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In my 19-year-old mind, I wasn’t invading the Kennedys’ marriage; I was merely occupying the President’s time when his wife was away. It was hardly by chance that in the 18 months I knew him, I never once met his wife.
Then he’d close his eyes and lean back in his rocking chair while I massaged some tonic and an amber-coloured ointment into his scalp, and brushed his hair into place.
We named them after his family members, made up stories about them, and often set them racing from one end of the tub to other.To my relief, two colleagues — a girl called Fiddle and her friend Jill, inevitably known as Diddle — appeared at the entrance and showed me where to find a spare swimsuit.The water was as warm as that in a bathtub — as I learned later, the temperature was always set at 90 degrees to soothe JFK’s chronic back pain.As the summer wore on, I was pulled deeper into his personal orbit.
But despite the increasing level of familiarity between us, I never rose above being the obedient partner in our relationship.President Kennedy was already leaving the room, and I followed as if pulled by a magnet. Back in my room, after a shower to wash off the smell of his 4711 cologne, I thought: ‘So that’s sex?