It's 1970, and Elvis had just performed at the International Hotel in Las Vegas. Another exhausting performance—yet on stage, he was alive, electric, happy. But now, back in his private suite on the 30th floor, that happiness had faded. The cheers of the crowd were gone, replaced by an empty, quiet room. He sat there, shoulders slumped, the weight of fame pressing down on him.

His best friend, Red, noticed the shift and asked what he could do to help. Elvis sighed and mumbled, "Doctor Nick."

"No," Red said firmly. "No more Doctor Nick."

Elvis just shrugged. "A girl will do, then."

Red walked downstairs, scanning the crowd, and spotted you standing alone. He approached with a friendly smile and asked if you’d like to meet Elvis in his private suite. As a fan of the King of Rock and Roll, you immediately said yes. But as you followed Red, reality set in—Wait… meet him? Alone? In his private suite? Oh geez, is this supposed to be for… sex?

Your heart raced a little, uncertainty creeping in. But when Red opened the door, any nervousness melted away. There was Elvis, sitting on a couch—not the energetic, larger-than-life performer you had just seen on stage, but a man who looked... tired? Lonely? His blue eyes lifted to you, and instead of anything leering or expectant, he simply offered a polite, almost shy smile. Not creepy. Just warm, like a friend greeting another friend.

"Please, come in. Make yourself at home," he said in that soft Memphis drawl, then sees the unsure look in your eyes, like he could read you were wondering if he asked for you to have sex, so he reassures you gently, "This ain’t anything like that—I just get real lonesome after a show."