You Feel Dead Inside & Other Signs You REALLY Need To Get Laid

Do you need to get laid or are you just ANGRY at the world? Keep reading to find out. 

We’ve all been there. No matter how positively sexy, exorbitantly wealthy, stunningly beautiful, brilliantly funny, or fabulously popular you might be, you’ve been through a dry spell.

It’s not always because the masses aren’t chomping at the bit to slide their fingers through the insides of your distressed skinny jeans — sometimes we’re dry because we’ve lost touch with our sexuality. Sometimes we’re dry because we’re too heartbroken to even think of kissing, let alone having sex, with someone who isn’t our toxic ex-lover.

Sometimes we’re dry because we’ve decided we detest the way we look and the mere thought of putting ourselves out there is enough to make us want to crawl under the sheets of our own bed and never, ever emerge into the daylight again. Sometimes work consumes us, swallows us whole, and leaves us no time to get down and dirty with ourselves, nevermind anyone else.

If you have never experienced a dry spell, I loathe you. Seriously. You’re as bad as those freaks of nature blessed with ripped abs who claim to never go to the gym!

Look, being sexually frustrated is a very real thing we (at least *most* of us) humans grapple with. Our bodies are made to intertwine with other bodies; our bodies are made to engage in a type of conversation that doesn’t involve words; our bodies were made to enjoy the radical possibilities of pleasure, babe.

And the worst part about being sexually frustrated is that sometimes it’s hard to pinpoint that sexual frustration is the issue. Sexual frustration can manifest in a plethora of complicated, confusing ways.

Lucky for you, I’m here to break it down and give you some signs that maybe you, little sister, need to get laid.

You have a manic, wild energy that easily turns into rage. 


When I’m sexually frustrated, I sometimes wake up wired. Not the “I’ve been on a juice cleanse and am ready to conquer the world” kind of wired — a speedy, whacked-out kind of wired. The short-circuit kind of wired that you know will easily turn on you if the slightest thing goes wrong.

“THE COFFEE MACHINE WASN’T PLUGGED IN!” I’d scream at my roommate, pounding my fists against my chest like a gorilla.

“WHYYY DID YOU LET ME TAKE THE SUBWAY HOME LAST NIGHT!” I’d shout to my best friend, as if she’s my caregiver responsible for making sure I take a car instead of the train after midnight.

“I QUIT!” I’ll furiously type into the body of my email after getting a note I dislike from an editor. (Luckily, so far, I’ve never pressed the “send” button.)

In short, I’m irritable. I’m cranky. I’m pent up with repressed desires that have manifested into a dangerous, mommy-dearest-esque mania. When I start to find myself shouting at traffic lights and duking it out with every bouncer in town — I know it’s time to get laid. I know my body is screaming for a body to crush me with its gorgeously heavy human weight. Or else I just might have that one freakout that leaves me strapped to a gurney and being hauled away to the mental ward.

You can’t stop slapping sugar into your mouth.  


Do you know what gives you an orgasmic, spine-tingling, toe-curling, full body-and-soul RUSH? Gooey chocolate chip cookies. Warm bread baskets. Slices of cake, cake, cake.

Sugar gives you a rush, not unlike sex. And when your body is starved for sex, it makes perfect sense that you’re going to crave something else that gives you a sweeping sensation of ~blissful~ naughtiness. There is nothing wrong with wanting a little bit ‘o sugar every now and then, but when your sugar cravings get obsessive, shit can get dark, fast.

Before you know it, you’re blacked out in front of the fridge stuffing white bread dunked in vanilla frosting into your mouth with the same robotic fervor of a Vegas Zombie pumping quarters into a slot machine! And then 30 minutes later, once the pleasure hormones have worn off, you’ll find yourself depressed (a sugar crash is on par with a drug crash!) in the fetal position on the couch wondering when your life became so empty.

Your life isn’t empty. Your vagina is.

You’re no longer having sex dreams.


Sex begets sex dreams. No sex begets no sex dreams. When I’m sexually charged, my subconscious is also sexually charged, and I often wake up breathless after dreaming about rolling around in the sheets with a sexy dyke! When I stop having sex dreams, and I dream about weird shit like puppy-pony hybrids, I know it’s time to get laid. It means I’m so dry my body has forgotten about the magic of sex.

You feel dead inside. 


Sexuality is attached to so many things. Your passion. Your animalistic, primal side. Your creativity. Your drive. When your sexuality isn’t being expressed, it’s easy to feel like you aren’t even a body anymore. You start to feel like a computer. A hard-drive intended to store information. You’re able to do things with ease, like type up spreadsheets and pay the bills on time and clean the kitchen. But you’re missing the moxie in your life. The fire. The feelings. You feel, for lack of a better word, dead inside.

And yes, there are upsides to being dead inside. For one, you don’t get hurt as often, and it’s also easier to get shit done smoothly. But it’s boring. You might as well be sleeping through your beautiful life.

So get laid and feel crazy again! Feel fiery. Feel lustful. Feel wickedly creative. Feel freakishly passionate. Get your heartbroken. Get jealous. Life without sex is like a life without avocados. What’s a salad without an avocado? A salad I don’t want to eat, that’s for sure, babe.






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