I was both touched and fascinated by Kristine Shaw’s explanation of her reason for seeking out a threesome, as detailed in Salon:

A single woman with a trusting, wide-open heart spells disaster in our casual hookup culture.

My problem was this: I fell in love with all of them.

I fell in love with the ones who declared that they wanted to screw me senseless. I fell in love with the ones who declared that they loved someone else. I fell in love with the ones who lived thousands of miles away and fed me tequila shots in dank basement bars in strange European cities. I even fell in love with those I chose specifically because they were not appropriate to fall in love with.

Subconsciously holding onto my childhood ideals of loving purely and being loved in return, I emotionally latched onto every man who shared my bed, however fleetingly. I could not help myself. I could not stop myself. My vagina suffered from Stockholm syndrome.

Inevitably, I would run into these former lovers on the subway, at parties, in record shops, in grocery stores, and my thumping, traitor heart would leap into my throat. If I could manage to hide in throngs of people or cross the street in order to avoid them, I would. But hiding or running away would do little to quell aftershocks of perspiration and nausea, the inconvenient corporeal byproducts of seeing somebody you once loved who didn’t love you back.

There had to be another way. There had to be some way for a perpetually, achingly single woman to derive sexual pleasure and skin-on-skin contact and affection without consistently breaking her own heart.

I decided that I had to try something new, because what I was doing – what I have always done – was not exactly working out.

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