by Wendy Leigh
I suppose I have given head to more men than I care to remember. The first time I did it, I was eight years old. The man—and I never knew his name—said, “Suck it like a lollipop.” I said, “But I don’t suck lollipops. I bite them.” But he wasn’t afraid. Sometimes I am amazed that men aren’t. If I had a prick—and I often wish I did—they are so powerful, so beautiful, so useful—I’d think twice about putting it in just anyone’s mouth. I’d be afraid of being bitten.
Anyway, when I married Joe, I didn’t do it to him much. He was very athletic and into performing, which was nice, only sometimes I got bored with all the positions. I felt like I was in the circus. Like a performing pretzel.
Older men want it more. Johnny Hyde begged me to do it. Even went down on his knees! Funny, that, because generally it’s me who goes down on her knees. I don’t mind being in that position.
Some men want you to mind giving them head, though, because for them it is a kick to think they are forcing you to do it. I don’t like doing it to a man who has those kinds of thoughts.
I don’t think there is anything demeening [sic] about doing it to a man. Joe Schenk and Harry Cohn made it feel like work, though. They each gave me a fixed appointment every day, then expected me to turn up and do it. If I was one minute late, they would start yelling. I hated that. Perhaps that’s why, these days, now that I don’t need them anymore—although poor Joe is dead and I couldn’t need him anyway, even if I wanted to—I love being as late for appointments as I want.
With Joe and Harry I used to do each of them in eight minutes, max. Sometimes quicker, if I could. With Jack, though, I want to take as long as I can. I sometimes tease Jack that he has brainwashed me into wanting to spend so long giving him head. The power of suggestion, you know, because he once told me about a $1,500-a-night hooker he had—that was before your time, I think. I asked him what she did for all that money. He knew I would ask. He said that she made head last for what seemed like forever, which is why I said afterward that he brainwashed me. But it wasn’t that story that made me want to do it to him for ages. The way I feel about Jack did.
You see, I don’t feel powerless when I give head. Nor do I feel particularly powerful either. But perhaps it would help you if you looked at doing it as a way of having power over a man. I suppose, when you really think about it, a man is completely defenseless when you do it to him, vulnerable. Especially if he wants it as much as Jack does. So you could look at it in terms of the power it gives you. I know most women think of it as just something you do before having sex, but I don’t feel that way. I don’t think of it like you think of a cocktail before dinner, but as dinner itself. When I do it, I always let the man know how much I love doing it to him—I don’t just give a quick lick and wait for him to do all the rest—I give him head as if it is the only thing in the world I want to do—as if his prick is the only thing in the world I want at that moment. I’m not faking when I do that, either, I really mean it, because I really do want to please the man I’m doing it to.
Mostly when I give head—and most of all with Jack—I feel as if I am giving a man something very special. So when I do it, I somehow feel as if I am getting it done to me as well. I can’t really explain it, only that with Jack, I love doing it more than I’ve ever done it with anyone else. He always goes on about how well I do it, as if I am going through a routine. But that isn’t true. I do it to Jack differently than I’ve ever done it to any other man. Of course, I still breath the same—Constance Collier taught me how to breathe for acting—I just took what she taught and applied it elsewhere. … But giving great head isn’t technique. Saying that it is is the same thing as saying that if you do finger exercises at the piano, you are playing music. But that isn’t true. The exercises become music only when you add passion.
I have such passion when I give Jack head. Part of the reason is that I know how much it means to him. Jack finds it so hard to switch off his mind. He never can, not even in his sleep—I’ve slept with him and he tosses and talks, and once even walked in his sleep. But when I give him head, I know that he can switch his mind off at last. Toeing able to do that for him is ecstasy for me. Sure, he does things to me, and I love it—kissing me, touching me, talking dirty to me—but if—before I met Mr. X—someone had told me I would never have sex with Jack again except one last time, I would want to give him head. I hope I haven’t made you blush, but I wanted to be truthful.
Now that I have been, I can tell you about Mr. X at last. After I do, I really hope you will wish me luck, plus give me a little advise. You will be able to give me advise, Jackie, because—guess what? You know Mr. X really, really well.
By now, you have probably realized who I mean. You are so clever. But if you haven’t yet, when you do, you will be thrilled. First, because you hate his wife. Second, because I know that you are rooting for him to be happy. And I am going to make him happy, for always.
He says he wants to marry me and I know he means it. Up till now, we have only ever met in California—he lives back Cast. But although I haven’t been to his home yet—or met his children, he has shown me photos of them all—I am ahead of the game because I know his family. I know his brother real well, and his sister-in-law. I know her real, real well. In fact, we are quite close. No, more than that: we talk all the time. By letter, that is.
Oh, Jackie! Me and Bobby! Bobby and me! No director, no writer, could have ever thought of anything more perfect. He is Jack, only more innocent. Jack, only more loving. Jack, only not married to you. So I don’t feel guilty. And I can go ahead, get him away from her, and marry him. He is already in my heart and I am in his, he says. More than any other woman in his entire life. I owe it all to you, Jackie, because you sent him to me in my hour of need and he saved me. I owe you Bobby, Jackie, so I owe you everything.
Write and say that you are glad.
Love,
Marilyn
July 28, 1962
Martha,
This is the last letter I shall ever write to you. Our correspondence is over. I have retrieved all your letters from Miss S and am herewith returning them to you.
Josephine
__________________________
On the afternoon of her birthday, after mailing this letter, Jackie wrote in her diary, “Out of all the men in the universe, she had. to pick Bobby.… I could cope with Jack, but not with him. Never him. He was pure, and now she’s sullied him. I could murder her.”
The ultimate flowering of Jackie’s passion for Bobby, which allegedly occurred after Jack’s assassination, was detailed by Heymann in his biography of Bobby Kennedy, RFK: A Candid Biography of Robert F. Kennedy (New York: Dutton, 1998).
MARILYN MONROE
12305 Fifth Helena Drive
Brentwood, California
Jackie Kennedy
The White House
August 4, 1962
Dear Jackie,
Part of me is shocked by your letter. Part of me is not. I was never worthy of you, Jackie. I have no integrity. I have no soul. I am no one and nothing. I don’t deserve to live. But I probably am not even good enough to die either.
No one—not even you—can hate me as much as I do. I am so ashamed. I only wish I knew which words I wrote that tore everything apart. I’ve tried guessing, but I suppose I will die without ever knowing.
Your letters meant so much to me, Jackie. They made me feel like a person, not just a bit of celluloid floating from movie to movie. I never told you—not even in the last letters, when I thought I could tell you everything, and did—how excited I used to get when the phone rang and it was Patty telling me that a letter had arrived from Josephine. I was always sorry if I wasn’t there when the letter popped through the mailbox like a cascade of good-luck charms.
Your letters were my lucky charms. I felt that nothing bad could ever happen to me, no one could ever hurt me, while you were writing to me. I felt special. Like a person, every time you wrote to me. That feeling didn’t go away. It lasted
from letter to letter.
I even liked writing back to you. I used to write letters to you in my head, notice things through the day, and say, “I must tell Josephine. Sometimes, I couldn’t wait to get home and start writing to you. Of course, I knew that my letters weren’t as educated as yours, but I felt you didn’t care, didn’t look down on me, and I learned from your letters as well.
I don’t know what my life will be like from now on, without you and your letters in it. I don’t think it will be worth living, not really, not anymore. Kiss Bobby for me, and John and Caroline. Be kind to Jack, because in his heart, Jackie, he really does love you. And do as much good to yourself as you have always done for me.
Love,
Marilyn
__________________________
Sometime in the late evening of August 4, 1962, Marilyn wrote this letter to Jackie. She never mailed it.
JACQUELINE KENNEDY
THE WHITE HOUSE
3 A.M., August 5, 1962
Dearest Marilyn,
I am writing this letter to you this early in the morning because, as soon as I have finished it, I plan to ring for the steward and, despite the early hour, instruct him to send it to you by special courier as soon as humanly possible. I am desperate that this letter reach you at once. For I am consumed by a burning guilt and wish only that I could turn back the clock and curb the insane rashness which caused me to send my last cruel and unkind letter to you and to return to you your cherished letters as well.
There are many explanations for my hotheaded and unworthy behavior—most best made in person, or over the telephone. However, without wishing to unduly alarm you with the following information, I am not altogether sure whether you are entirely wrong about your telephone being tapped. In the last few days, there have been meetings in the Oval Office between Bobby and Jack and Hoover, and during one of them, I chanced to hear mention of ‘Marilyn.’ I may be jumping to an erroneous conclusion, but just in case, take care, as you always do.
Had we spoken on the telephone, I would have asked you how you could ever forgive me. More to the point, how can I ever forgive myself? If I could turn back the clock (and which of us can?), I would never have sent that stupid, self-indulgent, misguided note.
How can I fully explain my state of mind when I wrote my last letter to you? How will you ever begin to understand my callous act of cruelty? I am not sure, but I shall strive to explain myself to you. Of course, if after you have read my explanation, you no longer wish to correspond with me, I will understand utterly and completely. For I have behaved unconscionably.
Since coming to my senses, I have imagined your reaction to my brutal note and felt like a monster. You are always so open, so direct, wear your heart on your sleeve, as I never would, never could. In this case, however, I owe you the truth. I sent that letter, Marilyn, not because of Jack, but because of Bobby.
When I received your cry for help after the birthday party, my first instinct was to turn to Bobby—who was then in California—and ask him to rush to your side and endeavor to help you. I never dreamed that a romantic relationship would ensue. When you told me that it had, for a mad, irrational, unforgivable moment, I was overwhelmed by jealousy and fear. For although I have hitherto hidden the truth from everyone, even myself, Bobby has always been close to my heart. The sweet-natured, pure-spirited younger brother, the boy who represented everything that is good, innocent, and worth loving in Jack. When Jack was false to me, absent, or cruel, it was Bobby about whom I fantasized. Your admission that you love Bobby and that he loves you shocked me to the very core. For however much I always knew that Bobby and I have no future, the thought that I might lose him to you was, for a moment, unbearable.
There is more to say, Marilyn, much more, but I will save it all till September, when I understand you will be in Washington for the Josh Logan opening. I fervently hope that now that the air between us has completely cleared, we shall finally meet and talk at last. We have so much in common, you and I. Not just Jack, but as our letters have always demonstrated, we share so much more. For while it might seem to outsiders that I merely wrote to you in order to nourish my rather infantile thirst for Hollywood gossip and my desire to burnish my image through your advice, and that you wrote to me because you viewed me as a conduit to Jack, we both know that isn’t the truth.
Throwing all modesty aside, we two are the most famous women of our time, able to trust no one but each other with our confidences because we each have so much to lose. It also seems to me that both of us, in our own ways, are actresses, both simmering with a father hunger, both strong but vulnerable, weak but tough, and so much more.
As for Bobby, my irrational longing for him has subsided for reasons which will become clear to you. So that if Bobby is the one upon whom you have set your heart, you do, indeed, have my blessings. Write and tell me how I can help. I owe you so much.
Let me explain: Jack has just returned to his room, I am ecstatic, and I owe it all to you. When I first read your letter regarding Jack’s sexuality, my only reaction was to focus on Bobby. I ignored all your perceptions regarding Jack and his needs, and focused only on the fact of you and Bobby being romantically involved.
It was only yesterday that I reread your letter, this time focusing on Jack. Since then, you have revolutionized not only my entire attitude toward Jack, but also my attitude to life, in general. I suppose I was always far too controlling. When it came to Jack, I exercised that control by refusing to give him everything he wanted from me. I resisted his drive to involve me in politics until he was close to power. Then I wanted power myself, almost as much as he did. So I helped him. Yet taunted him, secretly opposed him, and never gave him what he truly wanted.
I am not talking about one isolated sex act, but my entire attitude to love and loving. Reading your letters (the first and, more especially, the second, in which you talk about Jack in detail and your feelings for him), I realized that I never truly understood how to love. As a result, I never really loved Jack the way in which he deserved to be loved. Nor did I ever fully understand him. Not like you did. I didn’t understand Jack, nor did I really love him.
Since your last letters, Marilyn, all that has changed. I have finally understood both Jack and myself. Consequently, our marriage will never be the same again. Apart from wanting the very best for you (because you are a good person with far more integrity within you than I shall ever muster), all I want is to grow old with Jack and the children. To live with him and love him. To see John’s and Caroline’s children grow up and to love them as much as I know Jack will. I pray that time and fate will grant me my dream. And you, yours, Marilyn. And you, yours.
With love and heartfelt thanks,
Jackie
__________________________
Marilyn Monroe was found dead in bed early in the morning of August 5, 1962.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
In addition to the essays, articles, and reviews cited in the text, the following books were consulted.
JACKIE KENNEDY BOOKS
Abbott, James A., and Elaine M. Rice. Designing Camelot: The Kennedy White House Restoration. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1998.
Abramson, Rudy. Spanning the Century: The Life of W. Averell Harriman. New York: Morrow, 1992.
Adams, William Howard. Atget’s Gardens. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1979.
Alphand, Herve. L’etonement d’etre journal 1939–1973. Paris: Fayard, 1977.
Alsop, Joseph W., with Adam Platt. “I’ve Seen the Best of It”: Memoirs. New York: W. W. Norton, 1992.
Alsop, Susan Mary. To Marietta from Paris, 1945–1960. London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1976.
Anderson, Christopher. Jackie After Jack: Portrait of the Lady. New York: William Morrow, 1998.
——. Jack and Jackie. New York: William Morrow, 1996.
Anthony, Carl Sferrazza. First Ladies, Volume II: The Saga of the Presidents’ Wives and Their Power, 1961–1990. New York: Morrow, 1991.
; Aronson, Steven M. L. Hype. New York: Morrow, 1983.
Baldrige, Letitia. In the Kennedy Style: Magical Evenings in the Kennedy White House, with Recipes by White House Chef René Verdon. New York: Doubleday, 1998.
Baldwin, Billy. Billy Baldwin Remembers. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1974.
Ball, George. The Post Has Another Pattern: Memoirs. New York: W. W. Norton, 1982.
Beale, Betty. Power at Play: A Memoir of Parties, Politicians, and the Presidents in My Bedroom. Washington, D.C.: Regnery Gateway, 1993.
Beard, Peter. Longing for Darkness: Kamante’s Tales from Out of Africa. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1975.
Beevor, Anthony, and Artemis Cooper. Paris After the Liberation, 1944–1949. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1994.
Belle, John. Grand Central: Gateway to a Million Lives. New York: W. W. Norton, 1999.
Beschloss, Michael R. Taking Charge: The Johnson White House Tapes, 1963–1964. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1997.
Billings, Lem. Jack Remembered. Honolulu: Baynards Press, 1964.
Birmingham, Stephen. Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. London: Victor Gollancz, London: 1979.
Botherel, Jean. Louise, ou la vie de Louise de Vilmorin. Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1993.
Bouvier, Jacqueline and Lee. One Special Summer. New York: Delacorte Press, 1974.
Braden, Joan. Just Enough Rope: An Intimate Memoir. New York: Villard, 1989.
Bradford, Sarah. America’s Queen: A Life of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. New York: Viking Press, 2000.
Bradlee, Benjamin C. Conversations with Kennedy. London: Quartet, 1975.
——. A Good Life: Newspapering and Other Adventures. New York: Touchstone, 1995.
Bryant, Traphes, and Frances Spatz Leighton. Dog Days at the White House: The Outrageous Memoirs of the Presidential Kennel Keeper. New York: Macmillan, 1975.
