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Mimi Alford's Hymen Sacrificed on the Altar of History

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This week all over the media yet another presidential vestal intern revealed the details of her sad 50-year-old saga of 18 months worth of sort-of-secret liaisons with JFK of Blessed Memory. In 1961, Mimi Alford, the latest crotch level inductee into the History Hall of Fame, was a "slender, golden-haired 19-year-old debutante whose finishing school polish and blueblood connections" landed her a summer job in the White House Press Office. Did you ever notice that those who catch the eyes of heads of state often have first names that begin with the letter M, like Madame DuBarry, Marilyn Monroe, Mary Meyer, Monica Lewinsky and now Mimi Alford, so why not me, Myra ne Daskill? I guess short, fat, funny, frank, big-mouthed, occasionally brilliant and always bossy broads gave off the wrong vibes. Mimi had originally visited the White House to write a profile of the first lady, who was too busy to meet with her. Mr. President had more free time than Mrs. K. fille. Protecting the future of the free world was less time consuming than schlepping around Bergdorf's in search of a perfect outfit.

Mimi was hired as a Press Office intern on the president's instructions, despite her "evident lack of qualifications" i.e., "couldn't type, could take phone messages and she could swim." On the fourth afternoon of her employment, Mimi was invited to take a midday swim in the White House pool, where the Prez floated up to her and confirmed that her name was Mimi and she worked in the Press Office. Later that day Dave Powers, the Presidential pimp, invited Mimi to a small after work party where Powers plied her and the other guests -- two other young female staffers/victims -- with daiquiris until You-Know-Who arrived. You-Know-Who gave Mimi a private tour of would-you-believe Jackie O's bedroom, where Mimi's virginity vanished with nary a word of protest from her. Mimi, like Y-K-W's missus, was an alumnus of Miss Porter's School, where neither learned to ask the following question, "What the !@#$ do you think you're doing?" which I learned to utter in four languages during a self-defense class at the Downtown Talmud Torah. Afterwards, Y-K-W hitched up his trousers, pointed her towards the bathroom, asked if she wanted anything to eat, and thoughtfully sent her home in a car. There is no mention about the further whereabouts of the stained sheet, proof of his exercised droit du seigneur. It must have gone off to the White House laundry to be washed and starched by tax dollars. A week later Mimi joined the president in the pool again, followed by a private tour of a different bedroom, etc., etc. The pattern of S&S -- swimming and screwing -- continued whenever Mama Bear was out of town. At the end of the summer, Mimi returned to Wheaton College, an all-girl school in Massachusetts, but her assignations with the President went on. The last time she saw him was at the Carlyle Hotel in Manhattan seven days before his assassination in Dallas. She married her childhood sweetheart shortly afterwards.

Why didn't she resist? "Resistance was out of the question." He was handsome, rich and powerful especially if their encounters occurred after JFK's personal physician, Dr. Feelgood, administered one of his notorious pep shots. Other interesting Factoids: JFK never kissed her on the lips, but he did spend many hours taking baths with her and a slew of rubber duckies, named after family members. Oy Vey! He was more into water sports than FDR.

Why is Mimi revealing her story now? Author Robert Dallak blew her cover and let the pussy out of the bag in his 2003 book, The Road to Dallas, so she decided "to take control of her own story," and show how keeping this secret affected the rest of her life, which seems rather ordinary. Two marriages. One divorce. A career as a Church Administrator at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church. She might have been more appreciated by the Catholic Church where loose lips have sunk vocations. Still, inquiring minds want to know how Mimi stacked up against Marilyn Monroe? To hear the answer to that question, I'd be willing to go on the John Edward show and wait for a Kennedy poltergeist to show up and tell all.