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"Y'know, sweetheart..." Elvis settled back into his chair, letting his legs fall apart, before he rested a big palm on each of his muscular thighs. His rings glittered in the candlelight, as did his belt buckle. It was like a flickering silver runway that led your eyes straight to his crotch. "Right after every show, we take all them—" his eyes crinkled with mirth or embarrassment or a mixture of the two, "—brassieres 'n' things, the undergarments, the flowers—we take 'em all and get rid of 'em out back, dispose of 'em. Security reasons, The Colonel says."
You scratched your pen along your notebook. "That seems wise," you said.
"Still," he began. He furrowed his brows, appearing like he was internally deciding whether or not to continue his train of thought aloud. He was quiet for so long you wondered if he even had more to say. Eventually, though, he broke the silence, his voice drizzling sweet and thick from his lips. "Honey, if I looked down after a show 'n' saw your panties in the lot… well, I'd might jus' wanna keep 'em."
OR, the story of how you get swept up into the hip-wigglin', song-singin', sex-swingin' world of the one and only King, Elvis Aaron Presley.
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Bookmark Notes:
commie's goat list