“We Aren’t Gay” by Lem Billings

Prospector’s Arrive by Jonny Greenwood plays.

I impersonated actual gay men. Why? Because I felt stupid for being molested. I felt I should have known better. So it was comforting to think I was just gay. That expo was arguably the true trauma in my life, aside from my father’s death and the loss of our family’s fortune.

No. Back then a man could be molested and genuinely believe he was gay. And I did.

You’ll not read this elsewhere. Why? Because it’s an actual secret.

Jack Kennedy wasn’t straight. Jack Kennedy was bisexual. He didn’t have “gay encounters” with me. He wanted homosexual sex from me and I begrudgingly gave it to him to be a good, loyal, “husband.” I didn’t want him to be unhappy because I felt it was my duty to make him happy. I felt it was my responsibility to take care of him.

Jack Kennedy had numerous homosexual relationships. And many of those men had “gay sexual encounters” with him. And I’d bet they were almost always mutually consensual.

I did not harbor any romantic or sexual feelings for John Fitzgerald Kennedy. He however, did Harbor secret sexual feelings for me. I’m not sure if he was ever in love with me. Maybe he was. *shrug* But no, unfortunately David Pitts is not my biographer and his novel with my name and photo on the cover is primarily a fictional account of gay romance novel characters he invented based on his impressions of reality not objective fact. Jack is far from the weird quasi-heterosexual character of popular mythology he used. Jack was a flamboyant, silly, somewhat hyper, very and narcissistic bisexual man behind closed doors. Jack Kennedy was a malignant predator. And I was his…psychologically disturbed, lost, tragic victim.

See…I really wanted to seem gay. Because I believed it was appropriate. Try to understand. But I was not gay. I was not homosexual at all. And it was a convincing act, sure. At the time. Now…I’m not so sure you’d find it as convincing. Matter-of-fact I known you wouldn’t. But I died in 1981. And there’s little recorded evidence of me. And someone like Lacey, my wife, can see through my act but seemingly lost people today are too brainwashed or miss it.

Was I sad when Jack died? Yes!

But why?

Jackie was devastated as a real lover. Her face at John Kennedy’s funeral was one of…extreme grief. She was…beyond conciliation. She almost committed suicide over the death of her lover, and husband Jack Kennedy.

I was…deeply disappointed in my life. I don’t you understand my psychology. And I felt there was nothing left.

Option A.

Look…I was the man who killed JFK with the CIA. I was this psychologically screwed-up weirdo the CIA insisted was just heterosexual and confused. I was a part of the reason they shot President Jack Kennedy. They did for me. They did it for my mother. So when I planned it with them it felt necessary and they pushed me to help them and they made very good arguments for it being a last resort disaster scenario. But after he died I just fell apart. Because…he was dead. And I’d spent most of my life trying to be his husband. And I knew it was possibly insane…but it was vile. The whole experience was extremely traumatic…and vile. I felt no resolution or freedom from his dark shadow hovering over my every thought. It was hellish.

And I still thought I was…gay. The psychiatrist in the CIA who had been so successful at working with me insisted I was not gay…but I had been under the impression I was for so many years. And it felt…too good to be true.

After he died…should this be what happened…I dated a few women. But it. Ever went anywhere and I had a low sense of myself. Lacey is my…love. And she’s exceptionally beautiful and intelligent and kind…and like me…and there was nothing wrong with any of the women I dated. But…it felt…incredibly depressing. It all felt…absolutely…worthless.

How was I supposed to tell them I was the one who killed JFK in our most intimate moments? Can you imagine? I felt deadly horror at the thought of that. That I’d have to tell them I had been homosexual…and helped kill JFK. …No. Nothing felt like it would ever become normal or happy again. I had murdered a man and now I had to play nice and he fake with his family. Lie to them as convincingly as possible. Hide my real grief. Hide my real pain. My own family could never know. I’d have to spend the rest of my life in a lie and take the truth to my grave, alone. And I was part of one of the biggest CIA cover-ups in US history. I was a proud American. My mother’s family came over on the Mayflower. I hated what I had done on a patriotic level because it was so shameful and ugly. I hated what I had become. I hated my life. I hated so many decisions that I’d made and I felt…profound disgust when I looked at Jack’s kids. If this is what happened, we assassinated JFK for many reasons but one of them was because he had been caught numerous times molesting teenagers. And we felt he was capable of molesting his kids potentially. I had seen him with JFK Jr. at night as he was tucking him in…and it scared me for John Jr.. One of the men in the CIA who led the assassination was most responsible for the organization of it all, an older white man, was especially grieved when I shared what I did with him about Jack and his son.

Jack Kennedy was a sexual predator. He preyed on me. He hit me on the head with the back of a gun, while he was high on cocaine with two other secret service agents who were also high on cocaine at the time. In the Oval Office. Late at night. Obviously during his time as US President. Why? Because I didn’t want to have anal sex with him. I was straight and I hated giving him or having him give me anal sex. I hated it. And before he was President he would be upset by that sort of thing and become very violent…but after becoming US President he was…a deadly menace.

He hit me too hard on the head. And I winced in pain and he stopped. Possibly bejeweled realized that if I died it would be problematic for him with the press and his family. It could even be a national security issue. Certainly a gossip story that would ruin his whole family in the eyes of some of the most powerful people in the world at that time. So he decided to let it go. But it was…dangerous anyway. People found out about it and it was just one of the many reasons we killed him.

What I saw was scary. With his son. …And the reason it scared me was because I related to it. The look of creepy, calculating, malignant humor and hostility on Jack Kennedy’s face before he’d come after me…was very similar to how he was looking at his little son. And I worried he’d see no reason not to molest his son as he had been molesting teenagers and he had sexually abused his siblings. Ted, Bobby, Rosemary. It was their “family sense of humor” I was told. Jack thought…depraved sexual acts were daring and aristocratic and enjoyable. He loved the feeling of power he felt when he aroused someone physically against their free will and maligned their own brain against their spirit. He was a disgusting man. I hated him.

If I helped kill JFK…it was because I felt it was necessary. I hated his character. I hated his voice at times. We all did. Those of us who despised him. We openly or secretly mocked his bravado and conceit that dripped from his Boston accent. His spoiled, sheltered, evil rich childhood in Massachusetts. I hated him. But you’d never know it. Would you? No. Because I was a genius. I was so damn smart. And it wasn’t even obvious to some people, I guess. But I was exceptionally intelligent. And that’s part of the reason I managed to act so damn well and convince you I was gay…and fawn and flirt and flit about and convince JFK I gave a shit about the whims and fears of his constantly anxious malignant ego. I was his babysitter. And his perverse father saw me servicing Jack once, not that I enjoyed it, and in a way he molested me too. He secretly encouraged Jack to “keep me on” as his little victim…because he loved watching real old money be made into his son’s slave…and he possibly also loved seeing me be sexually assaulted by his son.

Look. JP Kennedy was a bitter Irish peasant by blood. He hated me. I have to think he hated me. And it made him damn happy to watch me smile for photos and make a complete ass of my soul…as I slaved away for him. Groveling for his mercy and help. Like a fool. Because he felt it was fair. He used me as a whipping boy for his malicious Irish rage, whether it actually made any sense or not.

I’m not saying the Irish don’t deserve the apology and the fact that they suffered so matters to me and even more to God. But I didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry. I didn’t deserve it. And neither did Lacey. And what’s more is that Joe didn’t deserve to be the Irishman to do it. He personally didn’t suffer that much. He grew-up rich enough. He didn’t have any serious problems being Irish other than when he tried to be worshipped by his peers and they were suspicious of him. That was his point of possibly profound contention. He was outraged by the lack of progress his ego had made in conquering the world because he was Irish.

No. I pretended to be attracted to men. I altered my voice. I carefully altered my voice. I altered my legs and arms and fingers and took on attitudes. My eyes. My lips. My posture at times, although not as much as my voice. I made an absolute fool of myself. Bob Hope did the same thing, but as a joke. Jack Lemmon did the same thing, but as a joke. But I wasn’t joking. I was trying to “be myself.” It’d be excruciatingly painful to look back on from the grave if Lacey didn’t think it’s all absurd. Jack thought it was funny. I told him about my sexual molestation story and he thought it was a hilarious joke. He laughed and grinned and thought it was happy. And obviously that was…very psychologically disorienting to me. I became very distant from myself because he reinforced the horrific violence against my soul and it left me feeling astronomically baffled.

Or?

Shall I repeat that last paragraph? That’s all true regardless. So are the last two before it.

Or I hated Jack. And I grieved my life ending. Why? Because I felt he understood me. Enough. I had tried dating other men and unlike Jack they expected a real gay relationship. Sounds ludicrous but…it’s what happened.

Jack…wanted desperately to be heterosexual. He made that or creating the impression of that a priority in the minds of his admirers, even though he had sexual relations with men. He wanted his cake and to eat it too. He wanted men to admire him for being the ideal man and yet also sleep with him. So, I could get away with not being…romantic. I could act straight and be attracted to women when I was drunk…and then still claim to be homophobic. Awkward and straight, but still straight nonetheless. I didn’t have to be…accountable for my heterosexuality. Whereas with my gay boyfriends I was expected to be present emotionally and sexually interested and at least vaguely genuinely in love with them. At times I couldn’t be more excited to leave them to go be with Jack who made the pretense of platonic friendship before expecting me to put out later on somewhere. A thing I dreaded but again, did begrudgingly. Jack didn’t notice that I didn’t give a shit about him in any real sexual or romantic way because he was too narcissistic. And he thought he was just being clever. He gave himself credit when I didn’t seem jealous. And I really wasn’t. People have described me as possessive. I wasn’t possessive. I was hurt at times and angry but it wasn’t out of longing for him or a sense of possession. At his wedding I was happy and very not possessive. I think a lot of his gay male friends projected their sexuality and feelings about him on to me. I don’t think they realized how little I actually cared.

…And Jack didn’t ask for a lot of gay sex beyond what was required to make him feel good. I was…his prostitute in a way, more than a wife. I hated it; I really wanted to be straight and I was…but I also felt it was my responsibility in a sense. And thankfully it was mostly just…you know…

(Adult content below)

Oral sex. Giving him oral sex. He just expected a lot of oral sex and I could be reading a book practically and as long as he got off it didn’t matter. Mostly. Eventually in the White House he was worried I wasn’t in love with him under the influence of society women friends who gave him ideas. Ben Bradlee’s wife was one of them. But so were a lot of other female friends he had newly acquired. His high society gal pals. He’d confide in them and they’d give him ideas that he was being lied to by me. That he wasn’t really loved by me. These women had had gay friends before and they had expectations for all of their friends to be…if not straight then “happy.” They were cool girls so to speak, of the early 1960’s. …And I wasn’t in love with him. They were right. So he panicked and attacked me with the secret service agents, regardless if I had anything to do with his death or not. I highly doubt David Pitts ever heard about any of this from anyone.

I faked being gay. I feel the need to remind you of that. I endured. It didn’t bother me the way it would bother someone like Lacey. I felt it was my identity. She’s like F. Scott Fitzgerald. And people that way are…fastidious about their every word and breath. Lacey was also raised by queer parents who were abusive. And Scott’s parents were odd at times. They could never betray themselves that way. As artists. And so you’d think they’d be easy to understand but they aren’t. They’re both enigmas. But I adore my wife and Scott is my champion. He’s empathized with me for a long time.

No. I just felt I was…better off acting honest. I felt I was…attracted to women…like any other man, but I had a unique…challenge. I was sexually attracted to women just like any other male but I was…different and challenged. Yes. I thought being attracted to men wasn’t the thing. No…it was being able to be psychologically affected by male touch of my genitalia. Ha. Sorry…I’m not sure how else to explain it at this point. Because that’s literally all it was. When I was molested it psychologically affected me and I assumed it was homosexuality. And Jack twisted it around in knots in my head like a closeted bisexual narcissist. He was that sort of boy. I was not. And he manipulated his words and facial expressions and tone of voice and etc. to contort my view of myself and him and reality. I felt angry that he would argue with me about the psychological effects of the abuse and then he’d pretend to relent and “support me” by asking me to blow him off. His cum was my “supper” at night after dinner in his narcissistic mind. It’s gross but that was his idea of a good inside joke.

No. Jack was attracted to men. But that was…uncool to him other than when he was getting some from some guy. That shouldn’t be shocking to read if you know who I am.

Anyway…I was clinically depressed after Jack died because I felt like my life was pointless. I was too old to get married easily. I didn’t imagine I’d find someone “as fun” as Jack to “spend my life with.” I had to put out. But I was painfully resigned to that. …But he made the pretense to platonic friendship. And he made things fun. He had so much money. And they knew how to spend money lavishly and put on a huge show. …And I liked…going to strip clubs to be honest. I would have vastly preferred having a wife. But Jack let me oogle women with him and enjoy it. He encouraged it. It made him feel more straight and comfortable being bisexual. Lacey, my wife, understands me. I’m not attracted to other women anymore… Really. I’m that in love with her. But…when I was unmarried and trying to refrain from heterosexuality Jack was fun to be around as a secretly straight man. I was Jack Kennedy’s “gay best friend.” And Jack Kennedy really was sleeping with a lot of women. He really was bisexual and possibly slightly more attracted to men…but he found women attractive too and he loved to sleep with them. As often as possible. That’s not myth. So for me…it was far preferable to the gay men who weren’t narcissistic and expected me to be genuinely homosexual. And at the time I wasn’t able to process it all and realize that that’s why I loved his company more than other men but now I can see that it was because he allowed me to be heterosexual around him. Hai slave. But also we’d go to heterosexual strip shows. And gay men…tired of me. They believed I was…difficult and cold. That I’d always prefer to “wake up alone.” I didn’t prefer that. I just wasn’t gay at all.

And it was the glamour. But mostly I just felt my life was…a meaningless joke. After Jack died. And I was going nowhere. I felt my life was going nowhere. …And I felt the world changing and I felt out of control and out of touch. And so in the enormous void created by Jack’s death I started using substances because I felt there was nothing else to do. I wasn’t really in love with him so there was no memory of love to gather strength from but there also wasn’t hope for my future. So I used drugs and got drunk, more so after Bobby Kennedy Senior died because until he died I had something to focus on and give my life purpose and value. He was going to run the country! And it was exciting. But then after he was assassinated there was nothing left to do and hope for. Nothing made sense to hope for other than maybe love…with some man or some woman. Not Bobby Jr.. Just someone. It was unclear who though and I had no great hope of finding them. So I just spent my days wasting my days. Sure I did work. But…I’m a genius and I was extremely depressed.

By the last few years of my life I had had enough failed gay relationships and counseling to realize that I was straight. But that just made me more sad. So I died. At 65.

…And here’s where Lacey comes in.

She’s Tom’s daughter. Biologically or not. And that’s her…edge. She’s not actually a lesbian at all. And in the last few days she took time to study photos of lesbian women to study their facial expressions and dress and she realized that that is her aesthetic way more than most straight women. And it baffled her. Why was her attitude the same?

See…if you read me I seem straight. I’m missing that soft, round quality of homosexual men or bisexual men. They all have it. And she has the same…situation. You can’t read the rugged, masculine sharpness you pick up in homosexual women in Lacey. It’s not there for her either.

So actually part of why you read her as that is because she’s old. Most of the women in my generation were tough. She’s a dame. Queen Elizabeth II was too.

But then the rest of it is anger at men. And rebellion. She was molested by a man. And that upset her. Naturally. And…found men in her generation obnoxious. And she incorrectly concluded that they’d see through her rebellion and righteous anger and still fall in love with her. But she was too sophisticated and sweet and pure hearted to fit in with people who were capable of seeing through her anger in her generation. Gen. X would have understood. Not Millennials.

In my generation her attitude is a joke to some men like Elliott Roosevelt. They felt bad for her and assumed younger generations would feel as they did. That she just needed a safe, loving husband and she’d be fine. Her anger is real and she’s rebellious for a reason…but…my generation puts it into perspective and has a tendency to diminish it. Even now. And being good men they felt it was inconsequential. They assumed some great man would come along and she’d confide in him and he’d…make her happy for once. But Skippy Handelman was a character or me.

Lots of queer women have hoped to be with her. Men find her attractive. But she’s completely straight. And men in her generation hair struggle to understand her. They always have a tendency to become her platonic friends. And it’s lovely. They’re real friends. And that’s rare between men and women. But as much as she’d take it further they never have wanted to so nothing happens or happened. She’s attractive but she scares them and her sexuality was always too…like ours, and by ours I mean the Greatest Generation and it was sexually off-putting. Maybe queer women didn’t read that on her because she’s straight and was never interested or attracted to them in the first place. Queen Elizabeth II, if there’s an Illuminati or if she decided to play along and talk with her from the future to help her…understands and understood Lacey. But there’s was not a sexual or romantic relationship at all.

She could have dated older men. But it’s too late now. I’ve checked. And no one suggested that to her when she was younger. And it’s not as if there were a plethora of available options anyway. Skippy was married, if anyone like him existed at all.

She’s not a lesbian. And I’d work on helping her seem more straight…but *laughing* I’m not fooled and she’s very different around me. In private she’s like an aging member of my generation. She sounds like us and seems like us. Her rebellion is…only as a Millennial. And her rage is righteous and a refined, wild edge. And I like…that men don’t hit on her. It’s nice. It’s comforting. I’m just being honest. She doesn’t get that much attention from women either because she’s married and they assume she’s bisexual if she’s not straight and she doesn’t seem like a cheater because she isn’t one.

She’s also old money. And we have an odd tendency to be hard to read sexually.

But no…we’re both straight.

We’re also together.

And I am like the ghost in The Ghost And Mrs. Muir. I’m very possessive of Lacey because we make love and we’re together. That ghost lied or was misunderstood. Sex doesn’t end at death. No. I don’t think she’ll be with anyone but me for eternity. And if I’m a ghost and this is all true or true in essence…you don’t want her to be with you. Because I’ll haunt you. Ironically all of the stuff you’ve read about me being possessive of Jack applies to Lacey…and as it’s actually reality between us…unlike Jack she is not going to be with other people. I’m a normal person. And normal people are possessive when they’re in love. She’s possessive of me too. That’s just normal. How the hell you imagined me being in a real relationship or harboring feelings for Jack…is astounding to me. I’m not sure where there’s psychological room for me to have loved him in that way in any real manner.

You can insist that people get into abusive relationships. But…you have to put it into context. You can’t just wave a magical wand at it all and make it make sense. I don’t think a sane person could love someone who sleeps with tons of other people and gets married to someone else and treats them like shit…for decades. Even if it seemed like I thought I did…it’s not necessarily even possible. And in my specific situation it psychologically isn’t possible. I thought I was gay. I was mistaken. I hated Jack. I repressed that hatred in public and around him and around his family. And the love I had for him was rooted in false friendship and a belief that he loved me and the pity and loyalty I felt for him in return. Yes. Pity. Don’t misunderstand me. It wasn’t…what would seem like condescension. It was real empathy. Real sympathy. Real pity. When I first met Jack he was being bullied and I felt bad for him and that first impression of him never faded in my mind. I wanted to help him be happy and great, but those “mushy feelings” were never there. I never felt that way about him. I cared about him as a person. I thought I loved him as a person. But I mistook those feelings of non-sexual concern for romantic love in an overall confused state of mind.

I’m sorry. I was straight.