Lost Nights, Found Friendships: Escaping the Grip of Chemsex

Friendship, at its best, is a lifeline. It’s the quiet voice that steadies us when we’re spinning out of control, the hand that reaches through the fog when we can’t see the danger ahead. For me, that lifeline was Emma. And for years, I ignored it.

When I recently reconnected with Emma after a long silence, I was struck by how cautious she seemed. Her warmth was still there, but it was tempered by hesitation, as though she wasn’t sure whether I was truly the same person she once knew. That hesitation made sense. Our friendship had fractured during the years when I was consumed by the chemsex scene—a world that swallowed my nights, my relationships, and nearly my sense of self.

Back then, I thought Emma was nagging me. I believed she was trying to control my life, to make me “old before my time.” I even wondered if she simply didn’t understand gay culture. We exchanged harsh words, and I dismissed her concern as judgment. But looking back, I see the truth: she wasn’t trying to control me. She was trying to guide me out of harm’s way. She saw the downward spiral I was on, the way my social life had collapsed into my sex life, and how every other aspect of my existence was consumed by drugs and encounters that blurred the line between intimacy and oblivion.

Emma’s perspective was clear, even if I refused to hear it. She could see the car crash unfolding in front of me, while I—like a moth to the flame—kept flying toward disaster.

When we sat down together recently, Emma asked if I remembered the night at Freedom Bar in Soho. I didn’t. My blank response—“I’m sorry, no, what happened?”— was met with a look of disappointment so deep it cut through me. For her, that night was pivotal. It was the moment she felt she lost her grip on me, as the forces of chemsex pulled me into darkness.

It had been her birthday. She didn’t want a big party or a crowd. She wanted a simple night out with me: prosecco, laughter, drag shows, and the kind of innocent fun that cements friendships. But for me, even then, the night was shadowed by “what ifs.” What if I met someone later? What if Grindr lit up with an irresistible offer? That constant anticipation wasn’t unusual in gay culture, but chemsex took it further. It wasn’t about chance encounters—it was about being drawn into a scene where drugs and sex were inseparable, and where “social” meant something profoundly anti-social.

Emma remembers the night vividly. We started with food, then drinks at Halfway to Heaven, laughing at drag queens. But soon, I was glued to my phone, messages pouring in: “Are you out?” “What’s the plan?” “Party tonight?” These weren’t parties Emma could join. They were chemsex gatherings, places where the rules of intimacy were rewritten under the haze of drugs.

For a while, I resisted. I stuck to the script, promising Emma I’d see those friends another night. But when we reached Freedom Bar, the scene caught up with me. Within twenty minutes, Emma recalls, I was in the toilets with two men, snorting mephedrone.

I returned with a glazed look, already slipping away. Within forty-five minutes, she had lost me entirely. The men lingered at the bar, watching us, waiting. Emma called them predators.

I didn’t see them that way. Even now, I wonder: why would they spend money on drugs, orchestrate these encounters, just to have sex with someone semi-conscious? What had happened in their past to make this feel normal? Was it about control, dominance, or something darker? Were they psychopaths, incapable of empathy? I don’t know. What I do know is that Emma saw them as predators, and that night marked the breaking point of our friendship.

Chemsex isn’t just about drugs and sex. It’s about the way those forces intertwine to create a cycle that’s hard to escape. The drugs lower inhibitions, heighten sensations, and extend encounters into marathon sessions. But they also strip away boundaries, blur consent, and leave participants vulnerable. For many, it becomes a substitute for connection, a way to fill the void of loneliness or rejection. For me, it became my entire social life.

Emma couldn’t compete with that. How could a night of prosecco and laughter stand against the lure of instant gratification, amplified by chemicals? She saw me slipping away, and she couldn’t stop it. That night at Freedom Bar was when she realized she had lost me to something she couldn’t fight.

Years later, sitting across from Emma, I could see how deep the wound still was. She struggled to believe I was free from the grip of chemsex. And I understood why. For her, the memory of that night was indelible. For me, it was a blur, erased by drugs and denial. That disconnect made it harder for her to trust my recovery.

But recovery begins with recognition. The first step is admitting we’re involved in the chemsex scene at all. That sounds simple, but it’s profound. Denial is powerful, and it keeps us trapped. Once we acknowledge the truth, we can start listening—not to the voices that want to use us, but to the ones that care. Friends like Emma aren’t trying to spoil our fun. They’re trying to save us from the crash we can’t see.

Emma’s caution when we reconnected was a reminder of the damage I had done. Trust, once broken, takes time to rebuild. But her willingness to sit down with me, to revisit painful memories, showed the resilience of friendship. She had every reason to walk away, yet she chose to give me another chance.

That’s the paradox of chemsex: it isolates us, even as it promises connection. It convinces us that we’re part of a community, when in reality we’re drifting further from the people who truly care. Emma’s story is proof of that. She wanted nothing more than a simple night of joy, and instead she watched her friend disappear into a haze of drugs and strangers.

Today, I’m no longer in the grip of chemsex. But the scars remain—on me, and on my friendships. Rebuilding those bonds requires honesty, humility, and patience. It means acknowledging the pain I caused, and understanding that forgiveness doesn’t erase the past. It also means recognizing the value of the people who stood by me, even when I couldn’t see their worth.

Chemsex is seductive, but it’s destructive. It offers escape, but at the cost of connection. The real lifeline is friendship—the kind that Emma offered, even when I didn’t deserve it. Listening to those voices, trusting their guidance, is what pulls us back from the edge.

And what if you feel like you have no friends, that everyone in your life is part of this destructive scene? Remember, that’s what organisations like the LGBT Foundation are all about. It’s a place full of friends you haven’t yet met — people ready to stand beside you, to remind you that you’re not alone, and to help you find a healthier, brighter path forward.