Confession #1
Are you fed-the-fuck up with online dating?
How is it possible with so many dating apps at our fingertips and with all the supposed “intelligence” behind matching us with ‘the one’ that when we’re finally aligned to our perfect guy, the reality is… a lot less handsome and a lot less truthful than the glowing “we recommend you meet…” profile? Oh, he likes cats too? Seriously? There may be algorithms at work, but there’s zero intelligence in the idiots I keep getting paired with. My rule has always been simple: only put myself on the market (or, let’s be honest, the shelf I’ve been collecting dust on… not a great look for a guy in his thirties) for when I’m absolutely ready. Body, soul, spirit, the whole damn package. The idea being that when “the one” finds me, I’ll be primed for happily-ever-after. Unfortunately, most men don’t share this philosophy. Instead, they flog themselves on the apps like a carton of semi-skimmed milk, looks fine on the shelf, but if you don’t check the sell-by date properly, you end up with a sour taste in your mouth. And trust me, it’s not the good kind.
Honestly, the dating world needs a complete overhaul. Forget swiping on abs and cute #Guncle poses, I would be the first to sign up for an app where exes leave reviews of their exes. A bit like Glassdoor, but for relationships. Why shouldn’t we get the inside scoop from the poor souls who’ve been “love-bombed and abandoned” before us? It could work like a credit score: you can’t shake it off until you prove you’re actually capable of a meaningful investment. Imagine a night in with your mates, three bottles of Pinot down, scrolling through your suitors’ reviews on Hinge or Tinder. “Two stars. Said he was looking for something serious. Ghosted me after three dates and a blowjob.” Wild. And more importantly it would force men to reflect, grow, and maybe, just maybe, stop wasting everyone’s time.
But here I am, three years deep into swiping every morning like it’s part of my skincare routine, and my ‘one’ is still nowhere to be seen. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into... god help me... years, ‘Que inner Carrie Bradshaw at window ledge on Laptop – “I couldn’t help but wonder”… am I the common factor? Why is it so easy for other people? I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve moaned about my single life to another singleton who was just as tragic and downbeat as me only for them to suddenly meet “the man of their dreams,” get engaged, and buy a bloody house in the same timeframe it takes me to get ghosted by someone who told me I had “a nice smile.”
The only piece of hope I cling to is a psychic reading I had done years ago during the break-up between EX NO:2 and I. He told me I wouldn’t find love; real, lasting, marriage-level love until I had something of my own first. Something solid. Something no one could take away from me. Only then he said would I meet my person. And when I do, we’ll marry in a country neither of us has ever been to before. A riddle wrapped in wine-stained mysticism, maybe. But when you’ve been swiping for three years straight, you’ll cling to anything. Even a psychic who whacked out his card machine for payment as I was crying my eyes out.
If the psychic is correct, then my ‘one’ is imminent. His prophecy had a seven-year timeline and we are haemorrhaging that timeframe. But to his credit he did say I wouldn’t meet him until I had something of my own, and now I do: my PR firm. My baby. My proof that I can spin a story, sell a dream, and keep a client from emailing me at 11 p.m. about their “urgent” press release. It’s the one thing in my life that is truly mine, and I am so damn proud of it. So yes, in many ways, I am the London Samantha Jones confidently representing architecture studios and striding into meetings with flair. But in the bedroom? Let’s just say I’ve got the sexual optimism of Charlotte York, minus the Park Avenue zip code. Samantha on the streets, Charlotte in the sheets.
The exciting thing about being single is the delicious unpredictability of it all. You never know when the next suitor might appear. Will it be on a drunken night out in Soho? On a work trip where cocktails mix too easily with bad decisions? Or through a friend who swears he’s “totally your type” but inevitably introduces you to a man who’s into Pokémon Go? London is teeming with eligible bachelors. Statistically, the chances of bumping into one are high. But are they what you’re expecting? Spoiler: rarely.
And listen I can’t scream into the singleton void too loudly, because I know I’m partly to blame. I’m picky. I bruise easily. And yes, I have a checklist I’m not remotely ready to compromise on. (Tall, funny, emotionally available, good with his hands, doesn’t call himself an “entrepreneur” when he’s really just unemployed… it’s hardly unreasonable!) Mr. Right won’t find me if I’m curled up on the sofa binging Ted Lasso and eating an entire tub of Ben & Jerry’s, but when I do step out, in my best shirt, hair styled, face moisturised, teeth whitened, and aura screaming “ready for love”? Well, he’s still not showing up.
Which begs the real question: are dating apps actually smarter than us, or are our insecurities, egos, and self-sabotage doing all the dirty work for them?
Confession #2
Are you currently being ghosted, ghosting, or scared shitless of conjuring commitment?
We all know someone who’s been ghosted. Worryingly, far too many times. Or worse you’ve been that poor soul yourself, floating on what felt like a great connection, only to wake up one morning with blue ticks and no explanation. Spoiler alert: it’s always the nice ones who turn out to be world-class vanishing acts. I swear, the kinder they are, the faster they disappear like Disney princes with commitment issues.
It’s left me sceptical, paranoid, and with the constant niggling feeling that anyone who shows interest is already halfway to ghosting me. And honestly how the fuck are we supposed to show we like someone without looking too keen, while also not looking so aloof that #friendzone might as well be tattooed across our foreheads?
London adds another delightful twist: sex on the first date. If you don’t put out, it apparently screams “not interested.” Whereas for me, holding off isn’t rejection… it’s investment. It means, shock horror, that I think you’re worth waiting for, worth building up some intensity and actual attraction. But no. In the gay community, mystery is basically extinct.
It makes me pine for the old-school romance my parents had. My mum was the maid of honour, my dad was the best man, standing across the aisle exchanging stolen smiles at their best friends’ wedding. How fucking romantic is that? Thirty-five years on, mortgage paid off, two children raised, and still going strong they’re the reason I still believe in something bigger than casual flings and 2 a.m. “u up?” texts.
So yes, I think it’s time we officially address it: The Ghosting Epidemic. It’s ruining our self-esteem, eroding our hope for love, and killing any shred of trust that someone might actually text back. And like any epidemic, it’s contagious. Once you’ve been ghosted, you’re far more likely to ghost the next person without even realising it. Barriers go up, cynicism takes over, and suddenly you’re swiping left on the good ones while giving too much energy to the serial disappearers.
The cure? Simple. Call them out. Not in a needy, “why didn’t you text me back?” kind of way. No, no, no. In the “I’m not bothered… mate” way. The next time you see them in a bar, you give a little smirk, casually toss out, “You weren’t the one anyway,” and sashay straight back to your mates like Regina George in designer trainers. Is it petty? Probably. Is it Mean Girls-esque? Absolutely. But honestly? Sometimes that’s exactly the level of toxic energy we need to survive dating in London.
The last time I was ghosted was goddamn awful. Like so many unsuspecting façades before him, he came in strong with two full weeks of love bombing: constant texting, endless voice notes, unsolicited pics (which, to be fair, I did not hate), and casual banter that actually made me think, oh wow, he can type and flirt at the same time — talent. Most men would have given up after three days of failed scheduling, so when he finally set an actual date, time, and location, I was genuinely shocked.
We met. Sparks flew. He was hot—beautiful, even. A little dim, but with biceps like that, who the hell cares? He could’ve quoted Peppa Pig and I’d have nodded along. Then he invited me to a rock climbing event in Croydon. Yes… Croydon. Which, let’s be honest, should’ve been the red flag, but my libido said “adventure” so I packed myself onto the train like a good sport. And you know what? It was fun. We climbed, we laughed, he even took me to dinner after. Then, outside the station, he kissed me goodbye and whispered the fatal last words: “I look forward to seeing you again.” Did he fuck. Days went by. Messages dried up. And I quickly realised that instead of being a grown adult who communicates—like his profile literally claimed he was—he decided the coward’s route: ghosting.
What they don’t understand is that people like me stew on rejection. We don’t just let it go; we marinate in it. I spiral into a buffet of self-doubt. Was it my laugh? My hair? Did I order the wrong side dish? Was me falling from great heights not sexy? Maybe I’m too short, or too tall, or too… me. The thing is, if he’d just said, “Sorry mate, not feeling it,” I’d have one sting of truth to process. Instead, I’m left with a hundred hypothetical flaws, all competing for the trophy of “reason he never texted back.”
So while he’s out there flexing his biceps in Croydon, I’m at home doing mental gymnastics that make Olympic routines look like warm-ups. All because some man-child decided honesty was harder than disappearing.
I prescribe all the ghosted out there a drop of #fucktheghosts and give them a taste of their own medicine.
Confession #3
Are you dealing with a break up, or worse… watching your ex’s wedding video?
Nothing fills you with dread quite like finding out your ex has moved on. But nothing nothing can prepare you for when they marry the person they cheated on you with. Yep. True story. And yes, I was the fool who didn’t believe him when he first muttered something about “having feelings for someone else.”
Picture this: a sunny afternoon in my parents’ garden in Norfolk, me nobly holding up one side of a new shed we were erecting (the romance!), when he decides this is the perfect moment to confess. There I am, sweating, balancing beams like I’m auditioning for DIY SOS, and he casually drops: “I think I like someone else.” Excuse me? While I’m propping up a fucking shed? The audacity. I looked at him with pure disbelief. How could he be the one straying? He was the emotionally constipated one in the relationship. He couldn’t string a single affectionate sentence together for me, yet somehow managed to find another man and suddenly morph into Mr. Darcy.
And yes, I ignored it. I shoved it down like bad takeaway, because admitting the truth that we were crumbling was far more humiliating than clinging to the fantasy. I was so hell-bent on “fixing things,” not because of love, but because the thought of being left was too awful. Too embarrassing. Especially by someone with a personality so bland it could be bottled and sold as still water. Imagine the red flag above my head: If even HE left, what does that say about me?
Fast forward a few years, after the grieving, the reflecting, the “maybe it was me” spiral, and the endless bottles of Pinot and yes, I can admit I wasn’t easy to live with. I had my demons, I battled depression, and I know that isn’t a picnic for anyone to share. But instead of even attempting to understand it, he simply ignored it. If I acted out of line, I’d apologise. If he acted out of line, I was “overreacting.” Classic.
All I really wanted sometimes, at my lowest was for him to hug me. That’s it. Just wrap his arms around me and make me feel safe. But after four years, four birthdays, and one global lockdown spent entirely together, the man still couldn’t read me. Couldn’t give me that. Which, honestly, was the loudest alarm bell of them all. Because if the person you’ve spent a pandemic with can’t figure out how to comfort you when you’re most vulnerable, then he clearly wasn’t the one after all.
So hands up I’ll admit it I was hard to live with. I was emotional, I overreacted to the slightest inconvenience but let’s get one thing straight: unlike him, I didn’t hop into another man’s bed while still sharing mine. I didn’t cheat my way into “self-discovery.” No, I took the scenic route: four long years of reflection, growth, and more late-night Pinot-fuelled therapy sessions with my mates than I care to admit. “Figuring out who you are” always sounds tragic on paper. Like something you’d find stitched on a cushion in TK Maxx. Especially when you’re lying awake at night picturing your ex spooning someone new or worse, married to them. But eventually, the most irritating cliché in the world ‘time is a healer’ actually kicks in. And when it does, you suddenly feel far more empowered working on yourself than untangling the fuckboy issues of a man-child in Gymshark.
Because honestly no one wants to be the rebound. And yet, people still fall for it! I’m always stunned when someone proudly announces they’ve started seeing a married or “technically partnered” guy, only to parrot the sob story they’ve been fed: “Oh, he says it’s really hard at home… his partner’s a monster… he feels so trapped.” Please. What they mean is: “I’m bored and horny”. And of course, the poor sod on the side buys it thinking they’re starring in some grand romantic escape plot. So no, there was no way in hell I was ever going to date someone fresh out of a relationship. And definitely not someone still in one. I might be dramatic, but I’m not delusional. Instead, after years of hating the guy who “stole” my ex, I began to pity him. Because give it time those biceps and boyish charms of my ex always came with a side dish of emotional constipation. And sooner or later, his husband would discover exactly what I did: that behind the muscles and gym selfies was a man so incapable of affection, he could make a waxwork look emotionally available.
So yes, while I used to think the other man had won, I now sip my wine and smile smugly, knowing his “prize” is just my ex, rebranded. And his true colours? I guarantee they’re starting to blossom beautifully. Probably somewhere between “cold shoulder” and “emotional beige.”
Anyone out there dealing with a breakup or teetering on the edge of one take this advice: ask yourself, “Do they make me a better person?” If you have to pause, hesitate, or dramatically stare out of a window with a glass of wine in hand than you’ve got your answer. Leave them. Run. Don’t collect £200. Just go.
With my ex, I didn’t feel like a better person. I felt ugly. Stupid. Like my depression was my fault, and I was somehow poisoning everything around me. The reality? I didn’t need fixing I just needed a partner who could shine a light on life when it got dark. Someone to remind me that my demons didn’t own me, and that laughter could still drown them out. Instead, I got a man who couldn’t even locate a light switch.
When I finally decided it was over, it turned out he’d already pre-packed for his next adventure. The man had a new boyfriend lined up before I’d even had the chance to pack up our kitchen. He wasn’t heartbroken he was organised. Efficient, even. While I was staring into the abyss of singledom, he was already spooning the rebound, grief neatly disguised as “new love.” And me? I had nothing. No backup plan, no rebound waiting in the wings, not even a half-hearted situationship to soften the blow. Just me, Netflix, and a Deliveroo addiction that could fund a small economy. And that’s the scariest part of a breakup: facing life alone when you’ve built one so tightly interwoven with someone else. The silence is deafening. The sofa feels massive. Even the bloody fridge feels empty without his overpriced protein shakes taking up the top shelf.
Do I hate him? Absolutely. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the fact that instead of sitting me down like an adult and saying, “We’ve got problems,” he chose Option Sleez: sleep with someone else and hope I just got the hint. And sure, he’s now married, settled, safe. He’s got the white-picket-fence lifestyle he always swore he wanted with me but here’s the kicker: he never actually proved he was capable of investing in me. He just found someone else willing to buy the same bullshit with better credit.
Because let’s face it, if he cheated with you, he’ll cheat on you and the only aisle you’ll be walking down is the one in Tesco crying into the ice cream freezers.
Confession #4
Older but certainly not wiser.
There’s a reason Daddy-and-Son porn is top of the charts: it’s fantasy. A Rolex-clad silver fox funding your life while you stay moisturised and youthful. Sign me up. But real life isn’t Pornhub. Sometimes Daddy isn’t generous and suave, he’s a narcissist with a Napoleon complex stuffed into a Gucci belt. And once money enters the chat, it’s not romance, it’s a power exchange with no safe word.
From the outside, it looks dreamy. “Omg, Barbados! First class! Steak dinners!” But behind the mojito smiles are tears, subtle digs, and the Olympic-level mental gymnastics you perform convincing yourself it’s “worth it.” Because let’s be real: when you’re broke, free holidays are harder to turn down than Daddy’s Amex. So the cycle begins: champagne one week, pocket-money lectures the next. Yachts, penthouses, sheets with a higher thread count than your annual income… followed by lows that haunt you a decade later. And yes, I know, because I didn’t just dip a toe in the Daddy pool I swam the fucking English Channel.
I was Twenty-One, fresh out of university when he interviewed me for a job and offered an ultimatum instead: “Take the job… or be my boyfriend.” HR was trembling, but I thought: efficient! Career or sugar daddy? Reader, I chose sugar daddy. Suddenly I was office gossip, whisked from Primark socks to penthouse suites like Pretty Woman: Gay Edition, but with control issues baked into the fairy tale.
At first, it was intoxicating: Miami, Barbados, Michelin stars, Range Rovers. But every “gift” came with a receipt. Every decision needed sign-off. Gratitude turned into guilt. Even my Christmas laptop was company property. And sex? A Cold War stalemate, silently worsening until it just… vanished. And then, Gatwick Airport. Of all places. One-minute, duty-free Toblerone. Next minute: “This isn’t working.” I was jet-lagged, dehydrated, and freshly single. Economy heartbreak.
I packed my life into a battered suitcase, drove back to my parents’, and cried into my childhood bedroom walls. Because nothing says tragic gay heartbreak like sobbing into your pillow so your parents couldn’t hear you.
Nine years later…you’d think I’d have learned my lesson about dating older men. Wrong. Annoyingly, I can’t seem to separate my frustration with their immaturity from my complete weakness for their salt-and-pepper hair and chest sprinkled with grey. Fuck. Woof. Every time I swear off them, I’m drooling over the next one like a gay cliché in a Soho bar. So of course, it was only a matter of time before I fell for the façade, not the mind. And there he was: a super-successful man in his late forties. We met unconventionally, and, dare I say, almost romantically. Coffee dates, drinks, gallery openings, the chemistry between us was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. Even when I stayed over at his place, the pull was electric, the attraction magnetic, the sort of tension that makes you forget how to form complete sentences. I fell hard. In love? Maybe. Infatuated? Definitely.
And then came that night. A few too many drinks, a soundtrack of house music thumping in perfect rhythm with our racing heartbeats, and a little help from a bottle of poppers. We ended up in his bed with me on top, both of us stripped down to our Calvins, kissing like teenagers who’d just discovered hormones. His hands were in my hair, the moment charged, and then he pulled me close, locked eyes with me, and in a low, filthy growl said:
“Suck Daddy’s dick.”
Reader, I almost died. The moment was pure filth and pure pleasure all at once. This was the first time I’d ever dipped my toe into the whole “daddy” roleplay thing, and the second those words left his lips, I knew I had found my kink. I worshipped him like he was the patron saint of chest hair while he threw me into positions, I didn’t even know my body could fold into. And when he came all over my face, panting out that I was a “good boy”, I practically saw stars. Then came the grand finale: me on my back, legs spread wide, while he buried himself between them like it was his last meal. Just when I thought it couldn’t get hotter, he looked up and demanded, “Cum for Daddy.” And when I did, he reached for my neck, squeezing until I was begging to be freed. He had rewired my fantasies and hacked straight into my hard drive.
But of course, what happened next will not shock you. He ghosted me. A few days of silence and then, finally, a message so drenched in cliché it practically dripped through the phone. “I can’t commit right now. My therapist says it’s not a good idea. But I really enjoyed your company.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Classic daddy issues except this time they were his.
So I beg the question: why are older men so terrified of commitment? Why can they bark orders like drill sergeants in the bedroom, but suddenly lose their voices when it comes to sending a simple text back? The fact is, older and supposedly “wiser” men make for fantastic porn plots but when it comes to actual fairy tales? They’re fucking terrible... but fucking hot.
Confession #5
Tap, Tap... consent has left the chat
Now, if you’re a gay man living anywhere other than under a rock then you’ve endured the absolute horror show that is Grindr. A lawless wasteland where manners are extinct, torsos reign supreme, and the concept of “hello” has been brutally replaced with “u host?”. Apparently, the minute you download the app you not only agree to sex on tap, but also to a free side of emotional abuse. Ghosting? Standard. Being asked your dick size before your name? Expected. Being blocked mid-sentence because you said you’re not HnH? Tragically, part of the package deal.
Grindr has single-handedly reshaped my view of modern dating. Forget skeletons in the closet, these men have entire graveyards. The one useful thing, though, is that you can suss out a guy in about four seconds flat thanks to his “tags” and “interests’ with #domtop, #group and my personal favourite #discreet (translation… has a fiancée in Surrey). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve matched with what I thought was Prince Charming on Hinge, you know, the guy who claims he’s “looking for something serious” and “loves dogs” only to catch him at midnight on Grindr searching for a #tagteam at a Vauxhall chillout. From “long walks in the park” to “long lines in the bathroom,” it’s always the same plot twist. So, what do you do? Do you bite the bullet and meet someone on Grindr, where at least the intentions are face-value filthy? Or do you keep playing Hinge Roulette, praying the guy you’re falling for doesn’t spend his weekends dressed as a harnessed Care Bear at Horse Meat Disco?
Grindr to me is the same pain as a credit card, the one you’ve frozen in the freezer, hidden behind a packet of peas, because you know if you touch it, you’ll buy something ridiculous you absolutely don’t need. Grindr is exactly that. It’s there, available, tempting… and sure, it offers a quick hit of pleasure, but the emotional debt it racks up could bankrupt your soul quicker than Klarna on payday. And then, of course, there’s that fateful moment. You’ve had just enough drinks; wine courage, tequila delusion and suddenly you’re convinced that downloading Grindr again is a good idea. “Just to see who’s about,” you tell yourself. Famous last words.
Cue the Groundhog Day of conversations:
“Yeah I’m good thanks, you?”
“Having a good night?”
“So what you looking for?”
And before you know it, you’re staring down the barrel of your phone wondering, Do I really want to meet this guy? Is he going to be worth showering for? To tidy the flat and to use one of your expensive candles for? Likely not, or, if he’s the #domtop he wont even appreciate your clean home and matching nightstands.
The strangest thing always happens to me. I somehow manage to turn a Grindr hook-up into The Notebook. I’ll pour the guest a nice glass of wine (in an actual stemmed glass, because I refuse to lower myself to a mug), throw on some music, dim the lighting… and before you know it, the vibe is less one-night stand and more soft-focus Netflix romcom. It’s tragic, really. We could have just left Roast or Adonis, sweaty and half-blind from strobe lights, and yet suddenly it feels like we’ve gone for a moonlit walk along the Thames, whispered sweet nothings, and ended up at mine for “coffee.” Except, spoiler alert.it’s not coffee. We’re horny. We both know why we’re here. But somehow, instead of ripping our clothes off, I’m sat there listening to his entire life story like I’m Oprah on a slow day.
Now, part of me wonders: is he telling me this because he feels comfortable and wants me to know his backstory before we sleep together… or is he just wired and too comfortable on my sofa to go home? Either way, hours of deep conversation usually led to sex so good it feels like Netflix should commission it. Intimate, romantic, rough, powerful, the whole Kama Sutra in one night. And then, the bit that shocks me every time… they stay. Not in the awkward “oh I passed out” way, but properly. Wrapped up in each other’s arms, talking about everything and nothing until we lose the battle with sleep. One guy even ordered breakfast the next morning, Deliveroo and all. Like, excuse me? Did I just get upgraded from Grindr fling to actual boyfriend material overnight?
So yes, I use Grindr very differently. I can’t do the whole “fuck-and-go” culture. I want to know someone’s layers, I want to talk before we get naked because honestly, you’re about to reveal your deepest fantasies and your worst angles, and even tequila can’t completely drown out body insecurities. Maybe I’m the glitch in the system…the Grindr Matrix. Because when I don’t immediately throw myself on them, maybe they feel respected too. And maybe, just maybe, they stay because like me, they’re also thinking: “Surely I’m worth more than a half-hearted blowjob and a ghosting.”
Confession #6
The 'Highs' and 'Lows' of ChemSex
My introduction to chemsex and a chill-out came about an hour after being served Chicken Supreme. Yes, Chicken Supreme. I thought I was at a wholesome dinner party with my boyfriend (now ex) and some old friends, united by food and casual chat not by chemicals that sound like they were borrowed from a GCSE chemistry exam.
Things took a turn when one guy, ripped to absolute fuck, might I add suddenly stripped his shirt off in the living room. Now, it was November and absolutely Baltic in there, why the strip?
Meanwhile, my ex had transformed into a full-blown cartoon wolf. His eyes bugged out of his head, his tongue practically rolled onto the carpet, and his jaw was on the floor in a way that could have doubled as a dustpan. Subtle, he was not.
So there I was, still battling the Chicken Supreme in my stomach, surrounded by people who seemed way too close for “old school mates.” I leaned over and whispered, “What is this party?” To which my ex, without even blinking, casually replied: “Just go with it, babe.”
“Go with what?” I asked, genuinely confused and slightly alarmed.
“Just loosen up tonight, things will be fine, we’re fine, you’ll be fine,” he said cryptically still sipping the last of his beer while laser-focusing on Mr. Ripped, who clearly had no interest in me whatsoever. Just my boyfriend.
“Want some G, mate?” the host asked, as casually as if he were offering a cup of tea.
Before I could respond, he added, “With milk or OJ?”
I froze. Milk? Orange juice? Was this some kind of new-age brunch cocktail? I turned to my ex with a look that screamed what the actual fuck, and he snapped back at the host, “He’s not having any. Under any circumstances.”
Right. Not suspicious at all.
Seconds later, the guy I’d just been discussing my job with leaned in and offered me some coke. Not the kind with bubbles. The kind that makes you believe you’re Beyoncé at 4 a.m. I declined immediately, half-convinced this was a sting operation and the police were hiding in the kitchen, dressed as gays in skinny jeans.
So I did what any self-respecting man does in a crisis: I downed my vodka and Coke, refilled it with a splash that was mostly vodka, and then knocked that back too. As the alcohol started taking control of my limbs, I noticed something far more concerning, my ex was missing.
I made an excuse to go to the toilet and slipped out of the living room. Empty. I checked another door. Empty. Then, at the end of the hallway, I spotted a door slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the darkness. The faint sound of muffled moans reached my ears.
I pushed the door open.
There he was: my ex, leaning against a wardrobe like he was auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad, his vest hitched up to reveal abs lit dramatically by a side lamp. And on his knees? Our foe from the kitchen; the ripped hunk, one hand firmly wrapped around my ex’s balls, the other gliding over his body like it belonged there.
For a moment, neither of them noticed me. I stood frozen, equal parts shocked, jealous, and oddly turned on. Then, from behind me, a burst of laughter and chatter erupted from the kitchen. The noise gave me away.
My ex’s eyes snapped to mine, panic, guilt, fear. But before I could storm out or demand an explanation, the hunk glanced over his shoulder, smirked, and with a look that was equal parts command and invitation, ushered me closer (no doubt out of guilt or because he was far to busy to stand up).
Now, my ex and I had never discussed the idea of an open relationship. Honestly, it had never crossed my mind. When we had sex, it was… excellent. No complaints. The only thing missing was his personality. And maybe romance. Sex with him was military; efficient, precise, always on schedule but rarely poetic. It scratched an itch more than it stirred the soul.
That said, I enjoyed his body. A lot. Ripped torso, broad shoulders, biceps bigger than my head, girthy, hairy, bearded… the classic Clapham gym rat, stamped out like a cookie-cutter.
So, when faced with the choice between screaming my way home after catching him cheating at a dinner party or joining in and letting my inhibitions loose, I thought, fuck it. Two hunks are better than one.
And at first? It was hot. The three of us were in sync, swapping positions with mutual respect and plenty of body time. We’d all given, received, and delivered exceptional head. But when it came to the pièce de résistance; sharing my ex’s disco dick it became painfully clear who he actually wanted to fuck more.
So, what did I do? I did what any self-respecting man would do when you’re watching your boyfriend bury himself six inches deep in your worst insecurity (a shredded torso lightyears from your own average body). I got up, slipped out, well, “slipped” might be generous, considering I was holding my boxers in my hands trying to cover my nether regions and wandered into the kitchen. Only to discover that what began as a “dinner party” had escalated into a full-blown sex party. Everywhere I looked: bodies, sweat, moaning, hands grabbing, mouths busy. The chicken supreme was officially the least memorable part of the evening.
And without a second to think, I joined them.
Soon I was on the living room rug, wrestled by two hunks who seemed very committed to making sure I had no regrets. Euphoric? Absolutely. Confused? Without question. Because there I was being shared, used, and thoroughly enjoyed by two strangers (wildly foreign to my usual chat-before-sex-rule) while my boyfriend was in the room next door, fucking someone else.
So what was I supposed to feel? Ecstasy? Betrayal? Liberation? Probably all three. All I know is, that night taught me two things: one, never underestimate a dinner invite in Clapham. And two, sometimes the line between heartbreak and orgasm is alarmingly thin.
Now, the scariest part of that night wasn’t that I had to completely revisit my ethics on relationships, it was the fact that one of the guests had fallen into a full-on K-hole. One moment we’re in your standard Clapham sex circus, the next there’s a commotion about someone locked in the bathroom.
Picture this: panic in the hallway, everyone banging on the door, and while we’re all trying to work out how to save this poor guy’s life, another guest naked, hard, and aggressively masturbating, leans over and starts calmly explaining the dangers of G and Ketamine to me. I mean… thank you for the TED Talk, but maybe put your dick away while you’re delivering it?
My ex, being the most muscular of the pack, decided to step up as some sort of gay superhero, charging at the bathroom door with his giant shoulders until it came clean off the hinges. Inside? The guy was unconscious in the bathtub, the shower still running, and because apparently the universe wanted me traumatised for life, shit circling the tub. Turns out he’d started douching and passed out mid-cleanse. The not-so-sexy side of chill-outs people don’t exactly mention in the group chat.
While everyone else stood frozen (and high as fucking kites), I snapped into survival mode. Suddenly I was Nurse Jackie in nothing but underwear. I barked orders, one guy to turn off the shower, another to fetch towels and I started tapping the guy’s face, calling his name like I was in an episode of Casualty. When nothing happened, fear took over and I panicked, turning the shower ice cold to shock his body back to consciousness. Thankfully, he stirred, groggy, terrified, but alive.
I helped him rinse off, dried him, and got him into bed. I sat beside him with water, keeping him awake and talking, terrified he’d slip back under. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any darker, a couple fully aware of what had just happened started fucking on the bed next to him. I sat there in a borrowed dressing gown, watching two guys go at it three feet away from a man who had nearly died, and that’s when it hit me: this wasn’t for me. This wasn’t sexy, this wasn’t freeing, this was people so high they’d lost all sense of humanity.
Eventually, his colour came back and he seemed stable enough for me to leave the room. I went to find my ex, ready to drag us both out of there. But when I walked into the living room, there he was deep inside some guy, with half the party watching and wanking like it was pay-per-view porn. And in that moment, the earlier thrill of threesomes and hunks dissolved. It wasn’t hot anymore. It was seedy, dark, and reeked of more than just sweat. I wasn’t high, the vodka wasn’t holding my nerves, and all I wanted was to go home and scrub that entire night off my skin.
That night stayed with me for a long time, and not just because I couldn’t get the smell of that bathroom out of my nostrils for about a week. It was the moment I realised how quickly “fun” can turn into “trauma” when you’re in a space where boundaries are blurred and reality is clouded by chemicals.
I wasn’t shocked by the sex — honestly, I’ve seen enough in Clapham on a Sunday afternoon pub crawl to know men will shag anywhere if the lighting’s right — but I was shaken by the way humanity seemed to just… disappear. A man had almost died, and within minutes people were back to shagging on the rug like nothing had happened. It made me question whether this was liberation or just a very glittery form of self-destruction.
For me, sex has always been intimate, messy, hilarious, occasionally disappointing (shout out to the guys who still think two minutes is an Olympic achievement), but at least it’s human. That night felt like something else entirely. Like bodies being passed around without souls attached. I don’t think I ever looked at my ex the same way again — not because he cheated, but because I realised he thrived in that chaos. He wanted the high, the danger, the madness. I just wanted chicken supreme and a shag, not A&E with a side of ketamine.
The truth is, there’s nothing glamorous about watching someone spiral into unconsciousness while a naked stranger explains “the risks of G” mid-wank. It was the moment I clocked: if this is what being “open-minded” means, then I’d rather stay a little closed.
What I walked away with was a strange cocktail of relief and clarity. Relief that the guy in the bathtub survived, and clarity that I wasn’t going to lose myself in a culture that dressed danger up as freedom. Because at the end of the day, I don’t want a love story that starts in a K-hole.
Confession #7
The hard reality of a happy ever after
Inspiration comes in many forms. Some people write their magnum opus staring at the Eiffel Tower while sipping wine that costs more than my rent. Others discover their creative spark through music, whether it’s a gentle acoustic ballad or a rock anthem that basically screams, “You got this, babe!”
Me? All I needed was a Enya, a train station, and a minor existential crisis.
I owe my deepest gratitude to the queens of rom-coms who basically raised me. Bridget Jones taught me that being single in your thirties with a little extra squish doesn’t make you a failure, just British. Julia Roberts reminded me that a floppy hat, a good cry, and an aggressively charming bookstore owner can solve 90% of problems. And Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia? She danced through her dilemmas so fearlessly she accidentally gave me the courage to come out to my parents.
Rom-coms are a universal language. They span cultures, heartbreaks, subtitles, and, of course, wildly impractical meet-cutes involving spilled coffee, missed trains, or locking eyes with a stranger while holding a comically large baguette. Which brings me neatly to today: I’m currently on Platform 15 at Liverpool Street Station (peak British rom-com setting), having an existential wobble. Not the kind caused by bad curry or tight jeans, no, the lonelier kind.
Because somehow, in a city of eight million people I feel completely alone. My friends cancel plans like it’s a competitive sport, my dating life is one long string of “ghosts of Hinge past,” and my career path looks less like a ladder and more like a drunk game of hopscotch. So naturally, I’m off to Italy with my aunt. When life unravels, you either book therapy or Ryanair I guess.
Maybe this is my montage moment: Orinoco Flow blaring, me zipping up a suitcase, staring dramatically out of a train window while I wonder if this city, this life, is still meant for me. Do I stay in Rome? Or do I stay here, in this chaotic, maddening, wonderful mess of a city, and hold out hope that Mr. Right is just stuck on the Central Line?
Rom-coms tell us that love is inevitable. But they also whisper the uncomfortable truth: heartbreak is too. Even if I do find him, one of us will have to say goodbye someday hopefully as wrinkly old men still holding hands. And if I never meet him at all? Well, maybe I’ll still live a life worth watching, with pigeons, Pret, and a few decent one-liners along the way.
So here’s the big question, the one that haunts lovers, poets, and possibly that pigeon from earlier: is it worse to have the love of your life and lose him… or never meet him at all?
Need support?
Sometimes all you need is a glass (or bottle) of wine and a bitchy rant with your best mate, it’s cheaper than therapy and comes with snacks. But let’s be real: sometimes the drama runs deeper than a hangover can fix. And in those moments, handing it over to a professional isn’t weakness, it’s self-care. Because while friends are great for gossip, only a therapist can actually stop you from texting your ex at 2 a.m.
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Welcome to Confessions of
a Thirty-Something Gay Guy in South West London.
Welcome to Confessions of
a Thirty-Something Gay in South West London.
I'm thirty (something), gay, and living in the glittering chaos that is Clapham… the gayest neighbourhood in London (and don’t let Soho tell you otherwise). Over the years I’ve survived toxic relationships, endured disastrous dates, and valiantly attempted to find a husband through dating apps, one-night stands, and encounters so unbelievable they could make Bianca Del Rio blush.
And so, after therapy I decided to do the next best thing: write down my confessions unfiltered, raw and... anonymously.
Get ready to laugh, cringe and somewhat relate.
