Did the great authors, with all their existential turmoil and absinthe induced deliriums, ever intrude upon their wife being pleasured by a stranger? And, for betraying this private, intimate affair, were they coerced by their wife to set quill to paper in tearful penance? Were they compelled to write a sonnet that personified the suffering and humiliation they wrought upon their wife’s delicate soul? A sonnet of irrefutable majesty, one revered by the institutional arbiters of beauty and literature?
‘Maybe even a YouTube confession…’ My Love sneered. ‘One that get’s a ridiculous amount of views. PewDiePie amount of views.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, my Love!’
She smiled. ‘But, first, this little love letter of yours better be published in The New Yorker and if not there, Poetry Magazine will have to do.’
‘But, that seems like an impossible feat!’
‘Oh…Oh…’ My Love sipped from her champagne flute. ‘Feat? You know what’s an impossible feat? Having to contend with a visit from The Marvelous Mrs. Monthly. Do you know of her, hmmm? Enduring a week of erratic moods, strident pain, not to mention insatiable, I mean, suicide-inducing insatiable carnality. Remember my blessed mother warning you? How our entire lineage is cursed with the most heinous, Mephistophelian mensural cycle? Do you want to end up like my father? Quivering, pistol loaded to his head, unable to cope with the images of his wife being pleasured by innumerable men—’
‘My Love! Please! Oh, I cannot—’
Her lips spew champagne across my face. ‘You know what, that’s what he wanted to do. All. Over. My. Face. I should have. To punish you. Humiliate you. But, like an obedient slave, he performed his intended duty. You know exactly what that is, don’t you? Because you, the whiny, squeamish, housekeeper, can’t even begin to fathom going down on your wife—’
‘My Love! I’m becoming ill!’
‘When she’s on…’
‘I will do anything to repent! I’m so sorry! My grief is—’
‘Stop, my love!’
I screeched, nearly fainting like a Southern Belle.
From her chair, My Love chortled like a wicked queen, the champagne flute flung across the bedroom, obliterating against the wall. ‘Now, see that writing desk over there? That precious family heirloom, one carved by French craftsman, the very desk where my father wrote his long, tormented, tear stained suicide note? Well, that is where you are gonna sit, naked and handcuffed until you give me the greatest fucking sonnet since the age of Shakespeare… You know what, make it dark. Dark like something Christopher Marlowe would have written.’ She stood from her chair, leaning over me, lips to my ear, tongue slithering, ‘Dark and bloody. Just. Like. Me…’
“I enjoyed your poAM, immensely.” Teased Noam.
“Yes, it’s the talk of the community!” Enthused Bentley.
My lips could only afford a weak smile as I stared at my Brother’s seated at our meeting table. “I’m sorry.”
Jonathon clenched my hand, “We know what happened. Every one at this meeting tonight, every one of us at this table, has experienced the very same. But, you should know, according to the community guidelines, never enter the bedroom if your wife is…entertaining. Again, I’m sorry. Remember, all your Brother’s empathize. We’re here for guidance and comfort.”
I stared up from my Brotherhood workbook, everyone at the table sorrowfully nodding.
“We have a published author in the Brotherhood!” Caleb gripped my shoulder.
“Yes, have you been to any fancy literary soirees in New York?” Bentley laughed. “My Love newly restored my New Yorker privileges, and I couldn’t believe what I saw when I was paging through the latest issue!”
Jonathon sighed. “You do realize, such accomplishments will come with immense scrutiny. Our Loves will not appreciate this. This could be considered malfeasance. I wouldn’t be surprised if your Love is called before The Council. Such artistry could be construed as undermining the community’s matriarchal standards.”
“But, it’s elevating his Love,” Bentley countered. “A proper line-by-line analysis of his work will show that his Love—”
Jonathon’s groan interrupted Bentley. “Yes, Bentley. I’m happy you’re finally able to utilize your PHD in Literature, but this is not the time.”
Noam rolled his eyes at Jonathon. “Also, that monstrosity of a man who…did the dreadful with your wife, he is one of the community escorts. He’s one of three, I think? They’re housed at the Spa where they’re feed nothing but meat, steroids and Viagra.”
“Lies…” Jonathon huffed.
“Whatever…” Noam shrugged. “At the Spa they have their own gym where they exercise all day under the supervision of doctors and nutritionists. They’re made into Arnold Schwarzenegger-like sex bots.”
“That’s only partially true, Noam.” Jonathon dismissively swatted Noam with his hand as he turned to me. “Look, you have, us. You have the Brotherhood.”
Everyone at the table smiled, chanting in unison, “The Brotherhood…The Brotherhood…To The Brotherhood!”