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Three months deep into my break-up, I have experienced almost all of them.

First there’s shell shock, followed by denial, and then some combination of paralysis, anger, and loneliness.

Although he posed it less as a question and more as an offer, adding that he’d had a few threesomes in the past that were “OK or whatever,” but he’d be willing to have another if it’s what wanted.

I said it was very generous of him, and before I knew it, he was leading me into a nearby gay bar, where he suggested I “find a girl for a group sex,” despite the fact that 98 percent of the people in the bar were gay men.

He was wearing high-waisted khakis and had overgrown nose hairs, but he was really sweet, and was becoming funnier with every sip of punch I took.

Primed by my screening of I was eager for an atypical experience, so I agreed to go back to his apartment.

Sometimes the idea of “getting out there” seems like torture, but you have to do it, because the alternative is a life of sitting home alone, eating bags of beef jerky while watching trying to will myself into the headspace of the film’s main character, who takes great pleasure in fucking strange men—something I, too, used to find sexy and exciting, before my ex-girlfriend tore out my heart and threw it in the trash along with my will to live and my problematically high sex drive.