The
Hollywood True Story: Miss Jean Louis
October 1961
I don’t remember the exact day I
met him. I remember the frost in the air as winter tickled its teasing fingers
in and out of the days and nights and pulling my scarf farther up my neck to
cover my mouth as I gazed upon the children still playing in Central Park. The
sun was beginning to set and parents were shouting for their little ones to
come so they could leave. I back stepped onto the path and nearly fell as
someone brushed against me. His murmured apologies as he steadied me before
backing away and walking faster caught me off guard, but more so was the sense
of wonderment I felt at being touched by someone who seemed so untouchable. The
presidential election was close to fruition and this man, this heart-throb, was
the leading candidate, a man admired by most and chosen to win.
I knew I had to have him—in some
way, shape, or form. I knew I had to know him. You see, many underestimate my
stubborn nature and extreme passion. When something or someone stumbles across
my path and they make me feel something other—a deeper connection of sorts—I
know, deep down in my bones, they are not ones to get away. And he wasn’t one I
could just leave to a simple stroke of the arm and steadying of the back.
Before my brain could really
process the repercussions, I found myself running after him and snagging his
coat with the tips of my fingers. He turned around and I tilted my head to the
side while my eyes burned a path from his hairline to his jaw. He was a magnificent
being. His face strong, stoic, though his eyes told a different story. They
were warm, inviting, and something about the way he viewed me cemented my
decision in knowing this man. He was one of a kind.
Our conversation blossomed and we
went to dinner that same night. He told me about his ambitions for the future
of America while I remained mesmerized by his every word. If there was one word
I could wrap around this man to bundle his whole persona up in a tidy bow, it
would be charisma. He had it in the bucket loads and it wasn’t long before I
decided we needed to know each other on another, more cellular, level. He was
engrossing and had me squirming in my seat with each breath behind every word
he spoke. The words didn’t matter at that point. I had to have him.
November 1961
Brushing
my hands down my skirt, I paced the small space of my unique New York studio
apartment. He was in D.C. awaiting
the announcement of his probable election and induction as the thirty-fifth
president of the United States. While he had already spent time within the
House of Representatives and U.S. Senate, I was a mess. I wanted this for him.
I wanted his dreams to come true, possibly more than he wanted it, though I
couldn’t be sure. His beautiful face flashed on the screen in black and white
and then they spanned to his wife. I
was still unsure how I felt about him being married, but he assured me their
marriage was a business deal of sorts. With our ever-emerging acceptance of
relationships, marriage wasn’t as sacred anymore, so I chose to believe him.
And I feel I chose right for that time of my life. What we had wasn’t perfect,
by any means, but it felt right, and that was all that mattered to me.
The
announcer came to the stage with the vote numbers intact just as my service cut
out. I cursed the world while adjusting my antennas, to no avail. I was left to
live in suspense for the remainder of the evening, awaiting a phone call. I sat
up for hours, pacing back and forth, eyeing my phone as if I could will the call
to come, but it never did. That should have been my first sign.
I
woke to breath tickling my neck and a warm body laying against my back. Rolling
over, I stared up into deep green-grey eyes and every ounce of anxiety I had
dissolved with the heat that accompanied his gaze. It had been five days since
the election, but before I could utter the question most prevalent in my mind,
he closed the space between us, his soft lips pressing against mine. My brain
became fuzzy, lost in the sensations that were him. Just him.
The
next morning, he told me to call him Mr. President. And I did, gladly.
May 1962
The
dew of spring was making itself known on the blades of grass and flowers
blooming once again. My relationship with John had grown exponentially, and while
he was gone often due to the demand of being in office, he visited just as
often. Our relationship was flourishing and I couldn’t remember a time when I
was happier than in those moments. Of course, doubt started to set in at times,
but I quickly brushed it away. He phoned almost every night and spoke often of
his daily struggles and concerns. He took my opinion and really made me feel
like I mattered in his voice as a whole upon the United States. He was a
sharer, and a giver. He really was so perfect. That should have been my second
sign, but I was blissful and in love.
His
birthday was coming up within the next week and I had something planned after
the fundraising event he was holding at Madison Square Gardens. Since he was
going to be in town, we had the weekend to ourselves and I planned to spend
every waking moment with him, and then some in the non-waking hours.
The
night of the fundraising event, I was nervous, but not because I was naïve.
When he invited me to the event, he told me appearances must be kept, and I
understood what he was referring to. The first lady was a fine woman, one who
was looked up to on most accounts, and in the eyes of America, she and her
husband were very in love. I knew the score, and had met her on numerous occasions
in the past. She knew who I was to her husband and we remained cordial as
acquaintances. It allowed some ease to the nerves, but something else felt
amiss. I had a terrible feeling in my gut. I had been trying to ignore the
sensation throughout the past few days, but the knots continued to tighten and
I couldn’t figure out why.
I
mingled for a while at the event before finding my seat. I was across the aisle
from John, my seat almost next to his one table over. The crowd for the evening
was exquisite and everyone was pleased as punch at being invited to such an
honorable affair.
As
the night wore on, my unease didn’t settle in the slightest and I found myself
having one sip of champagne too many. As the dinner nearly drew to a close, one
I was very welcoming of, an actress took to the microphone. She was gorgeous,
more becoming than many ladies in the room. Her face was familiar and I
recalled seeing a film of hers, but that was all. Her voice was small, but
husky and sexy at the same time as she spoke his name into the amplifier. My
hackles rose as I spun to look toward John, but he seemed just as perplexed at
her wanting to make a speech. I continued to watch the exchange between the two
of them as she gave her thanks to a great man and president. I couldn’t say I
disagreed with her, but I was still so confused. Why did she feel the need to
take the stage in the first place? And how did she know John on a level
personal enough for her feel so brazen?
I
chalked my worry up to the alcohol and pushed my questions away. I didn’t have
time to feel the jealousy she brought out within me and I didn’t want to ruin
my plans for later. The evening came to an end without any more odd occurrences
and I was excited to share my surprise—a little “Happy Birthday” song to my
president in the privacy of my apartment.
June 1962
The
tabloids were running amok with false accusations and I couldn’t fathom how my
private session with John could have been found out, let alone made into such a
mockery of a fundraising event that went off without a hitch. The constant
headlines of John having an affair with Ms. Monroe was absurd, on top of
claiming she sang the exact rendition of “Happy Birthday” during the event I
had shared with my love in the privacy of my home. I was baffled at the audacity,
and so angry. The claims made against him had him backing away from our
relationship and the rejection hurt. I certainly hadn’t sold any information to
the tabloids and the accusations should have been another warning sign, but I
was too upset. Why would I want to ruin what he and I shared? I had no interest
in ruining his reputation, I only wanted him, and our love to stand a chance.
The
nights grew colder with how distant he had become. His visits shallowed to one
weekend a month and his calls were two nights a week. He was running constant
damage control and it seemed all the fingers were pointing toward me. I felt
lonely, and hollow. My emotions were on a whirlwind between hurt, sadness,
confusion, and anger, and I felt myself retreating into a dark corner of my
mind. It felt like we were ending, like everything special about our love was
being paraded around to the public with a different name attached the
headlines, but I was lost as to how.
Unfortunately, I was also stuck. I
couldn’t necessarily come out to the public about the relationship I had with John—he
was fielding enough anger and hate-fueled responses to an affair that never
was—and I didn’t want to. What we had was sacred and I didn’t want to ruin our
strong bond with more lies and ridicule. I wanted to savor every ounce of time
we spend together as he seemed to grow more and more distant to keep his
integrity and reputation intact. He didn’t deserve the gossip. He was a good
man with strong morals and hearing the public speak so tersely of him made my
heart ache and only added to the canyon seemingly separating us.
December 1962
Life
went on as days turned into weeks turned into months. John and I got better. We
found a sturdier ground and the misfortunes brought upon us seemed to wade into
the distance. We were better. Our relationship became more normal and we, as a
couple, began to flourish, but by this time, president or not, I was still
carrying a heavy weight on my shoulders. He had an image to upkeep, and he was
married. It was becoming harder and harder to reconcile to that fact, and that
it wouldn’t change. In the end, I would never be his and that’s what started
weighing the heaviest. We had been “together” for over a year, yet we were
going nowhere. It felt like everything we had, every emotion we felt, meant
nothing, and the burden of our secret was starting to become unbearable, but I
forged on. I couldn’t not. He meant the world to me and imagining a life
without him became difficult. I was his—plain and simple. And he was mine, no
matter the circumstance.
June 1963
The
tabloids were relentless and so many women started speaking out. I had no idea
whether I should have believed them, but something was starting to smell fishy
where John was concerned. One, he had started becoming so back and forth with
things he said and did. He was once so reliable and always there. He made me
feel cared for in a way I had never imagined, but then all that stopped and I
just started feeling like a resting place for the night. We still shared
weekends together when he could get away, but between his job and interference,
I felt seventh rate, and I hated the feeling.
In
February, I had pretty much declared us over. I couldn’t handle any of it
anymore and felt like I had lost a piece of myself in the process, which
welcomed my second point. As soon as I backed away, he became more persistent
and interested. Our one weekend every couple months became two a month and all
the phone calls he said he would make, he did. Unfortunately, I was relying on
him too much and realized the fault in my ways. I could enjoy him in many
physical manners, but he had become unreliable and me wanting distance hadn’t
changed what I already knew. He started calling at minimum four times a week
and I found myself laughing at how much his ways had changed when I backed
away. This only cemented my endeavor to get away. It was a sign I should have
already picked up on.
I had
become cold to him, but not relationships as a whole. I had just found myself
and my worth, and honestly, he wasn’t worthy, but I still loved him. One can
change everything but the heart, and at the end of the day, my heart was taken
by all the attention he decided to give after I made the move. It made me feel
even more empowered. I didn’t let the tabloids get to me and took back myself.
Though, I was still curious. And all his answers proved innocent. Of course. I
had started rolling my eyes at his act of innocence. I was over being that girl
who only saw through rose-colored glassed. He could tell me what he would, he
could tell me he loved me a thousand times over, but where was the change? It
didn’t exist, and I thrived on change. I thrived on growing, and from what I
could tell, he was only growing desperate. So why couldn’t I hate him?
I didn’t think I ever would hate
him really, but I knew it was my time to say goodbye to him and his life. I was
better than him, better than everything we had become. It was good while it
lasted, though. I will always have love for him, and I can’t say we didn’t have
a great run. Only, just a few short weeks later, we found ourselves together
again, in my bed, enjoying what we shared best. And this time, the tabloids
found us. My name wasn’t the one spread far and wide, though. It was Marilyn
again. Perhaps I looked like her, I’m not sure, but I found myself laughing at
the mess he had to clean up at someone else’s expense. It’s a shame now, with
what happened to her, and I feel bad about never coming forward with any of it.
In fact, it’s a shame that that was the last I time I saw John before he passed
away in a horrible accident.
The worst part was that I felt
dignified in this media outrage. It felt like the final closure I needed to
move on from John. There were many things that happened after that moment, but
that’s a story for another time. In many ways, I still feel justified in my
actions, but in many others, I feel terrible seeing as I’m still here, still
conquering everything this world has to offer, while their lives had ended so
soon—too soon. Regardless, I can’t take back my decisions. We all make choices,
and I don’t regret mine.
Until next time…
XOXO, Jean Louis
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