A couple of weeks ago, I woke up curled comfortably next to one of my best friends. He jolted up, looked at me, and then with a disappointed look on his face, muttered, “Shit, I thought I got laid for a second.” After deciding to interpret that as a compliment about my honorability (my what?), I realized that I, too, usually only wake up next to a someone in bed after several bouts of back-bending bliss. I pondered for a moment, then considered: Was this non-physical disappointment exemplary of a dry spell?

As you can probably guess, I’m unfamiliar with the details of sexual dehydration. This multi-faceted concept recently piqued my interest, however, and I learned that despite the hordes of happy (read: drunken) revelers eager to exchange their goods (read: bodies) with only the most respectful courtier (read: Gropey McGroperson), coeds still manage to find themselves smack dab in the middle of a slump. I’ve heard accounts of dry spells ranging from two weeks to nine months to 21 years. When this kind of biological disaster occurs in nature, panic ensues. I’m in no position to judge the weary desert travelers seeking relief in the form of Chatroulette’s endless supply of naked dicks, but maybe it’s time to end the drought. That’s right, we’re gonna need a rain dance.

There is something to be said for a regular source of fluids, that’s for sure. Boyfriends and girlfriends are rarely spotted in the sandy dunes of frequent masturbation, and they’re usually adequately appreciative of their sources. However, it’s essential for these people to pay attention to the water, to keep external particles from clogging it up, or the faucet will stop putting out. In my experience, sex is the first thing to go in a relationship. If the water pressure gets awkwardly low, it might be time to let someone else get under the sink and perk up the pipes themselves, you know? It could be that one person’s puddle is another person’s super duper hot spring.

A dry spell may leave you dizzy, weak and vulnerable. Beware of the sweaty gym rats who’ll lure you in with promises of treasure and instead hand you an ultimatum with a side of crabs. There are few benefits of a forced relationshit when you’re in the fragile state of revirginization, wouldn’t you agree? That’s sort of like being the Vietnamese baby handcuffed at the ankles in Vegas this weekend — it’s an effective captivity, but unnecessarily humiliating. Don’t let your fear of monogamy keep you from diving headfirst into the pool, though. Remember: There’s a big, fat, happiness-stuffed line between “Can I hang out with my friends tonight?” and “Bitch get naked.” In this cheerful, colorful paradise there are friends and friends of friends ready to slurp and be slurped up. It’s these enthusiasts the sex gods smile upon, and they shall never go thirsty.

But where to find this magic land? Under what cushion, through what looking glass, in what glory hole can we find the map to the nearest roaring rapids? To get there, we must accept the challenge of change. I think that means that when you’re surrounded by five equally attractive paths pointing you toward a similarly refreshing drink, you’re going to have to pick one. Yes, just one. I think it also means you’ll need to alternate your attentions between the UV and the blonde in the strappy sandals. And, unfortunately, I think it means that instead of hibernating in your house playing a Billy Madison drinking game by yourself, you need to check out that cute guy’s big screen TV with over 600 channels.

The good news is that there’s an oasis in sight: Cinco de Mayo will supply us with unlimited beer and bodies. It’s like having an endless supply of Gatorade — ready to quench your thirst?