “friends” may have passed through and gotten their photos taken once or twice, but they were just passing through. I was the constant in his life.”

That part annoyed me. I feel she always thinks she was the only important woman in his life because she had years with him. Priscilla had years with him doesn’t mean she’s the /most/ important. Those “friends” who passed through weren’t just friends. I think of Sheila who he was with while dating Linda and he had a deep connection with her and even said how comfortable he felt with Sheila. She wasn’t just passing through if he announced at a show that Sheila was his girl, lol. I agree like girl.. they were taking pictures because he’s Elvis not because of you. Idk she just always seems so full of herself and it annoys me. 😭 Like you didn’t have to put all that. You could’ve just said the last bit and that’s it, lol.

Like sure there were women that “passed” through but there were actually a few who were with him for some time while he was with Linda. Who meant something to him so for her to downplay other women just to prove she was “number one” is wild to me. But that’s just my opinion.

Again.. JUST MY OPINION AND OBSERVATION. I’m in no way hating. Just something I noticed. I don’t need anyone coming for me for saying something about Linda.

[hooked-on-elvis]

"I loved Scatter. He was so affectionate and so smart," — Elvis about his beloved chimpanzee, Scatter ♥

Elvis adopted Scatter, the chimpanzee, in 1961. Scatter was originally part of a local Saturday morning TV show in Memphis hosted by “Cap’n Bill” Killebrew. When Bill decided to sell him, Alan Fortas persuaded Elvis to buy the chimpanzee.

During "Elvis: Up Close & Personal", Sonny West shared many moments in Elvis' life, including Scatter moments (skip to 46:35):

Sonny said Elvis asked Scatter's previous owner why he named his chimp "Scatter". His answer was, "because once he gets mad you better scatter." 😆

Scatter was quite temperamental, liked to drink a whole lot, enjoyed scaring people, lifting women's skirts (Elvis' parties guests), and so on. The little pet was a crazy boy and Elvis loved him exactly the way he was. EP had a blast watching Scatter's antics and people's reaction to him. There are many stories about Scatter, hanging to and tearing the curtains at Graceland, lifting up women’s skirts, getting drunk and generally causing a havoc. One of Scatter's anecdotes: • One day, the monkey bit Vernon Presley’s new wife on the finger. Reportedly when Elvis called Bill, Scatter's previous owner, to ask if the monkey had his rabies shots, Bill retorted, “Yes, Scatter had his shots. Does Mrs. Presley have hers? • Scatter also annoyed some of the people working on Elvis’ movies; during the early 1960s Elvis frequently brought the monkey to the film sets and enjoyed walking with him and carrying him around between takes.

About Scatter's passing away

Scatter’s bad behavior ultimately may have led to his dramatic death. Because of his erratic behavior during one specific episode I'll mention later on, the animal control department threatened to take Scatter away if Elvis didn't keep him under control in a safe environment, away from people, even tho Scatter was not a threat to health or security. Scatter lost his freedom and was "condemned" to spend his days inside a "cage" at Graceland, where he spent the last moments of his life, alone. The cage was a big room, actually, with air conditioning and everything else Scatter could have needed or wanted, but the thing is: Scatter grew up free, walking among people. He was socialized and couldn't stand being isolated. One day he was found dead in his cage. He was about 6, 7 years old. Elvis was inconsolable. According to some members of the Memphis Mafia, the chimp was “reputedly poisoned in revenge by a maid he had bitten”. Now, this hypothetical, a suspicion Elvis and his friends acquired after Scatter had been buried. The cause of death wasn't proved. Officially, the story is that Scatter died from loneliness… from a broken heart, as Elvis putted.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kathy Westmoreland told what Elvis himself said about Scatter: How he felt and about Scatter's passing.

From Kathy Westmoreland's book, "Elvis and Kathy", the year is 1971. Elvis is with Kathy at his Palm Springs home, having a casual conversation when he starts telling her about Scatter. Note: At the time, Elvis and Kathy had a fling going on. Kathy was Elvis' TCB band soprano support vocalist.

Than that afternoon, Elvis told me a humorous, but sad story that touched my heart. When he was making movies in Hollywood (he made 33 movies and disliked almost all of them), he bought a house in Beverly Hills. It was roomy enough, and wasn't too bad a commute to the studio. Besides, Beverly Hills offers more police security than any other city in the world, and most celebrities feel safe there. Elvis loved animals and he missed his pets he had to leave behind at Graceland, so he got himself a pet Chimpanzee that he named "Scatter." "I loved Scatter. He was so affectionate and so smart," Elvis told me and I could see his eyes light up with the memory. "I used to dress him up in a tux and send my limo after him and bring him to the studios. I loved seeing him in that limo, all dressed up holding a cigar. The cigar was never lit, but it did add a lot to the role he played and I think he knew it." "Well, Scatter was one of the best buddies I had around that time. He would hug me and we would have long conversations about this and that. Scatter seemed to understand what I said to him," Elvis recalled with a smile. "But one day Scatter got a little frisky," said Elvis, "and somebody at home left the door ajar. Scatter was a curious guy, so he decided to take a walk. Next door, there was a lot of laughter and people talking and Scatter knew he had stumbled on to a party, so he decided to go. The front door of the neighbor's house must have been unlocked because Scatter just walked right in. The hostess was pregnant at the time, which might account for her reaction, but all these Beverly Hills types were sitting around the dining room table, having dinner. All of a sudden, Scatter decided to join them and jumped right up on the chandelier and started swinging back and forth. The hostess nearly fainted from fright and the guests started screaming , and scared poor Scatter half to death. but by this time. he was missed at home and one of the bodyguards came to his rescue." "Oh, that's hilarious." I laughed, loving the way Elvis was telling the story, "then what happened?" "Well, then it got kind of serious. The folks filed a lawsuit and besides they complained to the City of Beverly Hills, which is real stuffy about animals, and before you know it, the city told me that Scatter I had to go."

"Oh no, how could they do that?" I have been an animal lover all my life and by that time I was seething at the entire City of Beverly Hills. "I didn't know what to do. I loved that little fella, so much. But, I had no choice, and I shipped him off to Graceland, where I knew everyone would make sure he was taken care of," Elvis said sadly. "At least you had a place to send it. You didn't have to give him away to strangers." I wouldn't have said a word if I had known the outcome of the story. "Scatter didn't quite see it that way. They always told me that Chimps really love somebody forever, and I guess it's true. Scatter refused to eat, just sat around and mourned because he missed me so much, and then the Daddy [Vernon] called me from Graceland and told me that Scatter had just died… of a broken heart." There were tears in Elvis' eyes. "That's awful and so sad," was all I could think of to say. "So, I just moved out of Beverly Hills, sold the house and never went back, and I made sure everyone knew just what I thought of the place." Elvis struck back in the only way he knew how, but his voice told me he still felt the pain of losing Scatter. This story has endeared him to me more than ever.

Excerpts "Elvis and Kathy": Chapter 3.

😣 Poor babies... R.I.P. Scatter. ♥

[waywardodysseys]

Unconditionally - Chapter Two

Warnings: fluff, cussing, slow burn/foreplay, SMUT

Word count: 4.4k

Author’s note: because everyone deserves to be loved unconditionally; part 2 of ?; sorry not sorry for this; enjoy!!!

Unconditionally: Chapter 1

The maître d’ at The River Café in Brooklyn guides you and Pedro to your table, which is nestled in a corner in front of the expansive window with its magnificent view of the NYC skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge. The city at night is before you across the East River. You had never seen the city like this before from this angle. It was a beautiful sight to behold – like the man who was mere inches away from you.

The ambiance of the restaurant is romantic, serene. Piano music plays softly throughout the dining room. You had sneaked some peaks at other people, wondering if they knew who was sitting beside you. If they did, they kept to themselves. Everyone was focused on their food, the view, or the person sitting across from them.

Once you began glancing over the menu, a waiter approaches the table in a formal uniform of a white dress top, black tie and black pants. “Good evening. May I start you two out with something to drink?”

You wanted no alcohol. “Just water please. With lemon.”

“Same,” Pedro states.

After the waiter is gone you glance sideways at Pedro who is sitting next to you, not across. “If you wanted a cocktail it doesn’t bother me.”

“I want to look at you with clear eyes.”

Where is that fucking water?, you think as you smile at Pedro. A wave of heat courses through your body. You are not prepared for this, for him. Oh, god.

“You and Kendrick met with Netflix?”

You clear your throat, “yes.”

Pedro smiles. “How was it?”

“Good.” You say as the waiter sets down the glass of water. You reach for it and take a big gulp. “They want to start shooting in March. Kendrick is setting up meetings with directors, casting agents. We have four episodes already penned. I just need to finish the last two.”

“What’s the show about?”

“Families. Drama. Death. Love. You know, basically everything that defines a dysfunctional family.” You take a sip of water.

“Do you plan on being around for majority of the filming?” Pedro asks.

“Some of it. I’ve been hired to work on the last couple of episodes for Dearly Beloved.”

“You started there, didn’t you?”

“Yes. They reached out to me even before they announced the final season. They feel I can give everyone a good send off.”

The waiter reappears. “Ready to order?”

“Amish Chicken.” You say lightly.

“I’ll have the Niman Ranch Strip Steak,” Pedro says.

The waiter smiles and nods, grabs your menus and walks away.

Pedro reaches into your lap and grabs your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. Your eyes are focused on the sweat from the water glass as he leans over and presses his head against yours.

You want to shriek back; you were never one for PDA. Your free hand fidgets with the silverware on the table because your nerves had been on overdrive. But his touch keeps you calm. Your nerves had stopped dancing once he held your hand in his.

“Y/N,” Pedro whispers.

You swallow and breathe. His voice is kind, you hear the light hint of his accent more clearly. He could say your name over and over, and you would never tire of hearing it. You know if you speak your voice will squeak. The heat pulsating through your body makes you feel overly warm in the dress you are wearing. How could this man be so allured by you?

The piano music stops for a moment. The next melody it begins to play is the same one you and Pedro had danced to at the night of the Christmas party.

Once the notes become familiar to you, you glance at Pedro. “Please don’t ask me to dance.”

With his free hand, Pedro grabs your chin, strokes your jawline with his thumb. His touch is sending additional waves of electricity through your veins as your heart bumps rapidly inside of your chest. “Your heart is pounding Y/N.”

“I, uh,” you pause. “No man has ever been so…intrigued by me before. It’s a little overwhelming.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Never. “No.”

“Have you been hurt in the past?”

“We are all broken Pedro. In one way or another.” You whisper.

“How badly?”

“He believed someone else over me. And we were together for six years. We were engaged too.”

“When did this all happen? The breakup?”

“Last March.” You look down. “Kendrick cancelled everything for a week to be by my side. My roommate was there for me too. Those two are the closest people to me besides my family. I don’t think I would’ve survived, moved on if it weren’t for them.”

“If I am going too fast, please let me know. I don’t want to rush into this unless you know you are ready.” Pedro says as he presses his forehead to yours. “I want you to know if you fall, I will catch you.”

You appreciate Pedro’s honesty. You feel in your gut his words are sincere, you also feel he doesn’t want to hurt you because he’s enamored with you. You know you are ready. It’s been ten months and you were ready to dive back into dating. “I told you I was ready to dive in,” you reach out and cup his cheek.

Pedro grins, “well hopefully not into the East River because it would be freezing!”

You laugh and smile as he places a chaste kiss against your lips. He pulls away from you slowly, but you reach out and pull him back in, not caring what the other patrons of the restaurant are thinking.

Someone clearing their throat breaks you two apart. The waiter smiles down at you two while he places dishes in front of you. “Enjoy.”

You blush as you turn and face the plate of food in front of you. Pedro swipes his thumb over the back of your hand. A gesture, you were beginning to feel, only meant for you.

-------

The waiter clears both of your plates after finishing dinner. The Amish Chicken was the best thing you had ever tasted, except for the man sitting to your left. You wonder how the other parts of his body would taste and at the thought of this, you drink some water.

Your mind thinks back to last March. The moment you had opened the door and seen Will’s face. His look was of pure anger as he stormed in.

“You’re having an affair?!” He had shouted.

“What? No.” You had said with a calm voice. “Will, what are you talking about?”

He had paced before turning to you saying, “Chris came by and told me – him and you have been sleeping together!”

“I am not sleeping with Chris Evans! I don’t like him that way!” You had shouted back as you walked up to Will and took his face into your hands. “I love you!”

“He says you two love each other! It’s been going on for a while.”

Tears had begun flowing from your eyes. “I’ve never slept with him, or anyone else while we have been together.”

“He showed me pictures Y/N!”

“What the fuck are you talking about!?” You had retorted.

“It doesn’t matter! It’s over!” Will had calmed slightly. “It’s over.”

You had tried to stop him but he stormed out of the apartment like he had when he first entered. You had closed the door behind him and sank to the floor. After that night you had stopped working with Evans who eventually admitted to you, months later, “he wasn’t good enough for you. I was, I am.”

“You ruined my life,” you had whispered to Chris. “I despise you Evans.”

After the dreadful night of Will lashing out at you, you stopped working with Evans on his script. Didn’t even accept his calls or answer his texts.

Will had asked for the ring back. Kendrick took it to him and stopped talking to him. The two had worked together on Blue Bloods. Will and Kendrick were more acquaintances than friends.

“He hurt you sweetie.” Kendrick had told you. “He doesn’t matter to me. You do.”

Your mind returns to the present as you watch Pedro sign the check. You wonder what would happen to Kendrick if this relationship doesn’t work. Kendrick’s your best friend, but also a friend of Pedro’s. They had worked on Equalizer 2 together, even Graceland. Kendrick had told you Pedro was in NYC for his birthday party and that’s why he had invited him. Kendrick had told Pedro who was going to be there, your name came up.

“He said he had heard of you.” Kendrick had said.

“So you figured it best to set us up?” You had laughed. Both of you were having dinner in Los Angeles, on the same night you had bought your dress.

Kendrick had shrugged. “He seemed interested. Figured invite him and go from there.” Kendrick had glared at you. “But you walked away from him before you two could have an actual conversation.”

“Uh, you do know me right? Quiet, reserved.” You had retorted. “Besides he’s now a hot commodity because of The Mandalorian.”

“Please tell me that’s not going to stop you!?” Kendrick had hissed.

You had shrugged. “I don’t know. Will was low key, and now Pedro…,” you had paused. “Pedro’s going to be known more and I’m just not into the whole major celebrity thing.”

“You’re beautiful Y/N. You may be bookish, quiet, a fabulous writer who prefers to be behind the scenes, but you are beautiful. Inside and out.” Kendrick had squeezed your hand in a reassuring gesture. “You shouldn’t care what the world thinks as long as Pedro is by your side.” Kendrick had grinned. “And me too, of course.”

You smile, knowing you love Kendrick and cherish him as your best friend.          

“What’s going on in your mind?” Pedro’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“Nothing.” You squeak out. Did your voice just really sound like that?

“Tell me.” Pedro says.

You smile at him. “Not telling you.”

Pedro shrugs and stands, “let’s go.” He isn’t too taken back by you not telling him. He’ll eventually get it out of you soon enough.

You nod as you stand then follow him towards the front of the restaurant where he grabs both of your coats. He helps you into yours before putting his own on. The two of you walk out into the gentle winter wind where you walk down the pier and towards the street where Pedro hails a cab.

“Where to?” The driver asks, as you two settle into the backseat.

Pedro and you look at one another. Neither of you had discussed where this night would go, where you two would end up. Pedro was about to open his mouth, but you blurt out your address before he could make a sound.

You smile sheepishly at him as he pulls you against him.

“Do you want me to say goodnight at your door?” Pedro whispers.

Part of you did, part of you didn’t. You had told yourself you weren’t going to put out. But this man beside you, he’s a game changer. Was he worth the risk? You have a sly smile on your face as you let out a breath saying, “walk me to my door and we’ll go from there.”

He cups your cheek as he says, “what were you thinking about?”

“You.” It was sort of the truth.

Pedro raises an eyebrow. “Tell me.”

You swallow. “No. I will never tell you.”

“Tell me on our fifth date.”

“Think we’ll last that long?”

“Even longer.” He smirks. “At least I know it was me.”

You pull him towards you and capture his mouth with his. You feel his arms wrap around you, deepening the kiss, holding onto you. You wanted no one else but him.

-------

Around 20 minutes later the taxi stops outside of your building. Pedro escorts you to your floor, then boxes you, with you facing the door, in between him and the door. You fidget for your key inside the wristlet as Pedro runs a hand up and down your side.

You squirm as you say, “stop.”

“I can’t.” Pedro whispers.

“You’re making this extremely difficult to say goodnight to you once I open the door.”

He brushes aside some of your hair. “You shouldn’t have ran your hand up and down my chest in the taxi.” His voice teasingly adds, “among other things.”

If he would’ve been looking at you, he would’ve seen your cheeks turn bright red. You couldn’t resist it, resist him. You were making out with him in the back of a taxi. You had never down that sort of thing with Will, or any other man before. You had also, absentmindedly, might have undone a button or two on his shirt.

You turn and face him. See the top two buttons undone on his shirt. Yeah, you definitely unbuttoned those. How long has it been?, you think. Pedro presses his lips against yours as you recall it’s been months.

“Y/N,” Pedro growls against your lips. One hand is still on the door, while the other is on your lower back.

This is your apartment, you remind yourself. You make the rules. If he says no then he’s toast.

“Promise me one thing if I let you in and we go through with…”

“Ask away.”

You caress his cheek as you press your forehead to his. “Promise me you’ll be here in the morning.”

He pulls you into his arm and kisses you. “I promise.”

Without waiting you pull away and open the door. You pull him into your apartment by his hand. You close the door behind you and fuse your mouth to his again as you place the wristlet on the entry table. You unbutton your coat as Pedro keeps his lips on yours and his hands travel under your coat. You throw the coat off to the side, not minding where it lands. Your roommate is gone for work down in Jersey, she’ll be there all weekend.

Your hands grab for Pedro’s jacket, helping him shrug it off. He tosses it to the floor as your hands travel up his white button-down top. Your fingers scrambling to unbutton the rest of them.

Pedro unzips your dress and reaches in to touch your skin. It’s feels as delicate as the inside of a flower pedal against his warm hands. He hears a soft, mouth gasping moan you let out at his touch. “Hermosa,” Pedro whispers against your mouth, “beautiful.”

You reach up and trace Pedro’s jawline, feeling some of the light fuzz along his cheeks. You sigh contently as you look at him saying, “I’ve never done sex on the first date thing Pedro. I,” you pause, “you—you are worth the risk I am taking. Hoping you stick around for more than just a one—“

Pedro crushes his mouth to yours. He pulls away slowly as he looks into your Y/E/C eyes, brushes some of your Y/H/C hair out of your face and behind your ear. “I don’t intend making you a one-night stand Y/N. I intend on making you the one I need and want for the rest of my nights, for the rest of my life.”

Pedro’s blunt admission surprises you, overwhelms you. You two know each other but don’t know each other well enough to stake a deep valid claim on one another; yet Pedro had done just that.

“Pedro,” you whisper. You weren’t sure if you were ready to dive as deep as the deepest point in the ocean. Yet here was Pedro revealing his honesty, revealing his intentions, and clearing revealing his heart to you in this vulnerable moment. You had just told him he was worth the risk. You didn’t want to break his heart; you don’t ever want to break his heart. You know, you feel you want no one else, just him. Just Pedro. No one else will ever do after him.

Your reach out and run your fingers through his hair as you kiss his lips. You then kiss along one side of his jawline then down his long neck. You reach down with one hand and run it slowly up his chest as you pull faintly away and look up at his coffee colored eyes. You see the kindness, sincerity in them. You’re at a loss for words. For the first time in your life you are speechless. You’re looking into his eyes with the same kindness and sincerity, with a sprinkle of gentleness.

Pedro knows you want him. He knows he laid out his intentions, almost bared his entire heart to you – something he hasn’t done in years. Not with any woman who has caught his eye and held his attention for the handful of short-term relationships he has had in the past after he had his heart broken by the woman, he thought was the one for him. You look at him as though he is being seen for the first time. You look at him and he feels his heart yearning to heal since his heart was broken all those years ago. Pedro looks into your eyes and knows you are willing to dive deep like he is.

He cups the back of your neck and brings his mouth crashing down onto yours. He feels your hands loop around his neck, feels you returning the kiss just as feverishly as he is. Senses you moving your legs, you walking him back towards your room without you lifting your soft mouth from his.

Once inside your bedroom, you pull away from his mouth and look into his eyes before you travel your gaze down. You place on your hands on his soft stomach, your fingers moving lightly over his skin. You then proceed to move your fingers up his chest slowly. Your hands traveling under the shirt as you move your hands over his broad shoulders. You push the shirt down and off him.

You swallow before he pulls you up against him. He travels his hands slowly up and down your back before grabs the fabric of your dress, slowly pulling it away from your body. His fingers glide over your shoulders, tracing the outline of the V neckline. You moan as his fingers touch the spot between your breasts. Pedro pushes the dress down off your shoulders, revealing your black strapless bra. He pushes it further down and lets it pool at your feet, revealing the black lace panties you’re wearing.

Pedro cups the back of your neck, bringing you to him. He crushes his mouth against yours as you reach down to his pants and begin unbuckling his belt. You remove it quickly, then your fingers are scrambling at unbuttoning and unzipping his pants.

You reach in and find his cock hard. Pedro moans loudly at the feeling of your hand around him. He bites your lip teasingly as he walks you back towards the bed. You continue stroking his cock lightly and slowly, your thumb swirling around the tip as he leans down and nuzzles your neck. The sensation of his mustache is sending more pleasure waves throughout your body. You wonder how that mustache would feel on your breasts, your stomach, your inner thighs.

Pedro reaches around and unhooks your bra as your legs touch the bedframe. He slowly bends a knee on the mattress as he envelops you in his arms, both of you fall back on the mattress as Pedro dips his head into the curve of your neck, he groans lightly as you remove your hand from his hard cock. He reaches down with a hand and palms your core. He feels how hot and wet you are.

“Pedro,” you whisper as you feel his hand against your pussy. Then you feel his hand snake under the panties. His fingers opening your folds, and he begins rubbing your clit with his thumb. You moan loudly at his thumb on your clit. Fuck, is all you can think.

“Y/N,” Pedro whispers as he begins kissing down your chest, down the valley between your breasts. He kisses you down your stomach, he stops once he reaches your underwear.

The prickliness of his mustache is sending your body into overdrive. The sensation of his mustache and light fuzz scrapping across your skin excites you. You arch your back as you feel him kiss your stomach, his mustache tickling you as he travels his mouth further south. You feel him hook his fingers under your panties, you feel him move them down over your hips and your legs, and finally off your body.

Pedro kisses his way back up your stomach, over your breasts. He licks a spot at the curve at your neck. A spot where you make a soft, gasping moan, a sound he only wants you to make for him. He is enjoying all of you, drinking you all in. He’s ready, and he knows you’re ready too. He kisses your swollen mouth. “Please tell me you have a condom.”

You blush in the darkness and smile, “yes. In my wristlet…but that’s back—”

He kisses you soundly, “don’t. Move.”

Pedro runs quickly from the room and is back seconds later. He’s unwrapping the condom and placing it over his cock. Before he kneels on the mattress, he takes in your naked body. It’s all his. Mine, he possessively growls in his head. He had never felt an instant connection with no one until he laid his eyes on you and shook your hand. He thought you weren’t interested when you had politely excused yourself only minutes into the short conversation you two had been having, but days later Kendrick had told him you were a reserved person, someone who enjoyed their solitude more than anything, and he wanted to know you even more. He had to see you again. And he was forever thankful to Kendrick when the Christmas party had arisen. Pedro had waited to hear your name from Kendrick, but he avoided your name all together until Pedro finally mustered the damn courage and pointblank asked him if you were going to be there. When Kendrick said you were, Pedro had begun counting the days until he laid his eyes on you. And now here you were, naked and ready for him. How quick, and slow, a month could be, he thinks.

Pedro kneels on the bed between your legs. He sees you watching him with your Y/E/C eyes. He keeps his eyes locked on you as you sit up and pull his mouth down and fuses your mouth his. He wanted to taste you elsewhere, but he didn’t want to go too far this go around.

You kiss Pedro and pull him down on top of you. “I’m ready,” you whisper as you place your hand on his cheek.

He nods as he widens your legs, strokes his cock along your folds and enters your wet pussy slowly.

“Pe—Pedro,” you moan as your pussy opens for his cock and conforms to his girth and length. Your hands travel up his stomach and chest, resting atop his broad shoulders as he begins slowly thrusting in and out of you. You know he wants to make sure you can handle his entire length. Your fingers reach up into his hair as you arch your back when Pedro’s hard cock is completely inside after slowly entering you inch by inch with his slow thrusts.

Pedro nuzzles your neck; his teeth nips at your skin. You are so tight around him, so wet, so hot around his cock. He doesn’t want to move as he feels your pussy clench around his cock. He growls lowly as he feels your hands travel down his back and lightly touch the ridge of his ass. “Y/N,” Pedro grounds out at your featherlight touch.

You nip back at his neck as your fingers travel back up his back and thread through his hair. You roll hips up and back down. Pedro begins thrusting as you begin rolling your hips.

“Fuck,” Pedro growls. You rolling your hips and him thrusting into you is causing his orgasm to build up inside of him quickly. He doesn’t want to cum too quickly but knows he can’t hold on too much longer.

Your orgasm is cresting inside of you as you and Pedro begin finding the same rhythm, begin moving as one. “Pedro,” you breathlessly whisper. You make your soft gasping moan sound as your climax begins to rollover your body. “Pedro,” you moan lowly as your fingers move from his hair to his back. They dig into his flesh as you feel Pedro thrust into you a few more times.

“Y/N,” Pedro moans as he thrusts into you. The feeling of you orgasming with his cock inside of you drives him off the cliff and he cums. Pedro looks down at you and sees your Y/E/C eyes looking up at him. He sees you smile widely at him as you reach up and touch his cheek. He takes your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist. He kisses down the delicate skin a couple more inches then returns his lips to the inside of your wrist. You sigh as he leans down and captures your mouth with his.

You loop your arms around his neck as you pull him down on top of you completely. You don’t mind the weight of his body on yours, don’t mind feeling his hot skin against yours.

Pedro returns you greedy kiss and rolls you both onto your sides. His cock slips out of you slowly. He keeps his mouth glued to yours for a few more minutes before pulling away and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be right back.”

“Not going anywhere,” you whisper as he leaves your bed.

You’re snuggled into the sheets when he returns a couple of minutes later. You feel him wrap your arms around you, you feel he has placed his underwear back on as well. You burrow into his warmth as he kisses you atop your head. You fall asleep satisfied and sedated.

When you wake up in the morning, Pedro is still there with his arms wrapped around you. Your heart soars as you smile. He kept his promise.

Chapter Three

[weeklyhumorist]

Life After Simon & Garfunkel: Super Bowl Party

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Oh, hello there. I’m actor and singing legend Art Garfunkel, and I’m wondering whether you and Gary are free to watch the Super Bowl with me on Sunday. Oh, you know, I thought it would be fun to throw a little shindig this year for the big day. Nothing extravagant. Just a few friends gathering together, reveling in the thrill and glory of spor—no, not a big party. Just a few friends. People in addition to you and Gary, yes.

Ah, no, Paul won’t be there. Yes, that would be exciting. Right, if you came in and just saw the two of us sitting there. “Sharing a sofa quietly.” Yeah, ha ha, like the song. Right, I get it, you switched “park bench” for “sofa.” Yeah, no, that’s very clever. No, Paul wrote that one. Yeah. Well, I tended to help out in other ways. The high harmonies. Singing the high harmonies, arranging the high harmonies. Well, it was typically almost as much work as writing the song, actually. Yeah. Well, regardless, he won’t be coming.

So, in terms of Sunday, if you or Gary could let me know in advance what you’re bringing. I put together this spreadsheet on GoogleDrive, and—no, it’s a potluck. Right. Not albums to sign. Yeah, no, food. Although if you wanted to bring an LP, I’m sure I could—ah, you know, I actually have no idea how to mail an album to Paul. I’m not even sure I have his current address. Plus, you have to deal with the bubble wrap, and so on.

Well, if you were to bring Breakaway, for instance, you would only need my autograph. Breakaway? Number 9 hit album in 1975? Right, in the United States. No, it’s just me on it. Well, sure, there were people playing instruments, but they were studio musicians, you see. Yes, and people bought the record. I’m surprised you’d never heard of it, to be honest.

Graceland? I can’t say I’m really familiar with that album. No, no need to bring a copy of it to the potluck.

No, for the potluck, we really just need someone to bring a platter of cold cuts. We already have a number of people committed to bringing desserts, so if you and Gary could prepare a light entree. Some finger sandwiches, perhaps. Well, I’m just not sure whether people will have eaten a full meal before coming, is the thing.

Right. Well, catering didn’t seem in the spirit of an informal, jaunty sports viewing party. No, I thought of that, but I’m not the sort of celebrity that hires a caterer. I’m much more personable, you see. Sure, cost could be a factor for some, but not so much in this case. Ah, too many to list, really. Royalties. Concert tour receipts. No, current concert tours. No, just me and a band. Right, a band that doesn’t include Paul. Yeah, I’m sure that would have been on the news.

Other celebrities? Well, see, I don’t typically go in for all that glitz and glamor. I consider myself more of an artiste. A wanderer, a savant, such that my social affections don’t necessarily take me into the company of—well, Kathy Lee and I go to the same dentist, so she may be stopping by. Well, no, she’s not a definite yes. Between you and me, I heard that she has this infected tooth that probably has to come out in the next few days, and I’m planning a teeth cleaning for Friday, so, you know, odds are good.

Singing? I hadn’t considered it, to be honest, what with the Football Super Bowl being such a machismo-laden event. Well, we can sing along with the marching bands during the halftime show, if the mood strikes us. Oh, really? What a shame. At Columbia, there was nothing like a rousing Sousa rendition from the marching band to get the crowds en fuego, as it were.

Ah, yeah, Columbia University in New York. Right, ha ha. Oh, no, Paul went to Queens College. No, the one in Queens.

How’s that? Oh, we should be all set on the drinks front. I think we still have most of a bottle of red my wife received with our pet meds delivery. Huh, really? A bottle’s eight glasses, and I have this special set of stemless—Well, if you want to bring another bottle, go for it.

Yeah, or you could bring a six-pack, sure. How’s that? Sure, we could talk about some old times and drink ourselves some beers. Well, there’s the time I met you and Gary at the delicatessen, and then—ah. No, that’s interesting. No, I can’t say I’ve heard that song. Yes, Paul’s certainly written a lot of songs. Well, you know what they say about short men.

Yeah, so if you and Gary could get there around six. I read in TV Guide that it’s supposed to start around six. Well, most likely, Kathy Lee and her husband will be there around then. Right, well, as I said, this tooth of hers is in pretty bad shape, so she’ll most likely be spending the better part of Friday afternoon in the dentist’s chair, and I have no problem approaching a beautiful woman with an invitation for a pleasant evening.

So, I’ll see you and Gary at my place at six, then. Terrific. And if I see Paul, sure. Go Jets!

Life After Simon & Garfunkel: Super Bowl Party was originally published on Weekly Humorist

[acsversace-news]

Tony Magaldi corrects the record about one Gianni Versace anecdote that has persisted all these years: The designer did not eat breakfast at News Café the morning of his death on July 15, 1997. “His routine was to visit our newsstand in the morning and buy out-of-town papers; once in a while he had coffee with us,” explains Magaldi, managing partner of the iconic 24-hour café on Miami’s South Beach. “But he rarely ate here; he had his own chef at home.”

News Café will be one of the locations seen when American Crime Story:The Assassination of Gianni Versace premieres Jan. 17 on FX, but the script doesn’t put the designer there on that fateful day. “I thought they might re-enact when he came in that last day, but it was another scene,” says Magaldi, who recalls standing on the café’s front steps on that July 1997 morning. “I remember how hot it was – July in Miami, you know? He came in, bought his papers and left. Not long after, a cop came by on his bicycle and asked if Versace had been here, and I said yeah, I had just seen him. And then he sped off. It’s one of those days you don’t forget.”

Memories of Gianni Versace have not faded in South Beach over the two decades since Andrew Cunanan shot and killed the designer, who was just 50 years old, on the steps of Casa Casuarina. Versace had purchased the South Beach mansion for $2.95 million in 1992 and lovingly converted it into not only his personal residence but also one of the world’s most celebrated examples of Italian Baroque splendor (it's now a luxury hotel). Versace’s big-picture vision in this endeavor shouldn’t be underestimated: In 1992 South Beach still felt undeniably dingy and largely underdeveloped, dotted with faded Art Deco buildings occupied by senior citizens, many of whom spent their mornings (before the sun rose to sizzling temperatures) in lawn chairs on the porches of these forgotten hotels; locals had dubbed it “God’s waiting room.” But with News Café as a buzzy spot at Eighth Street and Ocean Drive, Casa Casuarina situated between 11th and 12th streets, and now-legendary hotels like the Clevelander, the Carlyle (used as a location for 1996’s The Birdcage and now a condo building) and the Tides (where portions of 1999’s Random Hearts were filmed) nearby, not to mention considerable help from the fashion and modeling industries, the oceanfront avenue evolved within less than a decade into one of the world’s most glamorous vacation spots.

These days you will find plenty of onlookers at the gates of Casa Casuarina; the numbers have not diminished after all these years. “We have literally thousands of people taking photos in front of the house each week — it’s actually the third most-photographed home in the U.S., after Graceland and the White House,” maintains Chauncey Copeland, general manager of the property, now the Villa Casa Casuarina, a boutique hotel, restaurant and event space owned by Victor Hotels Management since 2013.

American Crime Story execs contacted both Magaldi and Victor Hotels Management early in 2017 when they were getting set to film this latest installment of the Ryan Murphy-produced anthology. A miniseries highlighting the devastation and after-effects of Hurricane Katrina had been planned, but as the 20th anniversary of Versace’s murder approached, this story — broken into 10 episodes and based on Maureen Orth’s 1999 book, Vulgar Favors: Andrew Cunanan, Gianni Versace and the Largest Failed Manhunt in U.S. History — was pushed to the front of the line. The News Café scene was filmed in just one day in May 2017. “They needed a couple of days prior to that, because just the month before we actually had closed down the newsstand; everyone is always on their phones these days, so we didn’t really need it anymore,” Magaldi says. “But they did a great job bringing everything back to what it looked like at that time.”

The production took over Casa Casuarina, meanwhile, for the entire month, Copeland says. “At one point I know they were going back and forth about how they could re-create things as best they could on a Hollywood lot,” he notes. “But then they realized how little we had changed the environments, and they got very excited about filming on site. They didn’t have to do very much to it: They switched out some courtyard furniture for something more of that era, added some vintage chaise lounges by the pool, repainted the gate the color Versace originally had it, and removed some exit signs that are required because we’re a hotel. That’s really it.”

Indeed, it would have been costly to reproduce Versace’s vision on a soundstage. After he purchased the property, the designer reportedly spent $33 million on restoring and enhancing the original 1930 building, which had been conceptualized by Alden Freeman, an architect and heir to the Standard Oil fortune. Casa Casuarina, which takes its name from the species of tree Freeman regretfully razed while constructing his home, had changed hands and fallen into disrepair over the years; it was a dilapidated apartment building with 24 units when Versace discovered it during a South Beach vacation (among the elements that charmed him was a 1928 statue known as Kneeling Aphrodite, installed long ago by Freeman and currently positioned at the front entrance). Versace combined the building’s 24 units into an Italianate villa with 10 bedroom suites; after purchasing and tearing down the property next door, he added both a new wing and a garden with a 54-foot, mosaic-lined pool.

Those 10 bedroom suites remain largely unchanged, Copeland says. Donatella Versace removed furniture, artwork and other personal items, putting most of it on the auction block at Sotheby’s in 2001 after selling Casa Casuarina in 2000 to telecom millionaire Peter Loftin, who tried to make a go of the property as a private club. The current owners painstakingly examined books and old magazine layouts in an effort to reproduce Gianni Versace’s original interiors. “We combed through old photos and available film stock and also spoke with people who had worked with him on the design,” Copeland says. “There were several pieces we had to re-create, but we wanted to be faithful to his original vision.”(It should be noted that Donatella Versace has disavowed the miniseries; on Monday the Italian label released a statement affirming that no one connected with Versace authorized Orth’s book or the resulting screenplay, and that the miniseries should be considered “a work of fiction.”)

During high season — October through April — booking one of the suites can be tough, especially if you want to stay in the connected two-bedroom Villa and Empire suites; Versace slept in the former, which is adjacent to the latter via a lavish vestibule. The decor is as opulent as you might expect, with details ranging from frescoes to double-king beds that stretch 12 feet across. Rates for any of the 10 suites range from $899 to $1,599 per night during the slower summer months on up to $1,399 to $2,999 during high-occupancy periods. Hotel guests also are able to swim in the ultra-glamorous pool, but only until 4 p.m. Tuesday through Sunday. “That’s when we start to set up the restaurant, with tables on the pool deck,” Copeland explains. “On Monday, when the restaurant is closed, you can swim all day.”

Rechristened Gianni’s in 2016, the restaurant features a menu that showcases Mediterranean seafood and is helmed by executive chef Thomas Stewart, who cooked dinner for the James Beard Foundation at Casa Casuarina soon after taking over the kitchen. In addition to the dining room, tables spill over onto a raised terrace and the aforementioned pool deck (during high season, tables also are positioned in the galleries leading to various dining areas). And regardless of season, don’t expect to walk in without a reservation; the privacy of the property remains strictly guarded. “Anyone with a reservation is of course welcome to enter,” Copeland says. “We’re very protective of the space, but that’s also for the enjoyment of our guests.”

Ultimately, with the premiere of the miniseries a week away, has Casa Casuarina been feeling any effects from, say, the release of various trailers, which make it clear that Versace’s beloved South Beach residence was used to its full advantage? “We’ve been on a steady rise in interest the past few years, so it’s really hard to say,” Copeland says. “A lot of people, however, still don’t know that they can stay here and eat here; I have no doubt that interest will increase within the next few months.”

Twenty years later, Magaldi is happy that News Café patrons still seek out the site because of its connection to the most famous neighbor he’ll ever know — not because it’s good for business, though that idea is undeniable, but very simply because he genuinely liked Gianni Versace. “He was very gentle, quiet, unassuming,” Magaldi says. “Everything I saw about the [miniseries] production was that they were trying to be respectful to his memory. That was important to anyone who was here when it happened. That made me feel good about doing it.”

Copeland agrees. “If they bring to film what we saw them doing, I think it’s going to be a very high-quality production,” he says. “From our point of view, what Gianni Versace brought to South Beach was nothing less than heroic. He established himself right here in the middle of things when it was still very edgy and unknown. What happened was a tragedy. But we’ll always feel it’s important to celebrate the man.”

[ltdedngallery-blog]

THE BIG INTERVIEW … DAN BALDWIN

(Originally published Nov 2014)

BRITISH ARTIST DAN BALDWIN RECENTLY RETURNED FROM HIS STUNNING SOLO SHOW ‘END OF INNOCENCE’ IN NEW YORK CITY…AFTER 101 DIFFERENT INTERVIEWS ABOUT THE SHOW & THE NEW WORK, WE CAUGHT UP WITH HIM TO TALK ABOUT EVERYTHING ELSE…

LTD/EDN… Hey Dan, you are so often described, perhaps incorrectly, as an urban artist.  It doesn’t get anymore urban than NYC, so how the hell was New York? Could you ever live there?

DAN…We had that very conversation out there, could we live here? We thought Yes and No .

If we had a massive loft in the Meatpacking District… Yes!

Although the TV Shows, disclaimers and adverts… that was driving us to a No!  One commercial actually announced ‘If your erection lasts for more than four hours, seek medical advice’ and they invent words like ‘ruggedise’ and ‘dramadies’!

So as long as that loft apartment has no TV, you’ll be fine! Did you get to see any more of the City on this trip, or was it just work, work work? Any favourite spots?

Some good friends flew in from Brighton, and we visited all the usual places… Central Park, Liberty Island, Trump Tower, Dakota Building, Times Square, The MoMA, Soho, Cast Iron District, Ground Zero.

The Meatpacking District was the area we liked the most – round by Chelsea market and the historic High Line. I took photos I’m going to use in my new paintings which I’ve never done before – really interesting architecture, great buildings etc.

As for that Urban Artist tag, I guess I’m not easily labelled.

My paintings can be figurative, abstract, landscape, or non-perspective and they move forwards fast –  I make sculpture and paint pots, I didn’t grow up in an inner city – but I’m not from the countryside either. My work may have urban appeal, and that may link back to my passion towards skateboarding and it’s art and music. I grew up in a very exciting time with music, that has inspired me.

When I started in 1990 (or 1996 if you exclude college) there was no Urban tags, until 2006, I guess art movements or chapters need to be boxed into a category.

Like they did with Pop Art – many of the Pop artists weren’t, like Ed Rusche, who was a young exciting painter making eye catching art at the same time as Rauschenberg – who actually wasn’t POP either, but was dating Jasper Johns, who was quite POP. I guess we all just love to categorise.

Brit’s taking and breaking the US has been a UK obsession in music and art for generations. With your management team PMM at your side are you part of a new British invasion?

Hopefully – who knows – what I loved was the response to my art from such a diverse mix of people – and selling art direct to people walking in from Texas, Canada, Australia, Germany and NYC, that doesn’t happen in my experience as much in London.

Can you tell us a little more about how it works with you and PMM Art Projects?

PMM will oversee all aspects of putting a show on for me – Pat, Roger, Richard will agree dates that work best, Roger will scout out venues across the city, Pat will then agree, then employ PR to maximise on Press, Roger will spread the word ‘like a scud missile’, Richard will deal in sales and clients, the hanging of the show, and email enquiries, Chippy will deal in decal, graphic design , show preview, lists, poster and sign, Marta will help deal in all admin, and take care of logistics; like cars, flights, hotel, crates, shipping etc -​ Pat had 700 posters distributed across NYC, and arranged a dinner for special clients and collectors the night before the opening. We all do our bit, I focus on making the art, then photographing it all, packing ready for crates and shippers,​ and I am there to hang it with Richard and a specialist hanger.

Pat and Roger also oversee any specific projects I may be asked to do, other than a show, like the deal with my recent Paolo Nutini project – If I’m approached by a company for example, I will run it past PMM.

It’s like I have a backbone of support and it all will come together on a show.

Do you pay attention to the American art scene? Feel different to London/UK?  Any current artists out there you like? We heard that Shepard Fairey is a collector…

Not really – I rarely get time for other UK shows. I am aware of a lot of artists​ and try to keep my eyes open, but I’m 6 days a week absorbed in my own work so it’s not so easy.

I went to MoMA NYC just to see if there was a Basquiat, but sadly it was in storage. I was thrilled to see my favourite Rauschenberg again ‘Canyon’, I hadn’t seen that since I was about 19. It’s a mixed media collage on canvas with a eagle stuck to the bottom on wood, with paint and cardboard and as a young artist it made me realise you can do anything in art. I also still get a buzz from seeing Warhol like the huge black red Disaster piece/car crash .

I remember going out to a show in London after my LA show and it was so pretentious compared to LA, which is very much dress down laid back in its vibe. NYC was cool, good people.

Shep isn’t a collector of mine as such, but he has a lot of art – he came to my LA show and requested to meet me, which was great as I saw him there and was like Fuck, its OBEY ! . . Weirdly I had bought myself an Obey print when I first went full time in 2006.

We had a good chat about music mainly and my art and the next day he invited us to his downtown Hollywood studio, which was amazing – he was incredibly generous and gave me 12 prints, and two books, so I pasted some onto a canvas and made a Baldwin on top of some Obeys and one was a Martha Cooper, so it’s a one off Baldwin on some Shepard Fairey Martha cooper prints! I then sent it back to him. (pictured above left).

That meeting was a highlight of our LA trip and years later I had no idea it would link up to PMM via Logan Hicks.

You have a number of other celebrity collectors. If you could collect something from a celebrity what would it be?

I think something from the classic car collection of Jay Leno would be a nice one … I don’t know.

​I do want a 50s American car, a 58 Plymouth Fury, after my top 3 favourite movie Christine,​ or some original Westwood punk gear.

I collected badges as a kid… Now i collect stuff for my art – something from Elvis’s Gracelands, perhaps or a bit of James Dean’s wardrobe, or his conga drums. One of Andy Warhol’s striped t-shirts would be cool or a Basquiat scrap of paper or something from his studio – similarly something from Bacon’s studio. A drum kit from Adam Ant was on my childhood wish list… They gave one away on ”Jim’ll Fix it’.

We covet inanimate objects – is it nostalgia? or sentimentalism? There, I invented a word! Or maybe not. I have a cabinet full of objects we collect. Old children’s dice, a dead Bee, a cats whisker, it’s memory and object – I like nostalgia.

Your Cyclone piece was recently used by Paolo Nutini on his album sleeve artwork – if you could design any album for any band through history what would it be?

Album art used to be so important, I never forget the power Frankie Goes to Hollywood had with their first album, and the symbolism they used, the heart, the bullet, the crucifix, the sperm. It made a big impact on me, as did Adam Ant, but that was more his look and that great logo.

So did Santa bring you anything exciting this year? What was on your list to Santa? Did any goodies cross over with your son’s list?

We escaped the misery of Dads Army, Quality Street, the Two Ronnies repeat from 1978 and you know, all the rest of it and celebrated Rome.

Is finding out that Santa doesn’t exist the real ‘End of Innocence’?  

He doesn’t?

Ha, so enough of Christmas, it’s a New Year…What’s up next?

Thursday (Jan 8th 2015) sees the opening of a new print show alongside Peter Blake at the GX Gallery (www.gxgallery.com/exhibition/fame-promise) I have made 5 new works on paper for it.

I also have a lot of loose ends since NYC, some commissions to do, two charity events coming up, and making new art. I am itching to continue my SUBVERT series and make more bronzes.

There will be a lot going on over the next 12 months, we are also planning to move and relocate the studio. Plus I’m already planning my new show! In my head anyway!

Lastly, talking of your head, one question about the Show…. We noticed a splendid hat, move over Pharrell…Where did you get that hat, where did you get that hat?

Ha, I’m not brave enough for ‘Child of the Jago’, yet, but you know, all in time .. but in NYC it was essential.

​I like the look of some of these www.nickfouquet.com

In the 90’s, or earlier, when England was full of casuals and mullets, if I said then imagine if all the young casuals started to dress like it was the 1940’s – braces, hats, cloth caps, brogue boots, beards you would have laughed – but now it’s  true!

Everything comes round in circles. Look at Duchamp, ​putting an urinal in a gallery in 1917, how ahead of his time was he? Anyway you know the old saying ‘if you want to get ahead, get a hat ‘…1934 that slogan was created.

Thank you Dan for your time, we look forward to new work in 2016.

[rocknutsvibe]

Rocknuts Road Trip, Part 2: The Elvis experience

In part one of the chronicle of my recent musical journey, I recapped a few of the notable music attractions of the city of Memphis without mentioning the biggest one of all — Graceland, the home of Elvis Presley. Elvis gets his own segment of this feature, in part because Graceland on its own is a bit of a behemoth, but also because my Elvis experience didn’t stop with just Graceland. I also wound up in Tupelo, Mississippi later in my journey, where I spent some time at Elvis’s birthplace. Both attractions will be lumped in to this Elvis-themed portion of the story, starting with Graceland, and the impressive new museum that was just added to Graceland last year.

Graceland/Elvis Presley’s Memphis Elvis Presley Blvd, Memphis, TN Pros: An Elvis fan’s dream Cons: Expensive and sometimes cheesy Score for Elvis fans: 5 out of 5 Score for music fans in general: 4.25 out of 5 Score for non-music fans: Tourist trap out of 5

Pretty much any fan of rock music is aware of Graceland, which long has been one of the most famous rock n’ roll tourist attractions in the world. What you might not be aware of is the Graceland experience has grown significantly over the past couple of years with the addition of Elvis Presley’s Memphis, a new museum that opened in 2017 that gives fans a much more detailed look at the life and times of one of rock’s biggest superstars.

It can all be yours to see, for a price. The normal adult-priced ticket for Graceland by itself carries the overinflated cost of $39.75, and for about $20 more you can see the new museum. For $5 more than that, you can walk on board Elvis’s two airplanes. Then, for $96.50, you can get all that plus VIP access to Graceland where you’ll be able to skip waiting in line, along with a few other minor features thrown in. Finally, for $169, you’ll get the ultimate package, where you’ll get your own tour guide, a free meal, an exclusive souvenir, and more.

There’s a sucker born every minute, and during that particular minute on my day of birth, that sucker was me. Because of that I originally intended on buying the $169 package, in part because I was scared by the horror stories I heard about the long lines at Graceland, but also because I figured it would probably be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so why not?

Fortunately, the Graceland web site wasn’t working the night before I planned on visiting, which prevented me from purchasing that package. That’s a good thing, because when I arrived on Sunday morning, the complex was largely empty without many lines to speak of. I instead picked up the $64 package that gave me Graceland, the museum, and the planes, which turned out to be the best choice. I can’t say for sure if it would be the correct purchase for a hardcore Elvis fan, or on a peak tourism day later in the summer where the lines might be longer, but on this day it was best way to go. The only line came at the front door of the Graceland mansion, which eventually thinned out a bit once the crowd filtered through the house.

Graceland from the front

The visit to the house itself turned out to be enjoyable. Visitors are escorted to the house via shuttle and are given an iPad that accompanies their visit and explains what is in each room they enter. Visitors are then led through the main rooms in the house, including the famous jungle room, and are also allowed limited access to the grounds and other buildings on the property. The tour concludes with a visit to the family grave site, and once visitors have their fill, they can hop back on the bus to head back over to the museum or to leave entirely, if they wish.

The Jungle Room

For those of us who bought the museum ticket, the Graceland experience was just getting started after leaving the house, which turned out to be a good thing. The museum wound up being arguably the highlight of the entire Graceland complex, complete with an impressive array of Elvis memorabilia, automobiles, gold and platinum records, and other personal possessions. There’s so much on display that one gets the impression while browsing the museum that Elvis never threw away much of anything, which led to an archive of over a million items. Not all of those are on display at the museum, of course, but there’s more than enough to give you well over an hour of material to go through. There’s items from his childhood, his army years, his time in Vegas, his movie career, and much more. For Elvis fans, it’s all a little slice of heaven.

The museum doesn’t stop with just Elvis, either, as there’s a wing dedicated to Sun Records founder Sam Phillips, and another wing dedicated to musicians influenced by Elvis. All in all it’s a strong collection, with plenty of goodies to satisfy music fans.

Elvis sold a few records.

Along with a large amount of things to see and do in the overall experience, there’s also a wide variety of ways for them to take money from their visitors. I lost count of how many gift shops there were in the museum, but I want to say there’s at least five or six, one for almost every wing. Each visitor also gets their picture taken in front of a Graceland backdrop before hopping on a bus to the mansion, after which they are charged $35 if they want to take home copies of the picture. For all the good things to see at Graceland, you may also come away with a slightly bad taste in your mouth over the expensiveness of it all.

Despite those imperfections, Graceland was actually the highlight of my trip to Memphis, which was a nice surprise considering I came into it with diminished expectations. Your enjoyment of Graceland and the museum will probably coincide with how much of a fan you are of Elvis and of rock music, but if you’re interested enough in the source material, don’t leave Memphis without taking it all in — despite how much it might hurt your wallet. If you couldn’t care less about Elvis or rock music, you might want to think twice about making the trip.

Elvis Presley’s Birthplace 306 Elvis Presley Dr, Tupelo, MS Pros: A loving tribute to Elvis and one hardcore fans should enjoy Cons: Overpriced and short-lived, although visitors can see the outside of the house and tour the grounds at no cost Score: 3.75 out of 5

Elvis was a long way from Graceland as a boy.

Fast forwarding through many of the other adventures on my trip, some of which I’ll talk about in the next installment, I would up in Tupelo six days after Graceland with the intention of visiting Elvis Presley’s birthplace, which would complete my round of expensive Elvis tourism. The attraction features the refurbished two-room shack where Elvis was born and lived as a child, the refurbished church from down the street where Elvis gained his gospel influences, a small museum that told of Elvis’ life in poverty as a child as well as his later years, and various memorials scattered about the grounds that fans can visit, including two statues, a fountain, and a reflection pool.

It cost $8 just to see the house, which even the most hardcore fan might find a hard time getting more than 15 minutes out of because it’s so small. For $18 visitors can see the house, the museum, and go inside the church, where they’ll take part in a 15-minute re-enactment of what church may have been like for Elvis Presley. For no cost visitors can see everything else, giving people the chance to simply drive up, get a picture of the house, then drive away, if they so choose.

A lovely tribute to Elvis overlooking the grounds of his childhood home

It was unfortunately too expensive, but it’s hard to hate on it too much because it was all put together with such reverence of Tupelo’s favorite son. In contrast to Graceland, this attraction is a bit more serene, although once again it’s disappointing there wasn’t a bit more for the money.

With that, we’re done with Elvis for the most part, and next up we’ll be moving to the most spiritual part of the journey — a trip through the fabled blues country of the Mississippi Delta.

from Rocknuts https://ift.tt/2rO08GN via IFTTT

[objectivesubjectivity]

It was sometime in the late 90s. I was perusing the hip-hop section at Everyday Music and I happened to run across a used copy of KRS-One’s “Return of the Boom Bap.” I ponied up the $7.50 and took it back home. Mind you, I had never heard KRS rap before. I had no concept of Boogie Down Productions, or probably even the Bronx for that matter. If someone had mentioned BDP, I probably would have thought it to be some strange sex act. It was middle school and my mind was firmly in the gutter. But I had an impulse. Some strange unseen force drew me to part with my allowance money for the purpose of a hip-hop education. And I was educated. While my friends were bumping Master P and Puff Daddy, I was being taken to a higher level by hip-hop’s original teacher. Some years later, most likely to clear out space in my already over-taxed CD storage compartments, I made a terrible mistake: I resold “Return of the Boom Bap.” And then the digital era crashed upon us like a tidal wave. I bought my first iPod and loaded every CD I had onto it. 

There was no Boom Bap. There was no South Bronx. There was no education. But, as luck would have it, a number of years later my iPod crashed and in a frantic fever to reload all of my music while on a quick trip back home to Portland, I connected my new iPod to my brother’s MacBook and uploaded everything he had. I don’t know how or when it got onto that early edition laptop, but KRS had made it into my brother’s collection. Class was back in session. Which leads me to now: I don’t actually own a hard copy of Boom Bap. I don’t want to part with the nearly $30 it would cost me on Amazon.com to pick up a copy. But I also don’t want to neglect this album. It beckoned to me once when I was an adolescent and it survived a digital disaster to speak to me once again as an adult. Its commentary on policing, race relations, and hip-hop feel remarkably present and its sheer love of language and rhythm buoy it to the top of the vast ocean of rap albums. I may have flunked the class once, but I’m retaking it. And this time, I’ll start by making an exception and give it the contender spot it so rightfully deserves. And the next time I see it for $15 or under, I’ll pony up some more allowance money.

What I listened to last week:

Top 100 contenders in bold.

At The Drive-In - Relationship of Command

Spitalfield - Remember Right Now

Feist - The Reminder

Fugazi - Repeater

Unwound - Repetition: I honestly didn’t know where Repeater ended and where this began.

RX Bandits - The Resignation

Hidden in Plain View - Resolution

Brian Vander Ark - Resurrection

A New Found Glory - Resurrection

The Impossibles - Return

KRS-ONE - Return of the Boom Bap

Jeremy Enigk - Return of the Frog Queen

TV On The Radio - Return To Cookie Mountain

Ol’ Dirty Bastard - Return To The 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version

The Weakerthans - Reunion Tour

Ten Foot Poll - Rev

R.E.M. - Reveal

Reflection Eternal - Revolutions Per Minute: There’s something about Hi-Tek that puts Kweli back in his element.

The Beatles - Revolver

The Stereo - Rewind+Record

Darla Farmer - Rewiring the Electric Forest

Paul Simon - Rhythm of the Saints: It’s not Graceland, but, then again, what is?

Aphex Twin - Richard D. James Album

PJ Harvey - Rid Of Me

Metallica - Ride The Lightning

Bear Vs. Shark - Right Now, You're in the Best of Hands. And If Something Isn't Quite Right, Your Doctor Will Know in a Hurry

Ringside - Ringside

Duran Duran - Rio

Paramore - Riot!

David Bowie - The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars

Albums listened to in total: 1,347

[mglassman]

Saying Yes to the Belle’s Dress

 “I am growing handsome very fast indeed! I shall be the belle of Amherst when I reach my 17th year. --Emily Dickinson

Strange as it may sound, one of the most sublime moments of my own seventeenth year was having the belle of Amherst’s dress pressed against my body. That I would find such a moment thrilling was not something I could have predicted back then. I’d gone through most of school only vaguely aware of who Emily Dickinson even was, and thought the belle of Amherst was an actual bell.  

But in my junior year, I took a class in American poetry with a truly great teacher, and by end of the term, I’d gleaned some sense of what Dickinson meant when she described poetry, thus: “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. Is there any other way?”

From then on, the only lunch table I wanted to sit at was Emily’s. Those dashes--like acoustic marks; her startling word choices, the sense of a voice that wouldn’t be silenced. All of it grabbed me, confounded me, and wouldn’t let go.

And so, dipping into my babysitting funds, I arranged to sleep on the dorm room floor of a friend, and a bought a bus ticket to Amherst, Massachusetts.

Tours of the poet’s house were small, informal happenings back then, usually led by Dickinson scholars from the nearby schools. Unlike the thousands who visit there today, in the late Seventies, it was understood that the steady trickle of folks showing up at the stately brick house were hardcore Emily groupies. And this was our Graceland.

As our guide, David Porter of UMass, led us through the modest first floor, we imagined the poet baking her famous black cake in the kitchen, or entering the parlour to meet The Atlantic Monthly editor whom Dickinson had entreated to say whether her “verse is alive.” Upstairs, we followed our guide in and around the staid bedrooms of Emily’s parents and her sister, Lavinia. 

But traipsing through all these rooms just felt like a calculated tease meant to intensify our already hopped-up anticipation of entering the nerve-center of the Dickinson home where nearly 1,800 poems were created: Emily’s bedroom.

Her room was small, sunny, and simply furnished with reproductions of her sleigh bed, Franklin stove, bureau, and surprisingly diminutive writing table. As our group took it all in, however, I sensed a collective yearning, tinged with dismay. How could this space, so devoid of personality, be the creative refuge where Dickinson exploded her brilliant force? 

Our group drifted towards the windows. Maybe the signal there was stronger, and we’d pick up some sense of the remarkable woman who’d lived here, some vibrations of the poet’s ghost.

The ghost, it turned out, resided in a small closet. And when Mr. Porter gently shook Emily’s white dress to life on its hanger, we all gasped. We’d found her!

Dickinson’s iconic white cotton dress with mother-of-pearl buttons is actually an everyday garment known as a wrapper, or house dress. In the 19th century, women commonly wore them when doing chores and activities inside the home. Basically, the T-shirt and sweatpants of its time.

 “How tall was she?” someone asked, and Mr. Porter beckoned me forward, and held the dress against my torso. Feeling self-conscious, I looked down and instantly swallowed the fangirl squee! zinging through me: the hem rested neatly against my ankles, just the right distance from the tops of my Wallabees. Clutching the dress, I broke from our guide and turned to the mirror over the bureau to see that the waist and sleeves also matched my form.

“A perfect fit,” said Mr. Porter, and I caught the gaze of the others trying hard—or so it seemed--to superimpose Emily’s face onto mine, hoping--as I hoped--that the poet might now magically feel more there.

“Oh, come on, people!” Emily would probably say. “Get real.” But she phrased it more gently: “The Poets light but Lamps—Themselves—go out.” I handed the dress to Mr. Porter, and the ghost slipped away.

The surviving white dress now resides at the Amherst History Museum. A perfect replica stands beneath a Plexiglas box in Emily’s bedroom, which was recently restored to the authentic and beautifully vibrant space she once occupied.

Part of me wishes the dress still haunted her closet, ready to toss on for baking and contemplating immortality. Not that holding Emily’s wrapper had brought me any closer to finding her. It was through her poetry—and a great teacher (Thanks, Alan Shapiro)—that I’d found her. 

And others will continue to find her. This April, “A Quiet Passion,” the first film about Emily Dickinson opens in theaters. I feel like Schroeder hearing of a miniseries on Beethoven: I’m cautiously euphoric. Regardless, I hope the film inspires people to seek out Dickinson’s dazzling verse which thankfully, doesn’t reside under Plexiglas, but waits for us to slip into anytime we yearn to “dwell in possibility,” and feel physically as if the tops of our heads were taken off. 

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