By now I’m quite certain you can picture me. Hear my voice in a posh British accent? Yes, my story is set in France (FRAHNS)—that hardly matters.

I am a young ingénue wearing an elaborately coiffed and powdered wig. My corset is tight, so tight you can trace the pace of my breathing by the rise and fall of my cleavage. I run to the Juliette balcony overlooking the gardens. Our staff scurries across the grounds, readying our estate for the ball. There will be elaborate tapestries on the walls, coup glasses overflowing with champagne, silver trays piled with colorful petit fours, silk gowns draped over bulbous hoop skirts and, best of all, Sexy Hunk A and Sexy Hunk B, the two most important men in my life and possibly the world.

Soon, I’ll have to decide which to marry. For now, we do a lot of courtship. One of them might stare at me, and I stare back. I might sigh dramatically and he keeps staring. I fan myself. Stare. I look away. Stare. Things get pretty tense. The other hunk might approach me then.

“Has Sexy Hunk A caught your eye?” I fan myself. He bites his lower lip. Things have been going on like this for ages. Our ménage a trois captures all the chaste sexual energy of smashing two naked Barbies together. We sigh, we glance, we fan. Under no circumstances will we undress. Unless…

The guests arrive by horse drawn carriages. A string quartet welcomes them in with the age’s most fire beats. Here come the gentlemen.

Is it hot in this ball room? Or is that just the erotic charge between the two men vying for my affections? One of the Sexy Hunks is hot and nice, the other: hot and mean. I’ll let you guess which I prefer more.

There’s just something about the mean one. I can’t put my finger on it. Rich? No, Sexy Hunk B also goes by George. And by the way, his family is quite well-off. They’ve earned a tidy living dispatching a crew of indentured servants from one colony to another as they pillage and plunder. Isn’t that grand? (GRAHND.)

Some say he’s the sharpest business mind of our generation. Others say his impeccable breeding lines might be going sour—and also mention that he’s spent more of his inheritance than he’s earned. I say, that’s the price for marrying into a lifetime supply of nutmeg, silk and fine bone china. What more could a girl dream of?

A girl could also dream of Sexy Hunk A. He has a crooked smile, to B’s stern scowl. Tousled blond hair to B’s slicked back crown. We dance and he clasps my lower back with a hand.

“Who powdered your hair? I love this look,” he tells me. A man should always be up to date on the latest hairstyles. “I arranged this bouquet for you. Do you like it?” A manservant carries over a large vase erupting with blossoms.

“Sexy Hunk A, it’s marvelous,” I breathe.

Trumpets sound. What’s that? A giant, throbbing member—of an enemy clan! Beatrice, my rival, arrives and threatens to destroy the ball, by being an ugly skank.

“Still dancing with the gays, I see,” she says.

“We were all quite gay until you arrived.”

I gather my Sexy Hunks for a tête-à-tête-à-tête off the dance floor. With Beatrice threatening my turf, I must take action. I don’t know how I could choose between them. Each of the Sexy Hunks has so much to offer and so little to say that I could project almost any fantasy brain on to them.

Sexy Hunk A is sweet and stylish. Sexy Hunk B is loaded and serious. I tell them there is only one way to determine who is really a match for whom: a threesome. They ask what I mean by that. I mean we lie in bed together and breathe in a dramatic way, stroke each other's faces and say ooh and aah.

I warn them of the downside, it’s possible I’ll never be able to choose one of them. We’ll live forever in this suspended fantasy, sighing and gazing in an anachronistic version of the renaissance, a world both hyper-sexual and completely neutered. A world where there’s no dental care but everyone has nice teeth. A world without birth control where somehow no women are pregnant.

“Young Ingenue,” Sexy Hunk B says. “You’re really overthinking this. Some people just want to consume a story that doesn’t remind them that the female orgasm wasn’t discovered until 1905. They want to forget about brutality and suffering, and enjoy some frivolous beauty and fun.”

Sexy Hunk A runs a thumb across B’s jaw. “He’s right, you know. Now how about that threesome?”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go ohh and ahh.”

So off we go, with each hunk holding onto one of my hands. (HAHNDS.)