Make Me by Charlotte Stein Page A

too, but above all of that is the idea that I be as comfortable as humanly possible, while discussing threesomes.
    And I think … I think I love him a little bit for that. I think I love them both for being so careful and considerate, and for saying things like: ‘We just wanted to make sure you knew that we want to talk
with
you. Not just about … your vagina, behind your back.’
    I fight the urge to burst out laughing. Of course, it’s all really clear then: the tea and cakes, the faux-vacation, the sense of unbearable tension trying to crush my soul all the time. And then there are the conversations we’ve been having …
    ‘Is that why we’ve been having so many chats about ’80s cartoons?’ I ask, in a sudden rush of understanding. Thankfully, Brandon has the decency to look sheepish.
    ‘We were trying to show you that we don’t see you as a …’ Brandon starts.
    ‘A sex object,’ Tyler finishes.
    I almost laugh again, only this time it feels even less appropriate. They both seem scarily serious about this, in a way I hadn’t fully processed the last time Brandon said. He’d told me about his worries, that I might see him as an asshole. But I don’t think I’d appreciated how deep that went.
    ‘Guys, I really don’t think it’s a big deal that you talk about me or … or fantasise about me. It’s actually a relief, in a way, because … well, I do it about you. I mean, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? You fancy someone and they fancy you and then you kind of think about doing stuff with them?’
    They glance at each other and, for one awful moment, I’m sure I’ve said the wrong thing. I haven’t taken into account the fact that this isn’t just boy meets girl, and in bypassing that I’ve exposed myself as a heinous pervert, who doesn’t mind threesomes. Who will, in fact, accept them, as long as she knows that the two guys involved totally dig her and aren’t just fucking around.
    But then Tyler eyes me quizzically, and says, ‘You fantasise about us?’
    And I realise I’ve made a critical error. ‘Well, I …’
    ‘As in, you think about us doing stuff to you, while you … you know,’ Brandon says, and he does it in the nicest way possible, he really does. He uses a vague term instead of the actual word ‘masturbate’, and he doesn’t make any sort of illustrative gestures with his hands. I’m not suddenly forced to imagine a giant clitoris, hovering in the air in front of him.
    It’s just that I’m starting to feel trapped, regardless. I seem to be clenching at the leather I’m sitting on, and my shoulders have gone all tense, and I can feel my heart fluttering in my chest. I’m not even sure why, but it’s there – and it gets worse the longer this staring contest goes on. They’re waiting for an answer, I know.
    But this is the only one I have to give: ‘Why is
this
the weird thing? You guys … you guys jerked off together while talking about fucking me!’
    ‘True,’ Tyler says, as he does something cool and deliberate like finger the stem of his wine glass. ‘But we didn’t know you liked that idea.’
    ‘I didn’t say I did,’ I tell him, then immediately regret it. The words just make Brandon even more skittish than he is already, like I’ve accused him of something or exposed
him
as the pervert.
    Though if that is what I’m doing, it’s only to take the heat off myself. I’m a coward, and a fool – one who can’t even answer simple questions, like this one: ‘Then tell us what you do like.’
    A million images buzz through my mind, but instead of illustrating any of them, I find myself turning to look at the restaurant patrons just over my shoulder. There’s a woman not ten feet from us, wearing a dress made out of sheerest class. In fact, everyone in here is dressed in sheerest class. The whole place is dripping with elegance, from the tasteful lighting that ensures no one looks a day over twenty, to the alpine white of the snapped smooth