A Gamble In This Dress
Jeremy Kennedy
A collection of recent works and non-excerpts from the forthcoming romance novel The Dark Villa.
It concerns me. It concerns men in Los Angeles, ages 38-44.
You have to fuck everything in sight, donât you? Your virility is waning â who are you now? As you scramble for the remnants of your sexual vanity, I ask politely, for the last time, please leave me alone.
I do get it, this thing that Jeremy asked me to write a short thing for. I totally get it. Iâm an intellectual. Iâm also a girl with a throb, armed with a puckered tongue kiss, dome-less, a deep throat. Iâm lost. Where do I begin and the blowjobs end? Why did he ask me to write this thing? Notwithstanding, I get it.
When I told my mom that I was asked to write a thing, she asked, before anything else, if he wants to fuck me. I humbly skirted the affirmative. I am aware of what I have to offer. And I am aware that Iâm not really writing about the thing that Jeremy wrote that youâre going to read. I donât think he wanted that anyway. Or maybe he did.
I sort of hate this thing he wrote, because it made me feel stupid. And that pissed me off, because how am I supposed to write about a thing that doesnât make any sense? Or am I missing something?
Men in Los Angeles, ages 38-44, really love to be intelligent, and they love me because my dating app profile includes an animated meme of a big tiddy girl in a g-string squatting by a glory hole, through which Hegelâs Phenomenology of Spirit pokes. They love this image. They love that they can stick their dick deep in it, through to the other side of their phone, into my eyes, and leave behind the words: âyou look like fun.â My generosity holds the portal open. I let them climb through the image, crawl into my bed and lay there, while I milk. Gimme gimme all your blah blah blah.
Jeremy is kind, but this book is rude. He put his dick in it. Donât ask me to close-read these omissive vignettes, enacted through SMS colloquialisms like âyr.â  Where is the O U? You owe me. Give me something to hold, Jeremy. I want to be in on it. I give you my hips and you give me rhetorical vagaries. I get it and it slips away. I get it and it slips away. Is this an induced emotional bulimia, counter to His alleged emotional anorexia?Â
Listen, if I am writing this thing, surely I am in on it. I get it. Gosh, I really hope my talent has translated here. No matter, Iâm trapped in the riptide that is my schematic relationship to men in LA, ages 38-44. And Iâd love it so much for you all to leave me alone.
All that plus an interminably synchronous soundtrack suggested by Emji Saint Spero.