Honestly, when I first heard about BRO, I had my doubts. Polygamy is not popular. Conservatives believe it’s blasphemous, liberals feel it’s anti-female and pretty much everyone thinks it’s a little weird. Yet it still exists even today. Just check out all the plural marriage reality t.v. shows. “Sister Wives,” “Seeking A Sister Wife,” “3 Wives 1 Husband” etc.. All feature women willing to share one man and jointly care for his children. Nothing wrong with that. I mean, wouldn’t any mother like to duplicate herself on a day when her kids all have stomach flu or need rides to after-school activities on opposite ends of town?
Yeah, sure, some people profess shock at the idea of a married man sleeping with more than one woman. But we all know that happens in monogamous marriages too, right? Monogamous husbands just prefer to lie, sneak and flatly deny there is another woman —
until divorce court where they pretty much all claim they were “forced” to seek “love” outside marriage because their “cold,” “uncaring,” “crazy” ex-wife didn’t “understand” them. Yup. All ex-wives are “totally bonkers.” But, I digress.
Who are these modern-day, reality t.v. plig spouses? Where do they find them? Often they’re Fundamentalist Mormons “going public” in hopes of garnering greater rights, religious freedoms and public acceptance of their lifestyle. “Our families are just like your family,” plig t.v. spouses seem to be saying. That quite possibly may be true. Cameras have followed these TV “plig,” families cradle to grave. They have birthday parties, medical emergencies, school events and family vacations, just like two-spouse families. We see sister-wives struggling thru family therapy together and sister wives in marriage counseling, trying to salvage a relationship with a self-absorbed, emotionally-distant husband, just as a monogamous women might. In fact, most of these pligs appear to lead rather dull, ordinary lives. All except those in “escaping polygamy” shows. There, young, prospective sister wives, clutching garbage bags full of personal possessions, leap out windows into cars waiting below to spirit them off, often in exciting, high-speed-chase scenes, to partake in those many freedoms and equalities us other gals have been enjoying out here all along in the non-plig world. (After we got our rights to vote, I mean.) But, I digress.
My point is, historically and cross culturally, polygyny (one husband, many wives) has always been more popular than polyandry (one wife, many husbands). However, with the current trend towards diversity in entertainment programming and all these male-centric variations on a plig theme, it was probably only a matter of time before some over caffeinated, insomniac, network executive seized upon the idea of a show like BRO. A show featuring one wife with several “brother husbands” was long overdue.
I auditioned for BRO because to a woman like myself, randy libido, a feminist bias and a biological clock ticking loudly towards countdown, it sounded like an answer to my prayers. I could just see it: Many men stooping down to help me tie little shoelaces, rushing to clean up baby-barf and efficiently steering prams and toddlers through thru zoos and amusement parks. I’d get plenty of sexual variety. Last, but not least, I could count on multiple “volunteers” for ticking off items on our household “honey-do” lists. How could I go wrong?
I was chosen, from a surprisingly diverse group of female applicants and told my height, athletic build, and background as only daughter in a family with six brothers, convinced producers I’d be able to hold my own in a group of guys. I wondered if my prior employment as a lingerie model played any part in my selection. But no one wanted to talk about that. Perhaps they feared sounding politically incorrect or sparking some sort of employment discrimination lawsuit based on boob size. Whatever. Anyway, I was thrilled and anxious to get started with I considered an unprecedented, televised social experiment.
Who would be my husbands? That was the real question. Could men be found who would be willing to embrace a relationship with a woman who would also be embraced in relationships with other men — I mean, apart from Tinder and normal marital infidelity. More importantly, since confirming biological parentage of a mate’s offspring preoccupies even male creatures further down the food chain and lacking opposable thumbs, could any man be persuaded to father a child knowing that child might have been sired by one of his brother husbands? Myself, I figured that would be the deal-breaker. After all, what television executive would ever countenance innocent children suffering simply to achieve higher ratings? Right? Yeah, so anyway, like many others, I feared BRO might be cancelled before it ever aired due to a dearth of male interest. But that did not happen.
A shockingly large number of men auditioned for BRO. All sorts of men. There were old men who had seen it all and just wanted a comfortable place to prop up stinky feet while yelling for another beer. There were young men excited about getting regular sex without hassles of dating and bars. Then there were adrenaline junkies looking for some new form of kicks. The idea of being only one possible father among many didn’t seem to bother any of them. Quite a few claimed they preferred that option. As one put it: “It’s easier to enjoy your ‘shorties’ when ya got someone else doing daddy duties.” There were, poignantly, guys who realized their lack of education and job prospects meant they’d never be able to properly support a wife and kids in today’s economy. (Informally dubbed the “Mickey Ds,” their motivations most closely paralleled those of husbands in traditional Polyandrous societies.) Of course we got our share of crazies and a few fellows who just wanted to see themselves on T.V.. One guy, a recent parolee, was mostly looking for an address to use while reintegrating back into society. Fortunately, although final choices were up to our show runner, I was given a preliminary “yay” or “nay” vote on all applicants. (After all, polyandry is all about us gals, isn’t it? LOL)
Screening applicants was a herculean task but eventually, three brother-husbands were chosen. Lying in bed nights waiting for our primer episode to tape, thousands of thoughts danced thru my brain. Sometimes I fanaticized about my three spouses competing for my affections (like knights of a bygone era) — both inside and outside the bedroom. Other times my reflections were more practical. Would I have separate wedding gowns or be expected to recycle one for all three weddings? Would each BRO demand a dog of his own and, if so, who would be expected to walk all those animals and clean up their poop? How about if one BRO was a vegan, another had food allergies and the third was a “meat and potatoes” man? Surely I wouldn’t be expected to prepare three separate dinners each night, would I? Oh yeah. When my musings got dark, I could imagine ways my fairy tale wedded bliss could take a troubling turn. But, I’m no quitter. When my anxiety spiraled out of control, I would warm up a cup of milk with a tablespoon of honey and browse thru old copies of Architectural Digest seeking decorating ideas for our newly built marital residence until I calmed down.
Our marital residence was a renovated five story Victorian mansion, complete with elevator and a detached four-car garage, sprawling across a wide, triple lot on a crowded boulevard in Chicago’s tony Gold Cost neighborhood. Borrowing a trick from other TV plig families (who often chose remote, rural homestead sites to protect against neighbors’ prying eyes) we isolated ourselves in a crowd. Our manse was located in such a congested urban milieu, it was likely we would never even see our neighbors who wouldn’t know who we were even if we did accidently encounter them.
Just as male-centric plig homes are often surrounded by work sheds, horse barns, gun-ranges and other dude-friendly attractions, our new neighborhood was chosen for its checklist of female-friendly amenities — nearby world-class shopping, fine dining, high-end spas and artistic and cultural events. Two thumbs up for us gals, right?
Our outdoor gardens, rooftop sun-deck and the first three stories of our mansion looked like any other in our neighborhood: Travertine marble foyer, antique chandeliers, walls full of original art. Granite kitchen counter-tops. Viking and Sub-Zero appliances. A temperature-controlled wine pantry. Artist-designed dining table and chairs seating twenty. Marble baths and powder rooms. Entertainment center with home movie theater and game room. Library. Home office. A third-floor nursery and playroom. The de rigueur separate coach house residence for a live-in a nanny. You get the idea. Basic stuff any resident of our neighborhood would expect to find in their home. Like I say, our “manse” was pretty much interchangeable with any other in the hood on its outside and first three floors. Once you went up above the third floor, though, all that changed.
Polygamous families often modify their homes suit their unique lifestyle – (four separate kitchens, for example, one for sister-wife). Following this trend, our fourth and fifth floors were specifically designed and constructed to accommodate our unique family configuration.
Our fourth floor had a luxurious “mistress suite,” similar to master-suites found in other area homes. It had a spacious marble whirlpool bath, steam, sauna and massive cedar walk in closet (can any woman ever have too much closet space) and overlooked our landscaped front garden. There was cozy wood burning fireplace, its marble mantle held aloft on either side by sculpted marble cherubs. There was also a separate sitting room with television and library alcove. All this was my personal space.
The remainder of the fourth floor was occupied by our “assignation chamber” the suite in which I would entertain my three brother husbands (on separate evenings, of course). It featured black & white, checkerboard marble floors, black, leather wallpaper and tufted black & white leather sofas and chairs. Black lacquer tables, chests and cabinets were scattered about casually. This space I would share with my BROS.
Along one wall there were three identical black lacquer doors for which only I possessed keys. Behind each door a spiral staircase led up to the fifth-floor “man cave” of one of my three brother husbands. The fifth floor was completely devoted to these “man caves” which were off limits to everyone else and were not subject to housekeeping rules in effect throughout the remainder of our residence. These man caves could also be entered and exited thru alternate doors off a common hallway. Thus BROs could go to and from the rest of the house without having to pass thru our assignation chamber.
Everything would work, producers explained, like this: On his appointed night, a BRO would descend his personal spiral stairs, knock on his assigned door and I would unlock it and usher him in to our assignation chamber. After our assignation, my BRO would depart thru his assigned door and I would lock it behind him. This “security” procedure of separate stairs and locked doors was designed to prevent unintended overlaps between brother husbands – one of whom might accidently turn up expecting sex when it was not their scheduled night.
Our contract provided I would entertain each brother husband at least one night per week. If I wished to entertain any brother husband more than once in any given week, I could — provided his BROs were also offered that same option as well. Absolutely no favoritism was permitted!
No entertaining of brother husbands was allowed on Sunday as Sunday was set aside to be my day of rest. It was also understood that there might be times when natural conditions, illness, menstruation, pregnancy, might interfere with my performing my wifely duties. I’m only human, after all. But, I was admonished, if I pled a headache with one husband, his brother husbands would also be required to forgo their next visit with me as well. To make everything work, we were told, we absolutely had to maintain scrupulous equity at all times.
Of course, there would be no sexual relationships outside of our marriage. Just as male-centric plig families prohibit adultery, my three brother husbands and I agreed to forgo any such encounters. I know. I know. It seems like we were being asked to adhere to quite a few rules and procedures. But, hey, hasn’t that always been the case, de facto if not de jure, in monogamous marriages as well? I, for one, was quite excited for our Polyandrous marriage reality T.V. show and social experiment to commence.
I started dreaming about penises. Would they be tan, black or white? Perhaps one of each? Would they be circumcised or au naturale? Yes. I did also wonder about size, but only briefly, like in passing. I was more interested in imagining how each BROs might use his instrument to pleasure me in new and different ways. I happily pictured myself being licked and dicked for hours on end during dusk to dawn lovemaking marathons.
According to our contract, I only had to allow a BRO one climax per visit – with my becoming pregnant stipulated as our underlying goal. However, it was within my discretion to allow a visiting brother husband additional encounters so long as I extended that same courtesy to each other brother husband on his next visit. Those rules were intended to allay concerns among some of our producers that in a situation where several husbands were sharing one wife, one or more brother husbands might not get as much sex as he desired. I wasn’t worried. Thanks to growing up with all those male siblings, I’m quite strong physically and very athletic. Plus, I love sex. Hadn’t those “Doubting Thomas” network executives ever read about Tiresias in Greek mythology or heard of “Ghanaian voodoo pussy”? My problem was remaining celibate while waiting for our televised nuptials, Season One, Episode One, to take place. Sometimes I woke up quivering and clenching my thighs together in anticipation.
As our wedding date drew nearer, I did experience occasional bouts of anxiety. Would I actually like my brother husbands? Would they like me? Would I find them attractive? Would they be attracted to me? What if someone smelled bad? In my experience, olfactory responses play heavily into physical attraction. Of course, I had seen every applicant’s resume and head shot and been given an opportunity to vote off anyone who just didn’t look right to me. But I had never been told which three candidates had ultimately been chosen and had yet to meet any BRO face to face. I set up a meeting with our show runner to voice my concerns.
I would not, I was told, actually meet any of my husbands “in the flesh” until our series primer date which would feature live coverage of our weddings – all three of which were apparently scheduled to occur simultaneously! BRO’s producers were pushing to achieve multiple television firsts. Couples had met and married at the alter before on TV but never plig spouses. Everyone was totally psyched. We were entering uncharted viewing territory. Imagine our ratings potential. Even more exciting, network execs had pulled strings at city hall and procured three separate marriages licenses, one for each BRO, and our Justice of the Peace had agreed to pronounce us all “men and wife” at precisely the same moment. I was pleased to hear, I would not be, legally, a bigamist. This would allow us to bypass many pesky issues plaguing traditional male-centric plural families. “Everything will be just fine,” I reassured myself. Then, to sooth my jitters, I checked into a local spa for a mani/pedi, facial and Brazilian wax.
Finally! Our big day arrived. I was helped to change into my simple, floor length, antique-white, gold-flocked, natural-waisted wedding gown – chosen from an unknown designer with a small store-front boutique on Wells Street in Chicago’s artsy Old Town area. Our show-runner walked me down the aisle where, amid a considerable amount of expected confusion, hoopla and last-minute crises. Our long-awaited nuptials took place in front of a live, mostly female, audience. Everyone heaved a huge sigh of relief.
Happily, for me, all three BROs appeared reasonably pleasant looking and none were smelly. Judging by how they hung all over me in the green room, after our ceremony, dropping compliments and flirting, I guessed they all found me acceptable as well. As we all sat sipping post-nuptial champagne, I slowly began to relax and even cried tears of joy when our show runner, Donna, a tall, boxy woman, whose breasts preceded her upon entering a room, popped in with tickets for an all-expense paid two-week honeymoon at a luxury resort in India – a country where, perhaps not coincidentally, a strong history of Polyandry may be found.
There was an awkward moment while we tried to decide who would spend our first honeymoon night with me, who would go second and, lastly, third. Demonstrating a camaraderie I hoped would endure thereafter, my BROs drew straws. Then, so brother husbands with shorter straws would not feel slighted, they proposed an agreement. Whoever got night one would be limited to one encounter. My night two Bro would be entitled to two. And my third night brother husband could enjoy unlimited coitus as his reward for going last. I, of course, agreed to all this as it was heartening to see our marriage getting off to such a congenial and cooperative start.
As we stepped into a waiting limo bound for our televised reception (me first and my BROs, vying with one another in a rambunctious cluster, behind) my spirits were high. We arrived at the grand ballroom of the Ritz, in a pleasant haze and were greeted by applause and popping flash bulbs of fans and paparazzi.
My bubbly optimism continued as I carefully cut out three exactly equal slices of wedding cake and, balancing them along one arm, like a skilled server, held them out, simultaneously, to my three new spouses. Each BRO smiled and retrieved his slice. Then, without warning, and as if in response to some Devine dictate, all three BROs proceeded to smash their cake directly into my face at the precisely same moment. Licking chocolate butter cream frosting off and picking larger cake chunks out of my veil, I had another of those disquieting moments where I considered the possibility there could be downside for me in all this. But, being a trooper, I pushed such misgivings aside, freshened my makeup in a nearby restroom and returned to dance the night away with my three new brother husbands. The following morning, after network executives and guests departed, I changed into a pastel sequined, Top Shop romper with nude, peep-toe stilettos and scurried off to our waiting plane bound for India. If I felt a bit overwhelmed, I knew it was too soon to form any definite impressions. Enjoy your honeymoon, I told myself. Your real test won’t begin until after you all return to Chicago to commence living your married life.
Our honeymoon was spectacular. A swirl of blur of Schiaparelli pinks, azure blues and saffron yellows punctuated by unexpected animals, interesting outdoor markets and exotic sounds of Indian “banjos” and wandering “flutes” interwoven with lively unique drum rhythms. We were whisked thru landscapes of extraordinary beauty — our videographer’s ever watchful lens tracking thus blur of activity. I had been right to think this would not be a time for considering relationship issues. And that frenetic pace continued even after we returned to Chicago where we were put straight to work on BRO-related chores.
Our first task was to review fan mail piled up during our two weeks away and make personal responses. Many letters were congratulatory, some even accompanied by wedding gifts. Others were more self-serving: Journalists seeking interviews. Anthropology professors requesting that we address students. Then there was our “hate” mail: “You are defiling God’s image of what marriage and family should be,” proclaimed “Faithful Christian” who turned out to be a prisoner serving time for murdering his own wife and kids. “I want you to know I wouldn’t have any one of you on a silver platter,” declared another — inspiring me to purchase just such an addition for a burgeoning collection of sex toys kept stored in a black lacquer, chinoiserie chest in our assignation suite. Patiently we took turns answering every single letter – even mean ones. Then, finally, we got down to the more serious business of getting to know one another.
I suddenly realize I haven’t told you much about my three BROs.
Let me start with Sveinn Olson who shared my first night of conjugal time with me upon our return to Chicago. A short, dressed-down, computer-software engineer with a long shock of sandy, dishwater blond hair and an ectomorph body, Sveinn was not especially macho. But he earned a very respectable income which, apart from a small portion he reserved for cryptocurrency investments, he brought back to the marital home along with carefully considered decorating ideas for our manse’s interior décor. Money was not his “thing.” But he loved elegance and fine design.
Sveinn never arrived for a visit empty handed. I would unlock his assigned door to find him gracefully balancing an armful of rare edibles: a canaster of anise-infused whipped cream, a tin of chocolate bourbon fudge, a plate of fresh fruit and oysters, an exquisite bottle of champagne. Many of these treats he incorporated into our lovemaking. But sometimes, in these offerings, I’d find an elegantly wrapped gift intended just for me – a beautiful silver heart pin from Georg Jensen or an vintage Alexander McQueen scarf. Since gifts were not contractually required, I was moved by Sveinn’s generosity and always amazed by his impeccable fashion sense.
Sveinn had a tiny, pale, penis. With encouragement, however, he could prolong his ardor indefinitely. Sveinn was a slow rider. Sustained by little more than skittles and black coffee, he could remain actively aroused all night. This was great for me because I, too, liked to take my time. So, in that way, we were well suited. Sveinn’s entire body, like my own was an erogenous zone. His nipples, for example, were as sensitive as my own. So, while admittedly, he was a little bit of a “freak between the sheets,” we enjoyed one another physically. He was a generous and gentle lover — even when using bondage restraints and other adult toys he loved.
Sveinn was into sex for its own sake, often requesting additional encounters and frequently having to be reminded that our end game, under BRO’s contract, was production of a child to complete our family and lock down future seasons of our show. When chastised, he would retreat quietly to a corner for a bit and then dutifully return fully pumped and prepared to deposit his contribution into our offspring lottery. By then it was usually dawn and we would tiredly kiss goodnight and head off our separate beds. Although he was not my best looking or most virile appearing husband, Sveinn’s other attributes more than made up for that fact. He was a true rara avis, my BRO Sveinn.
My second husband, staying in order of each BRO’s first post-honeymoon cohabitation with me, was Bruno Reyes, an actor ne coffee-shop barista of Puerto Rican/German ancestry. During our honeymoon I quickly realized that Bruno was not, as I thought when first meeting him at the altar, pleasant looking. The dude was drop dead gorgeous…a hunk, a total babe, a stud-muffin. If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed (and covered in cake) during our wedding reception, I probably would have realized this when he spun me expertly around the grand ballroom like a trained professional. In fact, Bruno was a trained professional dancer as well as a body builder. During our honeymoon, when he first disrobed before me, I simply sat back dumbstruck by his perfectly chiseled body. And he was tall. Watching strangers stop to gaze after him as we meandered thru Indian markets, I realized my husband was a show-stopper. He had languid grey eyes and shiny, shoulder length black hair, which he styled differently each day. His dazzling, even-toothed smile, brought women immediately under his spell and even encouraged men to male-bond with him in hopes some of his magnetic presence would rub off on them.
Bruno was tolerant of all this constant adoration. He knew he was ridiculously handsome and fully expected this fact to eventually catapult him into fame as a TV, movie &/or You-Tube sensation. With BRO, he was on his way. Our producers loved him and featured him in all our promotional spots for the show. Soon Bruno was making enough in endorsements, commercial spots and as a “social influencer” that he was able to quit his coffee house job and “work” full time on his career. His “work” consisted of attending acting and dance classes as well as spending hours lifting weights and keeping his body perfectly toned with assistance from his former roommate and sometimes training partner, Karen, herself a body builder and aspiring actor. “We’re just friends,” he repeatedly reassured me without my ever having asked.
BRO’s cameras were never allowed in our assignation chamber. If they had been, I honestly believe my encounters with Bruno would have the provided greatest entertainment for our viewing audience. Bruno’s idea of foreplay was darting in and out from between several free-standing haberdasher mirrors, placed in our assignation chamber at his request. After catching glimpses of himself striking various body building poses, he would eventually turn towards me briefly, pump up various muscle groups and alternate winsome smiles with coquettish winks. Periodically he would check his reflection from the corner of his eye before focusing back on me with a detached gaze that, I admit, some women not married to him might have found mysterious or alluring. (Myself, I always just wondered what on earth was going on up there in his admittedly good looking but seemingly empty head.) Eventually Bruno would wink and pump himself up enough that I could approach him gingerly to provide oral stimulation he always required in order to take his shot at expanding our little family. When he began mumbling things like: “I’m getting ready to place a beautiful baby inside you,” and, then as an afterthought, “for our family to enjoy,” and, as a further afterthought, “which will guarantee our future ratings,” I knew it was time to lay down right then and there and let it happen. It was usually over in a second or two as Bruno never seemed to consider I might have any physical needs apart from his own. He never requested a second encounter or took advantage of any he was owed from another BRO’s (usually Sveinn’s) activity.
“Too much sex drains energy I need for body building” he would say, casting a pitying glance towards me, perhaps intended to convey his empathy for my loss of an opportunity to enjoy more coital time with him. Actually, I was relieved. On nights when I entertained Bruno, I could be assured I would have plenty of “me” time afterword to paint my nails, give myself a facial or just binge-watch Netflix. Of all my husbands, Bruno was the one other women, and some men, most envied me for having. Yet he would have been the first I would have let go had I been called upon to make such a choice. (I wasn’t, of course. And I kept my thoughts to myself for, as I said before, favoritism was strictly forbidden by my BRO contract.)
If having a favorite BRO had been permitted, my third brother-husband, Ian McKenna, might have been my top choice. Sveinn would have been a close second. But Sveinn was so vulnerable and dependent. He always wanted me to be the strong one, the leader…the dominant figure in our lovemaking scenarios. Ian, in contrast, was just a great big, friendly, nice guy. The undisputed man in our relationship. The sort of fellow I probably would have dated before BRO. Good looking but not stupidly gorgeous, he kept his curly brown hair in a short no-nonsense cut. When we talked, he would fix his big brown eyes directly on me and listen intently to whatever I was saying, cocking his head, adorably, slightly to one side. Plus, he had a wide, mischievous grin that revealed slightly overlapping incisors — a tiny imperfection that truly endeared him to me. Ian had a natural build hardened from working as a carpenter and rock climbing as a hobby. Like Sveinn, Ian brought edibles to the assignation chamber. But his choices ran towards things like deep-dish pizza and imported beers or Chinese take-out and a four-bottle pack of hard lemon soda. When he did bring more personal gifts, for me, they tended to be things you might buy on a boardwalk — stuffed animals or, once, a single glass rose in a miniature hand-blown glass vase.
Of all my BROs, Ian was the one I most enjoyed just hanging out with in a friendly, non-sexual way. Not that the sex between us wasn’t great too. Occasionally I would unlock his assigned door to find him rushing in, pants bulging, falling upon me with such intensity that I barely had time to brace myself against a wall or table before he plunged into me releasing his paternity application in a shuddering explosion after which he would patiently fondle me with his hands and mouth until I too was satisfied. Other times, Ian and I might sit around sharing Indian food and watching classic movies until he would lazily take a swig of flavored vodka, swish it around in his mouth and then drop down in front of me his face in my lap. I knew when he did that he liked me to keep watching TV pretending not to notice as he slipped off my panties and pulled me towards the edge of the couch. There he would work me over slowly with his mouth and tongue while his own penis, which I occasionally reached down to squeeze and fondle, steadily engorged. When excitement rose to a point where I was arching off the couch and he was bursting-hard, he would stop and gently lower me down so we could wrap our legs around each other, Lotus style, and grind into a mutual chance at parenthood. Sometimes we would reverse roles and Ian would pretend to be watching TV while I coaxed him down to the floor. Either way, afterward, we would usually move back up on the couch to continue watching movies till we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
I was fond of all my BROs. But I especially loved my time with Ian. I…loved Ian. Still I was a married woman who took her vows and promises to each of her three husbands, for better or worse, very seriously. I also felt obliged to fulfil my contractual duty, under my BRO contract, to produce one or more children to guarantee our family, and BRO, years of loyal audience viewing. Network execs were already shopping around spin-offs like “Polyandrous Progeny in Pre-School” and “Plig Pre-Teen’s Puckers Up For Premier Kiss.” I fully understood that while we did not have the same pressing financial issues as many young newlyweds, we were still needed to meet certain goals in order to secure our family’s future.
Such concerns aside, overall, life was good for our family. BRO was TV’s hit of the season. Water coolers across America were surrounded by work colleagues holding spirited BRO-related discussions. Newscasters cheerfully regaled their viewers with stories about our latest antics in segments meant to dilute their normal deluge of death and disaster. Liberal pundits wrote carefully reasoned editorials about how more sexual freedoms would lead to a less violent society. Conservative commentators issued fiery oratories on why we exemplified everything that was wrong with society. We were the ones they loved to hate. So, naturally we were embraced by the LGBTQ community who immediately began organizing nationwide protest marches to advance same-sex polygamous marriage rights while drag bars incorporated me-inspired, female impersonators into their entertainment line ups. In short, whether they loved us or hated us, most people followed us. So, either way, BRO’s ratings were off the charts.
Naturally, after a few months of post-honeymoon bliss, fans and foes alike began speculating on how soon I would become pregnant with our first child and which Bro would be its biological father. Fans eagerly awaited a joyous announcement while detractors spent hours bemoaning the hypothetical fate of this “poor,” as yet unborn, baby. Book makers took odds on dates and whether this infant would be a boy or a girl? There were contests. Lotteries. Spiritualists performed ceremonies meant to speed our prospective new family member’s safe arrival. Everyone felt it could not be long given all the sex we must be having.
It was generally known that I had undergone extensive fertility testing before being chosen as BRO’s wife. All my eggs were in order and I had the paperwork to prove it. My BROs had not been pre-tested — perhaps owing to one of those patriarchal blips in life. Still, between all three of them, at least one had to have some swimmers. Right? Everyone was surprised when, moving forward in time, I remained a nulligravida. More tragically, BROs ratings began to dip slightly. Network executives, becoming concerned, ordered us to redouble our efforts to produce an viable offspring. This birth would mark a television first for polyandryous-plig progeny and was sure to keep our show in a prime time slot for some time to come – not to mention guaranteeing re-runs on Netflix, Hulu &/or Amazon Prime. Over time, pressure on I and my three husbands intensified.
Since Ian and Sveinn were already very cooperative about baby-making efforts, I decided to up my game with Bruno, my most reticent lover. In desperation, I reached out to his training partner, Karen, thinking perhaps involving her somehow in our lovemaking might spike Bruno’s enthusiasm.
“Ummmmm. Gee. I don’t knoooow. I’m pretty booked up with auditions and stuff right now,” Karen draweled laconically when I first approached her with a request.
“Look, if you agree to help me you’ll be featured in a live TV appearance on BRO,,,” I urged. “With spoken lines,” I added when she appeared to be wavering.
“Oh…well…, hummmm,” her eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Then, I guess I would finally be able to get my SAG.” She paused considering. “OK.” Suddenly, she was all in.
Of course the non-adultery provision in our BRO contract prohibited any physical contact between either myself or Bruno with Karen. (As if I would want any…LOL.) However nothing prohibited just looking and I hoped, given Bruno’s appetite for being openly adored, a surprise visit by a voyeuristic presence might help “boost” his performance. It was getting more and more difficult for me to squeeze a weekly contribution out of him. This was distressing for me because I am a conscientious person and took our contractual obligations to produce a new BRO cast member very seriously even if Bruno didn’t.
On Bruno’s next designated night, a production assistant ushered Karen into the assignation chamber and seated her comfortably with some hors d’oeuvres and a glass of white wine. While we waited for Bruno, she slipped off her sandals, pulled out a bottle of cobalt blue nail polish and began meticulously painting to her toenails. Her concentration was fierce. When Bruno strode through his assigned door shortly thereafter, she did not even look up. Bruno entered the room and began darting between mirrors winking furiously, mostly at himself, in his usual foreplay routine. It occurred to me, then, that he did not even realize Karen was in the room. So much for voyeurism. Meanwhile Karen had set aside her nail polish and become totally engrossed in some sort of online game. Her eyes remained fixedly on her telephone’s touchscreen as cheerful noises rang out whenever she scored. Bruno, still totally absorbed in admiring himself, continued not to notice.
I briefly considered pulling Bruno to the center of our assignation chamber by his flaccid phallus and yelling “fire” in hopes Karen might glance up and provoke a spurt of burning passion out of him. But in the end I could sense it would just be a waste of time. I’m sorry to have to say this, but as a voyeur Karen totally sucked. I, on the other hand, would not need to that night. A few minutes into his habitual foreplay routine, Bruno accidently smacked his head on one of his mirrors causing a large black and blue welt to pop out on his forehead. He totally freaked. Apparently, he had some head shots scheduled for the following day which would now have to be rescheduled. He was so distraught he withdrew immediately thru the door to his man cave speaking soothingly to himself in an effort to calm himself down.
As his door shut, I gently tapped Karen on her shoulder. She started, looked up, batted her Betty Boop eyes at me and asked sweetly: “When’s Bruno getting here?” I sighed and led her gently down to her waiting share-ride realizing why she and Bruno had been such compatible roomies. Each of them probably thought they had been living alone. Meanwhile, there had to be some easier way for me to achieve my contractually required pregnancy.
Svienn became my next target. Although he was active as ever in our assignation chamber, our trysts were becoming increasingly centered around sex-toys, bondage and especially role-play. I could not get him to simply screw me. He was forever beseeching me to dress to up in stereo-typic men’s costumes and assume a role of soldier, sailor, police officer or even knight, in a heavy, clumsy suit of shining armor. Meanwhile Svienn, in glittering gowns, diaphanous negligees, women’s wigs and flawlessly applied make-up, always cast himself as a damsel in some sort of distress. Funnily enough, with his delicate features and slight build and my tall athletic stature, we made a fairly convincing cross-dressed couple so long as I bound back my boobs. But this wasn’t helping us dispatch our contractual requirements for BRO. When I lifted Sveinn’s skirts and tried entice him to fornicate, he would implore me to “wait a bit,” “savor the journey” and not be “so goal oriented.” He preferred going slowly and relieving himself thru activities other than garden variety intercourse. Sure, we had some kinky fun together, but I wasn’t getting pregnant and Svienn didn’t seem to care.
What was wrong with Svienn? I considered approaching him for a serious heart-to-heart. But before I could, he came to me. I arrived at our assignation chamber one afternoon to find him engulfed in in a giant, black-leather, wing-back, club chair, his delicate face obscured by a lock of, what I suddenly realized was, his very long blond hair. It was not his night and he had clearly entered the assignation chamber thru my mistress suite rather than by knocking on his assigned, man-cave door. I looked at him. He looked at me. Something was different but I could not put my finger on exactly what.
“What’s up Babe,” I asked, walking over to plant a kiss on his forehead.
He pulled a large meticulously wrapped box out from under the chair and handed it to me. “For you,” he said with a wan smile.
Without commenting I opened it up to find a gorgeous black Chanel suit and vintage quilted Chanel bag. “These are…really…beautiful,” I said carefully. Who helped you choose…,”
“Look. I have something important to tell you,” he said cutting me off. Then he began to cry.
For the next hour or so, I listened as Svienn confided about how he was a she and was planning to undergo a gender reassignment procedure in the very near future. “Please, please believe me. It’s not because I don’t love you,” he/she sobbed apologetically, adjusting the straps of what I now realized was a women’s lululemon athletic tee. “It’s just that I’m a really not a man. Never have been,” he/she wailed catching his/her breath haltingly. “I’ve always been a female and I’ve got to start living my authentic life. I can’t go on pretending anymore.” As my jaw hung open in disbelief he/she added: “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
I’ll admit, my first thought was: Great…one less contributor to our contractually required baby-making efforts. But then I really looked at poor little Sveinn, or Svenja as she would henceforth be known. How it was possible none of us had recognized her plight sooner. Sitting there, dwarfed by that huge black chair, longish, blond hair falling gracefully around her pale, hairless face, Svenja looked like a confused, fourteen-year-old girl. “Don’t worry,” I said bending over to pull her up into a massive bear hug. “I will always love you. We will always be family. And…I’ve got your back”
Svenja looked up at me gratefully. “Do you think you could talk to the producers for me,” she snuffled. “I’ll handle it however they want so long as I’m allowed to have my surgery.”
“Of course I will,” I said, continuing to hug her tightly while trying not to think about what all this meant for me. Now I was down to two baby-makers and one of them, Bruno, was only half there at best. What would happen to us all if we were unable to produce our contractually required progeny? Would our show runner divorce us all and cast us out of this beautiful marital residence into the street? Would one of us be replaced in the up and coming season? If so, would that one be me? I was a nervous wreck (not ideal, by the way, when trying to get preggers).
The next few weeks were tumultuous. There was good news and bad news. The good news was our producers were not the least bit upset by Svenja’s gender reassignment request. In fact, they loved the idea and immediately began production of a spin off series called: “Svenja: A Life In Transition.” They were happily envisioning future crossover specials where “Aunt” Svenja would come back to BRO and babysit for our, still as yet unborn, child. Clearly that would be happening any time soon, however. Nevertheless, I was happy for Svenja.
The bad news was Bruno went entirely “off the rails.” It seems he had, exactly as he had foreseen, rapidly developed a successful media presence apart from his role on BRO. Now he was being offered male lead in a movie to be shot in Australia. Acceptance would preclude his continued involvement in BRO and his lawyers were already working on how best to divorce us and extricate him for his BRO commitments. I only found this out by accident when I casually crossed paths with him one evening in a hallway at the manse. “I won’t be able to visit the assignation chamber anymore,” he announced cheerfully as we moved past one another in opposite directions. “But,” he added pausing momentarily as though suddenly realizing he was being a bit rude, “it’s “nothing personal. I just need to conserve my energy to prepare for my starring role in a movie.”
“Movie?” I asked, turning back to stare at him in confusion.
“Yes,” he smiled sympathetically. “I know this will be hard for you,” he said with what seemed like real sincerity. “Try to stay strong.”
“Yeah,” I said trying to look and sound broken hearted. “I’ll do my best.”
In truth, Bruno’s departure actually was upsetting to me because now I was down to one working BRO and still not pregnant. I anxiously wondered what else could possibly go wrong next. Then, the other shoe dropped. Ian was diagnosed with testicular cancer. He would never, his doctors told us, father a child. This was tragic news because Ian, of all my husbands, was the one BRO who truly coveted fatherhood. He was crushed. I struggled to comfort him, assuring him that everything would be alright. But inside, I could feel my carefully staged world beginning to crumble.
Marriage is a lot like life. Early on it’s all smiles, euphoria and seemingly limitless opportunities. But as you move forward in time problems present themselves. Sometimes those problems are too large to be overcome and your marriage ends. Other times, you keep pushing forward till you reach that point where your problems are behind you and you can continue on your journey together. Losing all my opportunities to conceive my contractually mandated child hit me pretty hard. But, like I said: I’m no quitter. After considering our options and gathering my thoughts together, I sat down with my only remaining BRO, Ian, to consider what, if any, options remained for us.
EPILOGUE:
It has been almost seven years since BRO first aired our wedding day episode, making viewing history and unprecedented ratings. BRO is still going strong despite constant changes in cast members. In fact viewers anxiously await news of who will be cast as each new season’s husbands and wife. BRO is still loved, or hated, depending on your point of view and still watched by viewers around the world including Ian and I and our daughter Sunny.
Sunny has big brown eyes just like her daddy and she’s tall for her age and athletic, like me. That’s pure luck. Biologically she’s not related to either of us. Ian and I adopted her in Part Two of BRO’s Season One Finale. Her biological mom, a young woman from another reality T.V. show in our Network’s prime-time lineup (“No Excuses. I Was Just Careless”) made a cross-over appearance in Part One. Then, in Part Two, Ian and I announced our retirement from BRO, to concentrate on parenting Sunny, and introduced our Season Two replacements.
Bruno’s old roommate Karen took over as BRO’s wife. Her three new brother husbands, marking a beginning of BRO’s themed seasons, were all chosen from the world of sports. Rocky was a classic, heavy-weight boxer, Ari an aspiring MMA contender and Manuel a Capoeira Artist. It proved to be an extremely lively season. All three BROs had to be hospitalized in Season Two’s Finale and viewers were told each would require extensive subsequent rehabilitation.
Not surprisingly, Karen didn’t last. For her, like for Bruno, BRO was just a stepping stone to bigger things. Season Three was a whole new cast and BRO now routinely changes its entire cast and introduces a new theme for brother husbands each season.
Ian and I can’t wait for this coming season. BRO’s wife is a lovely young PhD candidate in psychology who seems genuinely interested in polyandry as what she calls “a vehicle for full expression of infinite feminine sexuality.” She believes all “plural marriage – both polygyny and polyandry – has the potential to address rampant isolation and alienation of modern times.” Her husbands have been chosen from three separate countries — giving BRO a multi-cultural spin this season. Asher is the son of a prominent Israeli Rabbi, Asaad a retired Syrian ISIS fighter and Sook, brother of a well-known, South Korean, evangelist.
Meanwhile, as for our little family: “Aunt” Svenja, heads a massive IT department for a multi-national conglomerate while juggling a rotating stable of suiters. Still, she always finds time to come babysit Sunny from time to time just as BRO’s first-season producers envisioned. No television cameras are allowed on those visits but Svenja does film occasional updates of “Svenja: A Life In Transition” for the benefit of others out there facing gender dysphoria issues.
“Uncle” Bruno is still enjoying his movie star fame — though, beneath his public persona, he remains lonely and self-absorbed. He often stops by to visit Sunny pointing out how, if we had all stayed together on BRO he would be her daddy. As it is, Sunny loves her uncle Bozo dearly. Whenever his tinted-window limo pulls into our driveway, she runs out screaming “Uncle Bozo, Uncle Bozo” a nickname holdover from when she was just learning to talk. He doesn’t seem to mind. She is the only female I have ever seen wrap him tightly around her little finger. He never arrives without some special doll or toy for her.
Ian and I remained together after leaving BRO. We live in relative obscurity in a small semi-rural community located about fifty miles Northwest of Chicago. Most of our neighbors don’t even realize we were once BRO stars. Ian owns a large general contracting firm building homes throughout Chicago’s rapidly expanding Northwest exurbs. I run an online order fulfilment company from home which is a sprawling two-story, frame farmhouse set on twenty acres of land. There are three warehouses hidden out back just past the tree-line where I store all my products. Working from home, I am always here waiting with a granola bar and a glass of 2% milk when the school bus drops off Sunny each day.
Ian and I remember our BRO days fondly but love our new life even more. At night after little Sunny is tucked into her bed and fast asleep, Ian and I retire to our den where we relax and watch classic movies. Sometimes we pull a bottle of flavored vodka from our freezer and one of us pretends to be watching TV while the other one…well, you know, just like old times. Many things have changed but, fortunately, some have stayed pretty much the same.