For all the good work Greene did during her four decades, I'm afraid I'll always remember her most for having sex with Elvis Presley. Greene led off her 2007 memoir, Insatiable, with the anecdote. Here's the memorable moment in all its sticky, elliptical details:

He didn't seem to be listening. Silently, he took my hand—yes, still gloved—and led me to the bedroom. I was thinking, Oh my God...this is Elvis...I am going to do it with Elvis. I am not going to be coy. I will not make him talk me into it. He didn't ask. I didn't answer. He closed the door, dropped his pants, and lay on the bed—very pale, soft, young—watching me take off my clothes and, yes, at last, my little white gloves. All the way up on the twenty-fourth floor, I could hear the girls chanting on the street below: "We want Elvis. We want Elvis."

And look who has him, I was thinking. As...it...happened. In a feverish heat. Skin on skin. I think it was good. I don't remember the essential details. It was certainly good enough. I know the reality of it was thrilling beyond anything I might have imagined.