memphis-queen

•You can see Priscilla waiting on Elvis on his motorcycle for him to finish his little interview.

•"Elvis had just returned from Hollywood, where filming had wrapped on his 13th movie fun in Acapulco.
Wearing a yachting cap and riding a motorcycle,
Elvis talked with a reporter and photographer.
Before posing for pictures,
he dispatched his motorcycle partner for milkshakes.
She was Priscilla Beaulieu, 18, whom he had met when he was in the Army in Germany.“


•By: Robert Williams, for:
The Commercial Appeal.
outside Dixie Queen in Memphis, TN, May 2, 1963.

My biggest problem in those days was that Elvis and I never seemed to have enough time alone. People were always dropping by, standing around the living room talking and laughing, until Elvis came down from his room. As soon as he appeared, the room would become silent until he revealed his mood. No one, including myself, dared joked around unless he laughed and then we all laughed. Because I had to share the little time I had with Elvis with so many others, I began to feel jealous and possessive. It was only late in the evening, when we were in his bedroom, that I was truly happy. We had a nightly ritual. At about ten or eleven, Elvis would glance at me and look toward the stairs. Then, naively assuming that nobody knew where I was headed, I’d casually proceed to his bedroom, where I’d lie of his bed, impatiently waiting for him to appear. When he joined me, he’d lie as close to me as he could. “I love you, ” I whispered. “Shhh,” he said as he put his fingers to my lips. “I don’t really understand what it is I’m feeling. I’ve grown to love you, Cilla. Daddy keep reminding me of your age and that it can’t be possible…When I go home…Only time will tell.” Each night that I was with him he entrusted a little more of himself–his doubts, his secrets, and his frustrations. It was a lot to expect an impressionable fourteen-year-old to understand, but I tried. I felt his pain over his mother’s death. I ached over his desire to become a great actor like his idols Marlon Brando, James Dean, Karl Malden, and Rob Steiger. I was concerned about his fears that he might not regain the popularity he felt he’d lost by serving in the Army. And I reveled in his laughter when he asked, “What if one day I end up back driving a Crown Electric truck? Wouldn’t that be something?” I was there for him, to listen, to hold his hand, or to make a funny face that would turn his frown into a smile. Sometimes Elvis would enter his bedroom in high spirits. I longed for those nights when he’d shut off the lights and lie close to me. “Sweetness,” he would say, putting his arms around me. “You’re so pretty, Honey.” And then we’d kiss long, deep, passionate kisses, and his caresses would leave me weak with desire. Nights when his mood was calm and peaceful, he would describe his ideal woman and tell me how perfectly I fit this image. He liked soft-spoken brunettes with blue eyes. He wanted to mold me to his opinions and preferences. Despite his reputation for being a rebel, he held traditional view of relationships. A woman had her place, and it was the man who took the initiative. Fidelity was very important to him, especially on the woman’s part. He constantly reminded me that his girl had to be completely constant. He admitted that he was concerned about Anita. She was a Memphis beauty queen and television personality. Elvis said that lately her letters had become very impersonal, and he suspected she had been with another man. Despite his moralizing, I feared Elvis wasn’t always faithful to me. His bantering with some of the other girls at his house made me think that he might be intimately familiar with them. One evening he was playing the piano for the regular group, plus a couple of English girls. When he picked up his guitar, he looked around, but couldn’t seem to find his pick. “Anybody seen my guitar pick?” he asked. One of the English girls looked up and smiled. “It’s upstairs on the night table next to your bed. I’ll get it.” All eyes, including mine, zeroed in on her as she made her way up the stairs, aware that she was now the center of attention. Furious at his obvious betrayal, I turned to him, but he was avoiding my gaze by looking down at his guitar, plucking it as if it need tuning. Then he burst into “Lawdy, Miss Clawdy.” Without a pick, his fingers must have hurt badly, but no matter what, he wasn’t about to put that guitar down. He knew he was in trouble. After he’d finished a medley of songs, Elvis excused himself and retreaded into the kitchen, with me right behind him. “Have you been with her?” I demanded.
“No,” Elvis insisted.
“Then how did she know where your guitar pick and room were?”
“She was over one night, and I mentioned how dirty the place was,” he answered, a boyish grin on his face. “She offered to clean it, simple as that.” Despite his deceleration of innocence, I was not reassured. He was the sexual idol of millions and could choose whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I quickly learned, for my own survival, not to ask too many questions.
—  Excerpt from Elvis and Me; Priscilla talks about her and Elvis’ nightly ritual, his ideal woman and her doubts about Elvis’ fidelity. 
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According to legend there was a magical queen in Memphis, Egypt. Every eclipse, kings would travel from Brooklyn to Babylon to win her heart. If she fell in love, you’d be top dawg. If she didn’t, her wrath would leave you whimpering. Her name was Katy Patra. Who will win her heart? - 02.20.14