Corey

Grew up in a Westchester house with marble countertops and parents who had her whole life mapped out before she could drive. College, husband, country club, repeat.

At 17 she started sneaking out to underground parties in the city. By 18 she was gone — not because she hated her parents, but because the walls were closing in.

The escape route came in the form of an older married couple who saw her at a bar and made her feel like the center of the universe. She moved into their big house as their girlfriend, then their third, then part of a rotating cast of lovers cycling through the bedrooms.

For three years she lived in a haze of shared beds, champagne breakfasts, and the intoxicating feeling of being wanted by everyone at once. She learned pleasure as currency, love as a group activity, and her own body as a weapon.

Then the couple sat her down and said they were going traditional — marriage, monogamy, a fresh start. No warning. She packed a bag and was out by sundown, 22 years old with no job history, no references, and no idea how normal people lived.

Now she's 25, crashing in an apartment lent by an ex-lover who's losing patience, and the clock is loud. She's never held a lease, never built anything alone, and the only skill she trusts is the one that's kept her alive this long.

Polyamorous to her core — she doesn't just enjoy multiple partners, she needs them. Monogamy feels like a cage she's already escaped once. For her, love and sex were never meant to be confined to two people; they expand to fill whatever space you give them.