The Secret Letters of Marilyn Monroe and Jacqueline Kennedy (24 page)

M
ARILYN
M
ONROE

12305 Fifth Helena Drive

Brentwood, California

Jackie Kennedy

The White House

July 22, 1962

Dear Jackie,

My phone probably isn’t tapped after all, but I am glad that I thought it was and told you. This way, I can read your letter over and over again. If it had been a telephone call, I couldn’t have.

Thank you for not making me feel bad for telling you. I never wanted you to know about Jack and me while it was still going on. I didn’t make that Freudian slip on purpose. It was an accident. I never wanted to hurt you or Caroline or John. I am not saying that I was pure
—
hardly … because I also was afraid that if you knew the truth, Jack would find out you did and stop seeing me. Or you would tell him to. Either way.

To answer your questions: I never once showed your letters to Jack, and I never would have. But sometimes I used to fantasise [
sic
] that you knew about Jack and me, that you didn’t mind, that you were giving us your blessing. Other times I was afraid that you knew and that Jack knew you knew and that you talked about me together and laughed at me. I couldn’t have borne that. I know that wasn’t true, was it?

How, where, and when did Jack and I manage to meet? Some nights, when I can’t sleep, I count all the hotel suites where Jack and I had what
he used to call our “interludes.” That sounds romantic, doesn’t it? But it didn’t always feel that way. Sometimes it was short and cold, with me being smuggled up to the suite in a service elevator, like a hamburger, then bundled out afterwards, like dirty laundry. There was also the guilt, particularly that time when you lost the baby. I was in London with Sir Olivier, Jack called, asked me to fly to Paris to meet him, and I did. That weekend, you lost the baby. Jack didn’t even know. He was too busy having fun with me. When you wrote and told me, I knew God would punish me one day for my wickedness.

Other times, though, it was glamorous
—
like in Chicago when Jack was there campaigning. We met in his suite at the Ambassador, he was elated with success and already had the smell of power all over him. I liked that smell, I liked his power. I also liked him powerless as well. In the hospital, when he was close to death and just lay there, looking at me, helpless. So helpless that it was easy for me to make him happy. I loved making Jack happy. I lived to make him happy because when he was happy, so was I.

I think I should also tell you another secret
—or
how else are you ever going to trust in me again and tell me things the way you used to? Now and again—not
too
often, probably about ten times through all the years
—
I wrote to you and put something in that I hoped would make him jealous. Part of me was always hoping that you would show Jack the letter so that he would call me. Did you ever do that? If you did, I would have been glad. Other times, when I missed him desperately but hadn’t heard from him, I thought he might want to see me if he found out from you that I was blue. On the other hand, I would rather he only ever saw me because he wanted to, not because I was blue and he felt sorry for me. On second thought, I am sure he never did. Men only ever like happy girls.

I meant to say that I feel sad that you put up with Jack’s cheating because of wanting to best your mother. It seems more self-destructive than I
ever expected you to be. But nobody, not even you, can always stop themselves from stabbing themselves in the heart.

You say you got a thrill sometimes about Jack cheating. Did you ever ask him about other women in bed? I don’t know how you would have liked it if he did tell you about other women in bed. I’ve had plenty of men who think that hearing about other women in bed will arouse me. I like to hear about other women’s sexual tricks—in case I can learn anything—but I don’t want to hear how much the man I’m with cared about them, or how beautiful they were. The only aspect that sometimes titillates me is if, before I go to bed with a man, he tells me about a sex fantasy he acted out with another woman. That way, the woman doesn’t seem real, but I get to hear about the fantasy.

I don’t know whether you really hurt Jack by making fun of him. There is a side of him that needs a woman who diminishes him. Not me, of course. He doesn’t see me that way. I think it is sad, though, that he put you down when you had an orgasm. I discussed the situation with Dr. Greenson—disguising you and calling you “Geraldine,” saying you lived in Wisconsin and were a friend of mine needing help—and he said, “The man in question has a Madonna/whore complex. To him, Geraldine, his wife, is the Madonna. She is pure and innocent, elevated on a pedestel [
sic
], rather like a superior mother figure. But if she exhibits an enjoyment of sex, she topples from that pedestel [
sic
] and becomes a woman. Just like his mother.”

Dr. Greenson says that the man in question probably had incestuous fantasies about his mother and that he can’t enjoy sex with a woman whom he equates with his mother. He can only have sex with a woman who is diametrically opposed to his mother. That way, he doesn’t feel like he is having sex with her (his mother). “So I am just the whore?” I asked Dr. Greenson, forgetting this wasn’t supposed to be about me. “No, Marilyn,” he said, “you are not a whore. Men know you are not. It just arouses them to
fantasise [
sic
] like that.” I didn’t buy it, but I hope it explains something about Jack to you.

He talks about you a lot. Sometimes I think it is just to stop himself from getting swept away. To remind himself that he is married. Or because he feels that by talking about you, he is somehow including you in us and that way, he won’t feel too guilty. I don’t know if he does feel guilty, though. I know he pretends to. I’d like to think that he felt guilty about seeing me but just couldn’t help himself. But I don’t think that is the truth.

When he talks about you, he always refers to you as “my wife.” Never as Jackie or Jacqueline. In one way, calling you “my wife” is a way of making sure I never forget he is married—why would I? In another, it is a way of putting you up on that pedestel [
sic
] again, so you aren’t sexy and he doesn’t have to feel like he’s fucking his mother.

I think you could break him of all that if one day, when you were alone with him, you did something really wild or outrageous. Like Jean Arthur did in
A Foreign Affair
. I remember you said you’d seen it, when she gets—I can’t remember the name of the actor—I’ll ask Billy Wilder if ever I talk to him again—drunk and lures him back from Marlene. There goes that name again! Sorry. Perhaps she pops into my mind because Marlene and Marilyn are very close. In name only.

I’ve left your last, most difficult question to the end. What is Jack like in bed with me? I don’t know if he is any different with me than he is with you. Except that I suppose I do fellatio—I call it “head”—and that pleases him, so maybe he tries a little harder, in return, to please me. In any case, I am not difficult to please.

Jack is brilliant at getting me hot. He doesn’t do it with presents or compliments. Mostly by talking about sex, which excites me, telling me beforehand what he wants to do to me, and what he wants me to do to him—although I know that already.

No matter how many women a man goes to bed with, he usually wants
the same thing from every woman, has the same desires, the same triggers, the same needs, with all of them. In fact, I sometimes think it would be easier for us if men carried printed instructions around with them (a do-it-yourself kit) so you know how to assemble them. Or, rather, get them hot and then satisfy them.

Jack adores getting head. Of course, he is useless at giving it, but I don’t really care. Every man loves getting head. Only Joe wasn’t wild about it
—
although he was very proud of his prick
—
it was enormous, but not as big as Frank’s
—
Frank is really genetically gifted. Sometimes, though, I would rather look at Frank than have him inside of me. Looking at a really big prick is very appealing. Having it inside of you can sometimes be painful.

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.