Let’s not beat around the bush: when I was in the thick of chemsex, sex wasn’t just a pastime — it was basically my national sport. Several times a day? Standard issue. And when the drugs ran out? Well, that’s what escorts were for. Because nothing screams “stable adult” quite like finding a stranger off the internet to sort both your cravings in one neat little package.
Now, I’m not here to tar every escort with the same brush, but let’s just say some of them had more side hustles than a Deliveroo driver. And honestly, fair play — because imagine clocking into that line of work stone-cold sober. You’d need the patience of a saint and the energy of a six-year-old on Sunny D. So yes, for some, drugs became less of a choice and more of an unofficial job requirement.
Escorts do have limits though — it’s not always a free-for-all. But chemsex drugs? They have a way of smudging the line between “nah, not for me” and “oh go on then.” A mate even told me once that if he wanted drugs, he wouldn’t bother looking for a dealer — he’d just book an escort. Talk about efficiency. Amazon Prime could only dream.
But here’s the bit I can’t laugh off: behind all the absurdity, there’s a very real sadness. The suffering is massive — for the punters chasing oblivion, for the escorts using chems to get through another client, for anyone caught in that spiral. I can joke about it now, but at the time, it was bleak.
And that’s why I’m writing this — not because it’s comfortable, but because if my mess of a story helps even one person recognise themselves and think, maybe there’s another way through this, then it’s worth it.
Humour aside, the reality is this: chemsex isn’t glamorous, it isn’t liberating — it’s just pain in fancy dress. And if me saying that out loud spares someone else a fraction of that suffering, then at least some good comes out of the chaos.
