Dategirl

At what point does a sexual "slump" become "hermitry" or "potentially clinical frigidity" or "indicative of antisocial disorder"…or "masturbation as potentially and perversely preferable alternative?"

—Jim

Wow. Without knowing exactly how long said sad slump has been going on, it's difficult to gauge where you're at on the celibacy spectrum. In order to help you determine just how pathetic an existence you're living, I've devised a Purity Projector:

One Week: Seven days? You're kidding, right? Fuck you. You're not allowed to complain.

One Month: Four weeks is still shrug-offable. Maybe you're just really busy or have a zit or that latest haircut went really badly.

Two Months: This is where I start to panic and run through AA batteries like I've bought stock in Eveready. But really, 60 days, gulp, without some naked guy rubbing his bits all up in you isn't that long. Is it? As long as there's internet porn and Oz on DVD, there's really no need to freak.

Six Months: If two months was bad, six is where I really run into trouble. Panic gives way to hopelessness and dread. Once, at the six-month mark, I uttered that most cursed phrase: "I will never have sex again." At the time I believed it, and so within two hours of those words exiting my mouth, I found myself banging my most hygienically challenged ex. And guess what—he still couldn't throw a decent fuck. I would've been better off having sex with myself; at least I wouldn't have had to burn my sheets and disinfect my apartment afterward.

I warned a friend about the curse, but she threw caution to the wind, and in a bad moment said the same phrase aloud and wound up nailing a skanky, undeserving ex-boyfriend of hers. If you know what's good for you, do not ever allow those words to cross your lips. (Here's hoping typing the curse doesn't activate it.) There are some fates far worse than extreme hornitude.

Eight Months: Drastic measures are called for. Dread morphs into desperation because you do not, under any circumstances want to make chastity into a lifestyle choice. You have to fuck somebody—anybody—before it gets to be a Year Without Sex. In order to stave this off, you need to take drastic measures. Lower your standards immediately. Start hanging out at bars around closing time (nap until 2 a.m. if you must), fake a British accent, go online and answer every ad that falls within your newly widened parameters. (Who cares if that chick used to have a dick? She's a girl now, isn't she?) Speaking of which, consider broadening your horizons and making lesbianism, homosexuality or heterosexuality a temporary preference. Banging a broad isn't gonna kill you, is it? Nor will accepting a blowjob from a handsome stranger. If anybody asks, you can just tell them you were going through a bi-curious stage.

One Year: Congratulations, you're a born-again virgin. Remember how fun it was to lose it the first time? Yeah, well, it's even less fun now. After you've gone one year, it doesn't matter how many sex-free years follow. It's all a blur from here on in.

My normally hyper-sexed friend David recently went a year without sex and primly informed me he used the time he saved by not chasing tail to concentrate on his writing. Of course he can afford to be smug about it now, because he has a new girlfriend. For days after seeing (read: doing) her, he retains the cocky cackle of the just-fucked male. This is in sharp contrast to his normal, self-deprecating goofball titter.

I once went two excruciatingly long years. I was so bereft and miserable and my game so long-gone that a friend actually staged an intervention. She got me liquored up, picked up a guy for me and poured us both into a cab. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but it worked out fine. I vowed never to get that far gone again.

But in case you, gentle reader, are at the year-plus mark, I've looked up some handy facts on doing without in a dismal, but well-researched, little read called A History of Celibacy. Hippocrates warned women against abstaining from sex because it caused a condition he called "menstrual blood blockage," which was responsible for madness and suicidal thoughts. The only Rx: sexual intercourse.

Which makes the following factoids all the more chilling: A 1986 Ann Landers poll found that 72 percent of women polled preferred cuddling to coitus. Stars Angelina Jolie (how'd that happen?) and Cher both recently went public proclaiming their lack o' action between the sheets. Ladies, I urge you to get busy immediately!

Curiously, Hippocrates had quite another take on men's health. He advised men to keep their semen within (and that precludes masturbation as well as sex with another), citing a young man who had "actually died, raving mad, after a simple stomach ailment escalated into a fatal illness, so drastically had he weakened his body by recklessly depleting his stores of semen."

And really, if you never got laid again, would that be so bad? Sure, excessive masturbation might cause you to go mental and die, but you'd actually be in pretty good company if you never again bumped uglies. Leonardo da Vinci was celibate, as was Lewis Carroll (he only liked to look at the little girls). Sir Isaac Newton lived his entire smarty-pants productive life as either a virgin or near-celibate, and in 1967 the notoriously evolved Catholic Church's Pope Paul VI declared celibacy "a brilliant jewel." (A brilliant jewel presumably dinged up a bit by the buggering of underage boys, but a nice theory nonetheless.)

There. Doesn't that make you feel better?