teenager

Photo of the Day

Errol Flynn Pictured With Beverley Aadland at The Lido Nightclub on Swallow Street, just off Piccadilly, 5th May 1959. The Couple Starred In The Film Cuban Rebel Girls And Had A Highly Publicised Relationship For The Last Two Years Of Flynn’s Life. Photo: Rex Features

In like Flynn Warts and All!!

“All around the world I was equated with sex”

-Errol Flynn

Errol Flynn once said: ‘I like my whisky old, and my women young’ and the above photo, while not saying anything about his choice of whisky, certainly says something about his taste in women, or should it be girls. He was one of Hollywood’s all-time great ladies’ men — a spirited womaniser who inspired the expression “in like Flynn.”

The picture above of Flynn, from May 1959, was taken a month or so before his fiftieth birthday and he’s accompanied by his girlfriend, Beverly Aadland, who was still a few months from her 17th birthday that September. According to Beverly’s mother, a former showgirl called Florence and who wrote about Flynn and Aadland’s romance in a book called The Big Love, by the summer of 1959 they had already been together for a year.

His tastes in young women caught up with him in 1943, when he was tried for statutory rape. Two underage girls (“jailbait” and “San Quentin quail”) claimed he had bedded them. Flynn was acquitted.

Flynn spent his breaks during the trial hitting on the teenager who ran the courthouse’s cigarette stand. Flynn invited her home — and she later became his second wife.

Errol Flynn was that guy — that one guy, we all know them — who was too handsome for his own good. Early on, he figured out what his looks could do for him, and he rode that wave to various destinations. He was a textbook womaniser, an astoundingly successful player — a lech, a cad, a rake, and any number of other British-sounding adjectives that describe the combination of sexual appetite and the charisma required to feed it.

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Photo Of The Day

Brianna

Forever Young

Electra, Texas—1985

She was a pretty girl, thin, with a spray of pale freckles across her face and light brown hair that curled just above her shoulders. The librarian at the high school called her “a quiet-type person,” the kind of student who yes-ma’amed and no-ma’amed her teachers. She played on the tennis team, practicing with an old wooden racket on a crack-lined court behind the school. In the afternoons she waitressed at the Whistle Stop, the local drive-in hamburger restaurant, jumping up on the running boards of the pickup trucks so she could hear better when the drivers placed their orders.

Her name was Treva Throneberry, and just about everybody in that two-stoplight North Texas oil town knew her by sight. She was never unhappy, people said. She never complained. She always greeted her customers with a shy smile, even when she had to walk out to their cars on winter days when the northers came whipping off the plains, swirling ribbons of dust down the street. During her breaks, she’d sit at a back table and read from her red Bible that zipped open and shut.

There were times, the townspeople would later say, when they did wonder about the girl. No one had actually seen her do anything that could be defined, really, as crazy. But people noticed that she would occasionally get a vacant look in her blue eyes. One day at school she drew a picture of a young girl standing under a leafless tree, her face blue, the sun black. One Sunday at the Pentecostal church she stumbled to the front altar, fell to her knees, and began telling Jesus that she didn’t deserve to live. And then there was that day when Treva’s young niece J’Lisha, who was staying at the Throneberry home, told people that Treva had shaken her awake the previous night and whispered that a man was outside their room with a gun—which turned out to be not true at all.

But surely, everyone in town said, all teenage girls go through phases. They get overly emotional every now and then. Treva was going to turn out just fine. She didn’t even drink or smoke cigarettes like some of the other girls in town.

Then, that December, just as the Electra High School Tigers were headed toward their first state football championship and the town was feeling a rare surge of pride, Treva, who was sixteen years old, stopped working at the Whistle Stop. She stopped coming to school. “She disappeared,” a former classmate said. “And nobody knew where she went.”

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Photo Of The Day

elvis-tupelo-1945-largeElvis as a Teen?

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