The American Dream – Chloe Wheeler

March 25, 2025

I met RFK Jr. post-brain worm/pre-presidential bid, at a gala held in a tent outside a Gatsby-esque mansion on Long Island. I was sipping a champagne spritzer, digging my kitten heels into the yellowed grass. The kids were at home with my husband, probably defacing the walls with crayon or making sauerkraut smoothies, while Husband was immersed in Fallout 4 or tending to his marijuana plants. Pathetic—but most men were these days. Castrated by their domineering mothers, and further emasculated by their dehumanizing corporate jobs. But ultimately, it was no fault but their own: they had capitulated to the modern strain of socially and economically inert beta males, flaccidly puttering through life, cucked by the system.

RFK was just finishing up an impassioned anti-vax diatribe, his voice croaking and quivering as he attempted to proselytize his enraptured audience to his righteous cause. He was clad in a starched white button up, his taut muscles and smokin’ bod rippling just beneath his clothes. He rambled on about covid misinformation, rising autism rates, and the Roundup lawsuit he won against Monsanto.
        God—he was so close. I could stand up at any moment, walk five paces, and run my hands through his hair, or genuflect at his shiny loafers, planting a kiss on the smooth leather. Instead, I sat poised, leaning forward ever so slightly, projecting engrossment to him, the other attendees, and the hosts, who sat on folding chairs a few feet away. My focus ebbed—I wanted to savor each kernel of wisdom he procured, but found myself salivating, titillated by his self-assurance, watching his withered, but still firm lips forming around the words “big ph-pharma,” and “Fauci.” Every so often, I took a gulp of my spritzer, enjoying the dry bubbles tickling my uvula.
        As he wrapped up his dithyramb, caterers had begun to uncover trays of steaming shallot butter smothered salmon, blanched baby broccoli, herbed potatoes, sourdough rolls, bowls of balled melon etc. It all looked fantastic—and soon a line of emaciated Long Island elites formed at the table, filling up their plates. Most of it would go untouched. At the other side of the tent, another cluster was clumping around RFK, more intellectually minded individuals waiting for their turn to introduce themselves to the Kennedy. Suited men with slicked back salt and pepper locks boasted their insignificant social standings, announcing themselves by their titles…Dr. Rhubarb PhD in Whatever; Mrs. Alrighty Then! secretary to the mayor of Huntington; the editor of some local Mommy and Me magazine. RFK looked a little flustered. A few women had joined the group, blushing and giggling. Insipid suburbanites, I thought. Plus, they looked postmenopausal. To think they thought they had a chance.
        I needed to talk to him. To say something, anything. My stomach was gurgling. I hadn’t eaten since that morning, yogurt with paleo granola and berries—but food could wait. Unlike the rest of the crowd, I was not wealthy, or pseudo-important. Husband had grown up rich, then inherited his father’s business, which at the time was worth millions, only to lose his entire fortune when his mother sued him. His mother subsequently died, leaving all her money to his sister. I thought husband would get his shit together and get one of those typical Long Island jobs (he had a degree in philosophy). He could’ve easily become a lawyer, or at least gotten into real estate, but he never did. Instead, he became a librarian. A fucking librarian…there was nothing sexy about a male librarian. I had a master’s degree too, in English, so naturally, I worked in publishing for a few years before getting pregnant. Now, my only assets were the decrepit waterside colonial my husband and I owned, my two children, and perhaps my breasts.
        There was no glorious future to grasp at anymore, not for me, not at 44—all that remained was the present, palpable moment.
        Why was I there, at the Children’s Health Defense (abbr. CHD, RFK’s American 501 nonprofit activist group) annual gala? Simple: I knew somebody who knew somebody who knew the hosts—who were a lovely, filthy rich family. The husband worked in real estate. I had nothing better to do, and I heard tell of an open bar. And of course, I was enamored with Kennedy. His politics were of less interest to me, but I had been keeping a close eye on his social media accounts for the past few months. There was this incredible video of him doing push ups that kept popping up on my Facebook feed. I must’ve watched it dozens of times. He was perfect. 
        I sauntered slowly, feigning disinterest, or a calculated nonchalance, toward Kennedy. Eyeing the makeshift “bar” table, I took a quick detour.
        “Spritzer?” The petite Mexican woman tending the bar smiled at me, remembering my request from earlier.
        “No,” I said politely. “I’d like a scotch…” I noticed the bottle, “Laphroaig…neat.” She raised her thin penciled eyebrows but served me my drink. I took a sip…nice. The smokiness of the peat flooded my olfactory glands.
        I thanked her and continued. I saw a flash of RFK’s husky blue eyes, the crackle of his fucked-up voice. My lace thong was riding up my ass, which was kind of uncomfortable, as it agitated my hemorrhoids. I ignored the soreness and took another sip of scotch. A balmy breeze had just wafted through the tent, giving movement to my not-yet gray auburn hair, which I had blow dried for the occasion. I was wearing a blue sundress with a pineapple print purchased at Marshall’s five years ago on clearance. 
        I felt sexy for the first time in forever. My husband and I fucked once a month. I made do, with a neon pink vibrating dildo, which I’d use just after putting the kids to bed. Admittedly, it was difficult to switch gears from kiddie bedtime stories to an erotic headspace, but since the kids had just turned 7 and 10, I felt it acceptable to introduce them to the Brothers Grimm. Since I had begun reading those stories, the gear switch was much smoother.
        Female sexuality is a complex thing, shrouded in mystery even to us. Male sexuality is much simpler. It’s a basic formula: the Girlfriend is the most desirable, perhaps on par to a one night stand to a man. Girlfriend becoming Wife leads to sharp decline in libido—there is no longer a sense of urgency. Lust is quelled. Love increases, which is cute and wholesome. But Wifedom precludes fucking. Wifedom only leads to motive driven copulation—to scratch the itch occasionally with the most available flesh or to make babies. I thought it was ridiculous that wives are so often depicted in the media as frigid. In this current dystopia, men flapped around their flaccid cocks, displacing their rage at leading unfulfilling lives toward their wives who in turn toiled day in and day out raising their children—getting hard only when provided with fresh meat, i.e. young women in their late teens and early twenties. Sometimes young men if you accidentally married a homosexual. Which does happen. Plenty of closeted queers in khakis puttering around Cold Spring Harbor cheating on their vapid trophy wives with flamboyant tight-assed baristas.
        RFK Jr. was the last of a dying breed—a real man. He was ancestrally blessed with the dignity of a Kennedy; he was the American equivalent of an aristocrat. He was for the people—working to protect the environment, cleaning the Hudson, and championing the millions of autistic children damaged by vaccines. He was of the people—he was a recovered heroin addict, had slept with dozens upon dozens of women, and left a dead baby bear in Central Park. Plus: he was Catholic. And he raised falcons.
        And now I was only a few feet away from him. My heart fluttered in my chest; my cheeks grew warm. I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. I was standing next to a short, stout woman who was next up to talk to Kennedy. Her hair was graying at the roots, and her pants fit her awfully. I felt bad for her husband if she had one.
        The woman approached RFK, opening her arms for an embrace, which he charmingly dodged by extending his arm for a more appropriate, desultory handshake. Unabashedly, the woman followed his lead and pumped his hand, grinning all the while. They exchanged a few trite quips, standard diplomatic decorum, and then it was my turn.
        My heart. Like a bird insane, it clawed and clambered at my chest, fluttering madly. There he stood, right before me—more regal than I ever could’ve imagined.
        “Mr. Kennedy, it is an honor to meet you.” I reached out my hand; my just painted crimson fingernails looked elegant, appropriate for clutching the hand of such an esteemed man.
        He gazed at me with the intense, dissociated look often permanently affixed to the faces of politicians. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, with his throaty, spasmodic dysphonia wreaked vocal folds. He extended his arm out briefly, then shook his head, and chuckled. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ve been out here for hours, and really need to take a leak.” He assumed I understood, and perhaps I did project understanding, as the rest of his admirers laughed at his earnest admission of supposed humanity. He mumbled something to a suited man I hadn’t noticed standing to his left, and the man nodded, pointed at the mansion and whispered something back to him. And that was it. 
        My heart was rendered a discarded, losing lottery card on the street outside 7/11. I could swear, in the moment he brushed past me, my blow out had gone flat, my tits had sagged a centimeter downwards, my stomach soured. Damn it, damn it.
        I would need another scotch. I would need it a triple. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t even get the chance to tell him I was a freelance writer.
        I trudged away from the Kennedy frenzy, forlorn. Maybe RFK didn’t like pineapples or something. It was so dismissive—humiliating, almost. I bet he figured that just the chance to be in his presence was enough to get most women off. This was politics. The perfunctory meet and greet. The selective honesty: “I have to take a leak.” He had to piss? Are you kidding me? I kicked myself for thinking I was somehow different, above the rest of these fucks.
        Beside an infinity pool, the hostess of the gala, Laura, was chatting up someone I vaguely recognized, a doctor, I think. She was sipping champagne and holding a plate of untouched petit fours. Dessert had been served.
        Action plan: get another drink, then binge on desserts by the water. As I approached, the Mexican bartender glanced at me and smiled. I nodded and held up three fingers.
        “Triple?” I nodded again, peering at Laura out of the corner of my eye. She was sucking down the champagne like it was juice. Laura looked almost perfect. Tasteful Botox, Pilates toned body. She ate ancestral grass-fed beef, raw milk, sea moss, seed crackers, and MCT oil smoothies. She meditated daily for almost an hour. She did not have a job.
        Scotch in hand, I walked over to Laura and the doctor. Laura turned to me and smiled, revealing pearly veneers. The doctor pursed his lips, gave me the up-and-down. His eyes lingered for a moment on my breasts, and as if pulled by an invisible string at the top of my head, I stood up straighter.
        “Hi! Enjoying yourself?” Laura asked. She didn’t address me by name, I figured she didn’t know it. The doctor smiled absently.
        “Oh, for sure, what a wonderful event. Also, your home is beyond lovely,” I gesticulated toward the mansion. It really was splendid—Grecian columns, a giant deck, a sloping brick staircase.
        “Thank you doll! We had it built for our family. I could give you the name of the architect we worked with…Keith…his name was Keith something. Oh Larry, do you remember?”
        “Yeah, Keith Something. Real artsy fellow, but with a classical sensibility. First rate architect.” He was joking, the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. Laura fell into a fit of girlish giggles. I feigned a chortle. I was ever so tipsy.
        As we conversed, a young man approached with a confident stride. He was tall and a little skinny but with good muscle tone. He was wearing khakis and a Polo. A mop of tawny hair smothered by a bright red MAGA hat. He was drinking a black cherry White Claw.
        He stopped in front of Laura and cracked a huge grin. “Ma! RFK just said he’d take me upstate to go hunting!! For deer,” he said. His voice was deeper than I’d expected, with a slight rasp. Perhaps he vaped. I glanced at Laura, she was smiling back at him, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
        “That’s great Jimmy. I’m so glad you got a chance to speak with him.” The kid’s name was Jimmy. And he was her son—took me a second. I couldn’t see the resemblance, but I chalked up my confusion to the Botox. As Laura greeted him, the doctor was scrolling through Twitter on his iPhone. He paused to take a selfie in front of the mansion, then immediately resumed scrolling.
        Jimmy turned to me, still beaming from the afterglow of Kennedy exposure. He extended his hand. What a gentleman.
        “Hi there! What’s your name?”
        “Ashley.”
        Laura looked over at me, her eyes widening. “Ashley Meyers?” she asked. I nodded, tapping my fingers against the plastic “glass.”
        “You! I know you. You’re the editor of Village Tattler! I love that publication,” she cooed. Just like that, I became a relevant, networking-worthy conversation partner. 
        “Was…” I said, a touch acerbically but still lighthearted. “Having kids kind of throws a wrench in your career plans.” Laura seemed unfazed. She giggled. Jimmy watched us with interest, sipping his seltzer. He pulled out a bright green plastic apparatus from his pocket and sucked it.
        “Oh, it doesn’t have to! But I totally get it. When I had Jimmy, I had to stop teaching meditation classes for a whole 6 years. We enrolled him in Waldorf school, so the parents were very involved, and Jeremy was always in the city…” She trailed off. She was right. It didn’t have to. I was still a freelance writer. Maybe I should’ve told her.
        “I still,” I started but she cut me off. She grabbed Jimmy’s sleeve and pointed to the house.
        “Jimmy,” she chirped. “Can you show Ashley around inside?” She turned to me. “Since you love it from the outside, you’re gonna die when you see the inside.” Jimmy nodded, hitting his vape. “And Jimmy, can you also bring me my straw hat? The one Lydia brought me from Ecuador.”
        Jimmy nodded, his eyes twinkling. He beckoned for me to follow. A defeat is not always so, I thought. Sure, RFK had brushed me aside like I was nothing, but there I was, being invited inside a beautiful mansion. I had forged a small but tenable thread to an elite social circle— another means of getting closer to Kennedy, or someone or something of meaning. That, and Jimmy was not bad looking. A bit young, but handsome and personable. He carried himself with a confidence I thought was absent in his generation. We reached the staircase. My inebriation was making it difficult to ascend gracefully, but I think I pulled it off. As we reached a set of French doors, he took my hand and led me inside. We entered an elegant foyer, adorned with an Afghan rug, Oriental vases, and a glittering chandelier.
        “You do know he lost the election, right?” I pointed to his MAGA hat, jokingly. Jimmy laughed warmly. He led me into the dining room. There was a full bar stocked with expensive booze: Johnnie Walker Blue, Patron El Cielo, Belvedere.
        “Of course. But he’s going to run again in 2024, and Ashley, he will win.”  The kid seemed serious about it. I didn’t know about all that. I hadn’t voted in the 2020 election. Biden seemed like a senile perv, and I didn’t care much for Trump—either choice would’ve weighed on my conscience. The problem with the country wasn’t going to be solved with a change of administration, but an entire paradigm shift.
        “Why Trump?” I inquired. It was the right question to ask—he looked about ready to burst with enthusiasm. At any rate, he’d start talking for a while, and I could listen while soaking up the splendor of the house’s interior. In the kitchen now, I was stunned by the ornate backsplash, the attention to detail, the massive walk-in fridge, the veins in Jimmy’s hands as he opened it. It would be a dream to make peanut butter sandwiches, maybe even for him, on the marble counters.
        “Well, to start—I’m a crypto guy. I’ve got a crazy portfolio…are you into bitcoin?” I stared at him blankly. He snagged another White Claw for himself, and one for me. Cranberry.
        “You aren’t, I get it. It’s definitely more of a Zoomer thing.” So that’s what they called themselves. “I’ve invested in bitcoin, which is the most popular cryptocurrency to trade in, but there’s also Ethereum, Milady’s on Urbit…those are NFT’s…do you know what an NFT is?”
        “I mean, I know what crypto is, but the rest is Greek to me.”
        “Huh?” I don’t think he understood my expression. I guess Julius Caesar had fallen out of fashion with the kids, but all the same, he began to rant about non-fungible tokens, the blockchain, and what crypto mining was. As he spoke, we reached an escargot staircase.
        “I gotta grab my mom’s hat. Wanna see upstairs?” This was getting intimate. I was being allowed into a household’s most sacred space—the bedrooms. Jimmy went up first. I couldn’t help staring at his firm little ass in his khakis. What was I thinking? It must’ve been the White Claw. What kind of alcohol was White Claw even made of? What percent was it? I checked the can. It was 8%—a Surge.
        As we reached the landing, Jimmy turned around and flashed a grin. He had a great smile. It was genuine, or maybe naive.
        “Jimmy? How old are you?”
        “Twenty-one,” he said proudly. “My birthday was in March. Isn’t it funny? 21 in 2021.” He chuckled at himself. “Wanna see the bathroom? We just had it redone.”
        He showed me the bathroom. It was huge—there was a jacuzzi, a vanity with two sinks, a mirrored wall, and a shower. Twenty-one was a good age. I remembered being twenty-one. I had two boyfriends at the same time and a huge crush on my Music History professor. Jimmy took off his hat, ruffled his hair, and put his hat back on. I shook my White Claw, there was only about a third of the can left. I wanted him to pin me against the mirrored wall and bite my neck. But I totally, totally wouldn’t initiate a thing like that. I was married. I was a freelance writer. I was forty-four for fucks sake.
        We turned back into the hallway. “Just a moment,” Jimmy said, and slipped into what I presumed to be his parent’s room. He emerged with a straw hat adored with fabric flowers—I was right. “Mom’s room,” he shrugged. “Dad’s is across the hall.” Okay—half right.
        I wonder how having separate rooms influenced their sex lives. It probably enhanced it, having to go all the way across the hall instead of just rolling over in bed. Imagine having that much money…is that what it took to sustain a sexual companionship? Millions to spare? Good riddance.
        “Hey, wait.” Jimmy paused and looked me in the eyes. “You wanna see my bedroom?” I couldn’t tell what he was playing at, but I nodded, batting my CVS false lashes.
        “Where do I put this?” I held out my empty can.
        “Gimme,” he said devilishly. He took it and led me to his room. We entered. It was neat, austere. There was a “Make America Great Again” flag pinned to the wall, a bookcase stuffed with books, and a blue quilt on the bed. “This one is for…Ashley,” he said, and chucked the empty can toward the trashcan on the far-right corner of the room. It fell into the metal bin with a clink. “Fuck yeah!” How noble.
        I walked over to the bookshelf. Jimmy flopped onto his bed and took a long vape hit. He exhaled a cloud of vapor as I scanned the titles on the shelves: Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, The 48 Laws of Power, several titles by Jung, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. He seemed like a guy who liked Twitter. 
      “You have a nice room,” I said. “I like your books. I bet you bring lots of girls here.” I raised my eyebrows. He giggled and took a swig of his White Claw.
        “Nah, honestly. Girls these days…they’re impossible. I go to Columbia…the Barnard girls are hella, hella libbed out. They’re all lesbians. It’s crazy.”
        “Oh, I understand. I mean, girls have always been difficult.” He frowned. I backtracked. “But the feminist movement has gone too far. Women need men. Men need women. We’ve disrupted the fragile equilibrium.” 
        My superficial read on gender politics must’ve moved him. He sat up, his eyes wide and wild.
        “Seriously! When are women gonna realize that by disempowering men, it’s only gonna make us more violent…I mean, think about the incel phenomenon! It’s rampant. Not that I’m an incel or anything…”
        I knew enough about modern slang that I did know what an incel was—involuntarily celibate men who lurked on the internet but were also responsible for most school shootings. Jimmy did not seem like an incel, but rather  nice, normal, relatively well adjusted (if you factored out his wealth) young man who just simply couldn’t find a woman with views that aligned with his. He seemed lonely.
        “Of course you’re not an incel. But I think you could use some feminine energy in your life.” I gestured toward the bookshelf. “No poetry. And Nietzsche doesn’t count.” He laughed again.
        “Ashley, I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I sat on the bed with him and kicked off my heels.
        “Of course, you’re not. A handsome guy like you…” I grinned. “You’re not a homo, are you?”
        “No way!” He punched my arm lightly. I touched his shoulder. I thought about husband for a second, then RFK and his baby blues. Maybe my problem was I was chasing the wrong men. I didn’t know Jimmy, didn’t quite understand or agree with his politics, but he was virile. Funny. Erudite, especially for a twenty-one-year-old. I was drunk. I stared down at my pineapple dress, feeling a sudden bout of shame.
        “Ashley.” He lifted my chin. He gazed at me intensely. His eyes were hazel. He had freckles, and faint smile lines. He lowered his hand and brought his vape to his lips. “Wanna hit my vape?”
        “What the hell.” I sucked on the plastic contraption. It tasted like kiwi. I blew the vapor playfully into Jimmy’s face. He sneezed and punched my arm again. Then he grabbed it, and pulled me in. I let him.
        There was no time to think or wonder whether this was a decision I should be making. No time to think about the mess my kids were making back at home. About husband screaming into his headset and pounding Coors Light. Maybe, I thought, as his lips neared mine, maybe this was fate.
        We kissed, hard and long. I reached into his pants. He grabbed my ass. Leaned into the whole absurd affair. Soon we were naked, and he was peeling my thong off. I felt twenty-one again. Could RFK have made me feel the way this young MAGA enthusiast could? Doubtful. Sure, RFK had undoubtable prowess, but at his age, he’d probably rather catch grasshoppers and wage war against Bill Gates. 
        Jimmy and I made sweet love. We seemed miles away from the ridiculous gala, the aging politicians, the world of niceties and titles and networking that was still taking place downstairs. He caressed me gently, hungrily, but not in the quick, meaningless, and desperate way husband would when he got the urge. He bit my lip and grabbed my breasts. I let him have his way with me, loving every second of it.
        “I’ve never fucked a cougar before,” he suddenly whispered in my ear. My eyes fluttered open. The illusion wavered. Cougar? Was that really all I was to him? I kept going through the motions, kissing him, but reality began to creep back into the passionate haze I had succumbed to. I heard footsteps on the stairs, creaking in the hall. Someone was approaching. Shit. I wasn’t doing anything illegal; Jimmy was well over the age of consent in New York, but I would still be caught in an adulterous act. Nobody really knew me here, but what if it was Laura? I was having sex with her college age son. I was married. I paused.
        “What’s wrong?” Jimmy said, half moan, half inquiry. “Someone’s coming,” I sighed. We both froze. The footsteps halted. The doorknob turned, and the door swung open.
        “Oh goodness!” A wavering, gritty, unmistakable voice. RFK Jr. stood in the doorway, a look of shock (and maybe mild amusement) on his wrinkled face. “I thought this was the bathroom.” He lingered in the door frame for a moment, glancing at Jimmy, then lingering for a moment on me. Could this be it? Would he join us? He stood there for a second more, then slowly backed away. He closed the door. Jimmy rolled over and hit his vape.