"BLACK PRESIDENT-The Story of JFK's Secret Sons," The Trilogy, " BOOK#1. (You'll remember the 60s, even if you weren't there!). https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08NWCN6XG

<https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08NWCN6XG>. As anyone now knows, JFK was promiscuous to say the least. It's not too farfetched to think that some unknown 'secret sons' of his were born. Thus, my premise!

Looks like Thursdays are a good day to get a nice dose of “conspiracy theory” from my KENNEDY’S TWINS TRILOGY. First, here’s some description right off of amazon. Then you’ll find Chapter 1.

"BLACK PRESIDENT––The Story of JFK's Secret Sons" begins with President Kennedy's seduction of Sarah Little, a devout, married, African-American woman. Two-and-a-half years later he is dead. Against all conceivable adversity, their son rises from poverty to attain America’s highest office. Victory in the White House has its roots in the lost innocence of the past… Weaving together important US events and personalities, this is a breathtaking journey through fifty years of subterfuge, civil rights scandals, assassinations and conspiracies, from the Bay of Pigs to the Twin Towers and beyond; a journey via Marilyn Monroe’s bedroom, J. Edgar Hoover’s wardrobe, JFK’s cabinet meetings and the quagmire of Vietnam. Filmmaker/Author Rick Schmidt serves up a stirring, topical must-read for those who love––or hate––America.”

“I couldnʼt put it down. Schmidtʼs novel (Black President) tells a fascinating story that mixes history with conspiracy theory and sheer fantasy to deliver a jaw-dropping and extremely entertaining read.” —Judith Ehrlich, co-director, co-writer, THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN AMERICA, DANIEL ELLSBERG AND THE PENTAGON PAPERS (Nominated for an Academy™ Award).

Imagine a faction novel that includes the childhood-to-adult story of twin Black American boys sired at one of the thousands of trysts conducted by President John F. Kennedy, and you have Rick Schmidt’s first novel (originally released as “BLACK PRESIDENT” in 2008 by Picnic Publishing, UK). And because of the timeframe––it begins in the early 1960s––the “N-word” is used in appropriate fictional cases, to illustrate the oppressive racist language used freely in those times. It’s definitely not a book for the faint of heart. And YES, it IS disturbing to read it in print, to imagine the pain it caused all those to whom it was directed back then, not to mention the present-day racism that still prevails in America.

Are things getting worse regarding race relations? Just how sick are some of the inhabitants of this country (other places where enlightenment is not forthcoming)? In any case, this novel actively discusses reparations for past (and present) crimes/slavery of African Americans, as well as for indigenous peoples, the many Native American tribes who suffered greatly at the hands of corrupt policies and individuals, over a span of five+ centuries.

“BLACK PRESIDENT” asks how we can tolerate any government still involved in nefarious activities, as historically represented within these pages, still putting economics before the basic human rights of its citizens. Will there be another unjust war, with another call for a military draft (young sons AND daughters!)? When can there be an intelligent co-habitation of this planet, where science serves the general good? We need to halt the pernicious alteration of our food supply with unchecked GMOs, cease the creation of new weapon systems of mass destruction, and protect our planet's oxygen supply from rampant destruction of the rainforests in South America (this is an OLD story! Has anything changed to stop this!). We need to wake up before the fact of a complete meltdown of the Polar icecaps signals our total lack of common sense.

“This novel [Black President] took several years to come to fruition. The author says he wrote the first draft pre-9/11 and he has now published it at a significantly opportune moment in the history of the US Presidency. Schmidtʼs novel is in the finest tradition of faction, blending historical figures and events with those of his imagination. He uses as his vehicle for the plot JFKʼs well-known promiscuity, and the novel opens with the Presidentʼs seduction of a devout, married, African-American woman. Within two and a half years of the couple's only tryst, JFK is assassinated. The son born of their union rises from poverty to attain Americaʼs highest political office. The novel is quite cleverly written and Schmidt skillfully blends fact and fiction with guest appearances from Marilyn Monroe, J. Edgar Hoover and Martin Luther King.” 

—Keith Simpson, MP 

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So HELLO CONSPIRACY-Thursdays! Below you’ll find the first installment of BLACK PRESIDENT. If U find U can’t wait for the next posting )(remember, one per week on this day) you can always duck into KindleUnlimited and read up ahead: <https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08NWCN6XG>. This is the best page-turner I can supply, so please ENJOY!

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PART ONE 1961-1963

CHAPTER ONE

After completing twenty laps, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy scissor-kicked his way to the shallow end and grabbed hold of the edge. He felt his feet slowly track down to a standing position under him and savored that momentary sense of weightlessness. Dave Powers, his daily ‘prisoner of the pool’, swam up next to him in a rush of foam and bubbles. Most others in the White House balked when invited to the nude swimming sessions, but Powers secretly enjoyed skinny-dipping at midday – forgoing the early afternoon martinis – and it gave him access to his old friend Jack in a manner somewhat less formal than the suited-up affairs conducted upstairs. It was with relish that at least twice a week the two men threw off the constrictions of tight collars and ties to splash about like children.

Powers had caught a glimpse of the young woman darting away from the Oval Office just before their departure for the pool, had seen her patting and smoothing out her coat, adjusting her hair, checking her pockets. He’d observed many of Jack’s one-night stands taking flight, scurrying away in this fashion, and believed that he could grade them on their routine. This girl was no pro. Pros walked slower, glanced at the walls more, soaked in the atmosphere as if they were reluctantly leaving the old family homestead for the last time. This girl was disheveled, disoriented, a tad upset as she raced to catch her cab, or whatever vehicle had deposited her into the lap of JFK. Powers gave her the rating Patriot Housewife, and figured he could quickly verify his assessment by bringing her up in conversation.

‘Hey Jack, I can’t compete against someone who’s had his inspira- tion pill,’ Powers jested, gargling the last of his words. Kennedy glanced quickly at his wet friend, then looked away, raking one hand through his dripping hair. Having failed to get a response, Powers moved it up a notch. ‘She looked mighty succulent, old chap.’

Suddenly Kennedy was all over him, splashing water in his face, grip- ping him in a headlock, kicking his own legs out so that they both submerged. Powers was glad he’d had some air in his lungs to begin with, because his old swimming buddy looked a bit overwrought as he faced him underwater. He was to remember the incident years later, simply for the way Kennedy looked when submerged, not unlike the photos that appeared after the assassination. With his hair flowing out from his head and eyes closed against the chlorine, a nude Kennedy was not very imposing. Powers fought back, lifting them both above the water, grab- bing a new breath, and shaking himself off before focusing on his boss. Kennedy had a wide grin, but his voice was no-nonsense.

‘Forget her, Dave,’ he said, speaking low, his lips almost touching Powers’ right ear. There was no need to test the distance sound travels over water. Inside that boomy box of a room there were no secrets from the Secret Service lurking about, unless a real effort was made to be discreet. Powers knew the game, and knew what to say next.

‘Back must feel a whole lot better,’ he uttered softly, still panting for breath. The gleam was suddenly back in Kennedy’s eyes, and now his voice lightened up.

‘Dave, you’re one hell of a swimmer. Thanks.”

In an instant, Kennedy was up and out of the pool, wrapped himself in his white terry-cloth robe, and exited through the back door next to the White House flower shop. Powers ducked under the water again, cupped his right hand over his forehead, and slid it back to hold his hair in place before re-emerging. He imagined that the dripping President was stepping off the second-floor elevator by now. Powers knew his swimming buddy’s schedule well. Jack would first check on Caroline and John Jr, who were conked out on their beds for an afternoon nap. Then he would dry off, dress, and join Jackie for lunch behind closed doors. During their midday meal, approximately two hours each day, no one was admitted into their second-floor quarters. Everyone Powers knew on the White House staff had at one time or another speculated on exactly what went on up there during those 120 minutes.

Back in the shower, as Powers rotated his muscular frame to let the hot pellets of water strike on all sides, it all seemed so obvious. If Jack couldn’t score an outside lay every few days to satisfy his enormous sex drive, he always had Jackie to fall back on. ‘Jack takes women like others take heroin,’ Powers had remarked to a very few select insiders. ‘The sex numbs his body, so his mind can do the work of state.’

‘Did yuh at least git his aut’graph?’ exclaimed Bela, exasperated that her granddaughter, Sarah, was downplaying the details of meeting the President of the United States. Bela wanted to hear everything. How did the Oval Office look, what was the furniture like, the carpets, what paintings decorated the walls, how did the Rose Garden appear through those bullet-proof windows she had read about? What was the president wearing, what did he say, how did his voice sound, like TV or what? Bela needed those details so she could experience the trip herself. It just wasn’t fair that Sarah was keeping it all clammed up. Girl’s got to learn to do the sharing, thought Granny Bela to herself. How else could she make conversation with her friends about the momentous occasion?

‘It was different,’ said Sarah, finally able to speak while, at the same time, keeping her emotions carefully in check. She was still half-stuck in a nightmare, one that scared and confused her. She had been stand- ing with the President of the United States one moment as part of her tour, and the next she’d been isolated with him by his assistants, soon after that touched and undressed by the famous man. The experience had shattered a part of her psyche. How could she, a religious person, a married woman, have allowed it to happen? It was as if there were two of her. She was trying to act normal while, just under the skin, her clone suffered from shock.

‘You know . . . a strange feeling to be in there . . . the White House. I can’t recall much about the President’s room . . . it sort of all swirled around me, but I remember a thick blue carpet, pretty blue, long, heavy drapes, and a big desk.’ Speaking took an effort, and Sarah felt drained.

‘What about the Black men, honey?’ Bela pressed on, cradling her cup of hot tea between her wide fingers.‘Was our Methodists the only Negroes there, or was some of the Secret Service men . . . Black like us?’

Hoping her grandmother’s questions would end soon, Sarah tried to satisfy her. ‘Saw one man that might have been Black . . . that is, he was dark-faced . . . ushering people through the Cabinet rooms. Lots of Blacks were in the kitchen and . . .’ A sudden knock on the door brought Sarah quickly to her feet. She walked the few paces from the sofa and opened the door. Her husband, Leon, stepped forward, encircled her waist with one strong arm, and lifted her off her feet before planting a kiss. She could feel his desire for her right through her clothes, but hissed for him to cool down. His sexual aggressiveness reminded her too much of what had happened in Washington.

‘You young folks go ahead an’ be together,’ laughed Bela, gripping the wooden armrests to rise, finally extracting herself from the deep, paisley-patterned chair. ‘I’m tired and gots t’ take ma nap. But I expects yuh to ’member some more ’bout Kennedy befo’ dinner, girl!’

It was a month and a half after the passionate pre-dinner interlude that followed before Sarah Little realized she was pregnant.