In a Sea of Dicks

When I came to London last year, I really struggled with chemsex. It feels omnipresent, so normalized that not participating makes you feel like an outsider in the community. It carried me through the night, from one sexual encounter to the next. All day, all night. It makes you feel strong, confident, hard—almost superhuman.

There’s always a price, though. My wake-up call came when someone at a chill asked if I could still have sober sex. Back then, I was very new in the city and found the thought ridiculous. Of course I can! What kind of question is that? Then you reflect on how often it really happens… the weekends are a blur, you dance the night away, then end up at someone’s house, and before you realize, it’s Sunday evening again.

So I got myself help. My therapist uses dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) with me. It teaches that two seemingly contradictory things can both be true. For example, accepting oneself and striving to change can coexist, which helps build self-acceptance and reduces feelings of invalidation. DBT is especially effective for depression, eating disorders, and substance abuse.

Him being a more experienced gay man who went through similar struggles, we connect very well. He makes me feel understood, never judges, and puts up the mirror from time to time. I’ve learned a lot—about myself, about triggers, the erotic desire cycle, stages of horniness, how to say no, and most of all, being kind to myself.

Those drugs are confidence in power form. They also rip away all the confidence I had when doing sober sex. The other day, I met someone who checked all my attraction boxes. Big. Hairy. Confident. A smile that makes me melt. His hungry eyes were eating me before we even got naked. Jackpot. And I find myself fucking him, struggling even as I am so turned on. And out of the depths of my unconscious, my brain, almost like a small devil popping up at my shoulder, delivers the solution: “Just take some Mephedrone, you’ll perform so much better.”

Luckily, it was 11am on a Wednesday. I had plans. I’m not gonna fuck my day by getting high there. And even…! As if coming fast is a problem. We cuddle a bit, and go for a second round. It’s okay not to be superhuman. There’s no jury that will judge me based on performance here. Plus, the feeling was mutual.

Going back to sober sex is like taking the wheels off when you first learn biking as a kid. Where there was confidence and racing, there’s now some wobbliness. It’s a bit harder. It requires genuine connection. I might not be hard all the time. That’s okay. I will be kind to myself. It’s a learning experience.

Soon enough, I’ll race again. 🚲