Elvis and Me

by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley

He taught me everything: how to dress, how to walk, how to apply makeup and wear my hair, how to behave, how to return love—his way. Over the years he became my father, husband, and very nearly God. Now he was gone and I felt more alone and afraid than ever in my life.

I had to dress quickly, trying to find some way to appear older than my age. His father was concerned about Elvis being with a minor.

I wasn’t interested in a career, in Hollywood, or in anything else that would draw my attention away from him. I also had all of the physical attributes that Elvis liked, the fundamentals he could use in turning me into his ideal woman. In short, I had everything that Elvis had been looking for in a woman: youth and innocence, total devotion, and no problems of my own. And I was hard to get.

I was told that I couldn’t have girlfriends over because strangers weren’t allowed in the house. One day, I was severely criticized for sitting under the trees on the front lawn. I was playing with Honey, the poodle Elvis had given me for Christmas, when a friend of Dee’s drove up and told me that I was making a public display of myself.

I resolved to earn my own money. I began modeling part-time at a boutique near Graceland. When I told Elvis about my job, he said, “You’re gonna have to give it up.” “But I’m enjoying it,” I said. “It’s either me or a career, Baby. Because when I call you, I need you to be there.”

I was Elvis’s doll, his own living doll, to fashion as he pleased.

Elvis liked long hair. When I’d cut mine without asking his permission, he was shocked. “How could you cut your goddamn hair? You know I like long hair. Men love long hair.” He wanted it long and jet black, dyed to match his because, as he said, “You have blue eyes, Cilla, like mine. Black hair will make your eyes stand out more.” He made a lot of sense to me and soon my hair was dyed jet black, like his.

The Pygmalion nature of our relationship was a mixed blessing. The most fundamental thing at this stage in our life together was that Elvis was my mentor, someone who studied my every gesture, listened critically to my every utterance, and was generous, to a fault, with advice. When I did something that wasn’t to his liking, I was corrected. It is extremely difficult to relax under such scrutiny. Little escaped him. Little except the most salient fact of all—that I was a volcano about to erupt.

He was equally fanatical about posture. If I slumped, he’d straighten my back. When I’d look up at him and wrinkle my forehead, he’d smooth it out—or tap it—telling me not to get in that habit. I didn’t like him rapping me, so I learned that one fast.

I look back now and realize that our love affair was dependent on how his career was going. During protracted periods of noncreativity, his temper often flared.

He was truly a master at manipulating people.

Elvis was not one for moderation. Whether it was motorcycles, slot cars, horses, amusement parks, roller skating, sex, or even eating the same dinner day after day, if he enjoyed it, he’d overindulge.

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 Elvis, but I did have the romantic delusion that once we were married, I could change our life-style.

Finally he asked, “Have I lost you to another man?” “It’s not that you’ve lost me to another man, you’ve lost me to a life of my own. I’m finding myself for the first time.”