The 8 Phases Every Betch Goes Through During A Dry Spell

There are two types of people in this world: there are people who have sex, and there are people whose recent Google search activity investigates the exact amount of time it takes until one re-becomes a virgin (*cough cough* you). Look, I’m not one to judge here. Whether you’re a chronically single and frustrated adult human, or you married your high school sweetheart after 10 years of dating, chances are you’ve encountered a sexual dry spell at one point in your life.

The stages of dry spells are similar to the stages of grief, as the first stages or both consist of aggressively dodging all issues related to the problem and denying the shit out of it until someone who barely tolerates you shoves your ass into therapy. Lucky for you, I’m here to help you skip all the hard shit and suggest alternatives to ease your current state of dickpression (see what I did there?) because I’m such a good friend.

LOL, sike. You’re the one who’s reading made-up shit from someone on the internet.

Stage 1: Blissful Ignorance

So it’s been a few months without a casual hookup or a Bumble match you actually care to talk to, but that’s nothing to call home about because you’re still hanging onto those blurry details from your last sexcapade that still make their way into Sunday brunch convos. Listen, I get it, you got busy, it was tax season, whatever. Although you’re fully aware of your lack of Vitamin D, during these early onset stages of dickpression, you’ve likely come to the conclusion that you’re way too far into Game of Thrones to actually do something about it…yet.

Stage 2: Utter Denial

It’s your average Monday morning at work. You attempt to cover up the hangover from yesterday’s bottomless mimosa binge with burnt office coffee as you skim over emails you plan on never responding to. But then it hits you. The thought of sex sweeps through your mind. Perhaps it was nothing more than the blissful feeling of biting into your morning donut, which immediately caused you to question if this one sugar-coated pastry is, in fact, better than sex.

You start to think back to when the last time you actually did the deed was…no way, it couldn’t have been that long ago, could it have? You may not remember all the details until suddenly it occurs to you that the last time any sort of male genitalia came within a 6-inch radius of your precious cargo was circa cuffing season 2016, right around the time Starbucks whipped out those dumb snowflake cups, as in there was actually snow on the ground and it wasn’t pushing summer.

Stage 3: Subtle Panic Attack

This stage is actually the fucking worst. Reality has started to set in that you’ve never gone this long without a steady diet of dick, which means that you’ve also gone full “Are You There God? It’s Me Desperate”. You start asking yourself questions that aren’t even logical in the slightest. Have they changed sex? What does a penis even look like these days? Is there a Sex for Dummies? This eventually calls for a much needed Xanax and chill the fuck out, because at this point in your quest for precious peen, you could literally crack at any given second…

Stage 4: Crippling Horniness

It starts out as your average day. You go to work, attempt a spin class, make a grocery run…totally normal, right? Except that absolutely nothing is normal. Johnson from accounting is suddenly igniting a fire in your sacred oasis and the Fast Times at Ridgemont High daydream is in full swing before you even reach for that second cup of coffee (wait, did someone just say Johnson?). You can’t even walk through the produce aisle without the zucchini inspiring phallic fantasies, and don’t even get me started on the way the UPS guy handles those giant packages with the utmost care and delicacy…need I say more?

Stage 5: The Alcohol Binge

At this point, there’s literally nothing else that can bring such levels of pleasure. Don’t fucking judge me.

Stage 6: Recycling

The full-blown irony of this phase is that the attempt to recycle guys is literally the same feeling as recycling your collection of Tito’s bottles from last week’s pregame: It’s a lot of fucking work and it honestly doesn’t even make you feel that good when the deed is done.

But by this stage you’re about as steady minded as “Blank Space” Taylor Swift, so you decide to contact everybody who you’ve had sex with in the past, ever, because technically they’ve shown interest before, so it’s like the first step is already over, right? Wrong. Stop. Go home. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 dicks, because recycling will generally end in one of two ways: You sleep with your college hookup and question how in the living fuck you ever tolerated that shitty excuse for a Friday night lay, or you attempt to lure in your college hookup and completely, miserably fail*.

*Permission to plead the fifth on how I know this.

Stage 7: Acceptance

Not to be a bitch, but Marilyn Monroe can shove her fake as fuck inspirational quotes up her bleached asshole (may her soul rest in peace, Amen), because it’s time betches get some real advice:

“Last night took an ‘L’, but tonight I bounce back.”— Big Sean

Read it, live it, breathe it. If you’ve gotten this far, I’m just gonna take a shot in the dark and assume you’ve hit rock bottom. But the good news is, you can only go up from here. It’s been a rough six months (give or take a year) of intense sex dreams of your pit-stained boss with chronic morning breath, and also taking one too many vigorous hits to your shake weight, but you also know that in order to get back on the D train, you’ll have to take a few L’s. This gives you time to practice playing the best game possible and channel your pent-up tension elsewhere, so you reluctantly say yes to that coed summer soccer league and you update your Bumble bio for the third time this week. Your new sense of sexual euphoria is restored quicker than the new Apple iOS update, because we all know that what lies beyond a dreaded dick drought can only be one thing…

Stage 8: SEX.

…Until the next dry spell.

Alex Conrad
Alex Conrad
Alex Conrad is an Orange County-based writer who prides herself in the art of pregaming and lives by the mantra, "If you can't tone it, tan it." When she's not scheming up how to get away with doing the bare minimum, she's probably attempting to justify her latest Target purchase to her husband. Follow her on Instagram @ayyycon_ for french bulldog spam but mostly just for validation.