There’s a reason I deleted Grindr, and it was nothing to do with the unsavoury influx of invites you get on a Sunday morning, to be a part of inebriated orgies. You tend to view things differently at 9am after you swap Ketamine for Kornflakes.

But it was more to do with the lack of depth, hyper-focus on ‘fun now,’ and relentless string of thirst from persistent gremlins who missed the memo: not interested.

Maybe I’m picky, but if I’m going to find the energy after four spliffs, to haul myself out of a Neflix-hole and deliver myself to the doorstep of a potential serial killer for casual sex, he better be one FIT potential serial killer.

I wasn’t always like that. Especially not when I used to stay awake for three days straight. I’d have got rail replacement services for five hours just for a bump, let alone a shag.

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But I’d grown up, and I felt unapologetic for wanting more for myself; more than meaningless and momentary exchanges of painful small talk that ultimately led nowhere. More than disappointing dates and dick appointments that rendered my time wasted. More than men who brought negative energy into my life, and my bed.

But it was my best friend who convinced me to download it again. Being three months-deep in a dry spell, it didn’t take much convincing; even the thought of unsolicited nudes excited me.

But upon return, nothing had changed. I was under the false illusion that the world of online dating and hooking-up would have evolved with me.

But the same queen with a Clapham quiff wanted to know if I was hung. The same neighbourly gay offered a massage with happy ending (I guess he’s referring to an orgasm, not a healthy same-sex relationship). And the same guys I’d had horrible dates with wrongly believed we were compatible enough for another. Yawn.

But furthermore, even more guys seemed to be H&H than before I left. That’s High & Horny for those unaware. Or PnP (Party and Play) in America. But, like, REALLY?!

Even the ones were who were high six years ago were still on it. I admired their stamina, but couldn’t help wonder if they’d come down at all. Weren’t they bored of felatio with G-breath and wanting to kill themselves every Tuesday?

I mean, it’s just not fashionable, hun; you wouldn’t be caught dead in the same jacket for six years in a row, so why the same sling? ChemSex is the equivalent of turning up to a party in last season’s Chanel pumps (and a jockstrap).

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Where are these men’s friends to say, “ooh girl, squiffing out is not your colour,”?

Granted, it was never “cool”, or really even acceptable. Kind of like bootleg jeans, people got away with it because they were living in the moment and they were novel and new; ChemSex is now, neither.

Admittedly, like cruising on commons and cottaging, it had its allure, but like other sex trends, it’s time to put this one on clearance. What’s trendy now, and always has been, is passionate sex between sorted adults. Can’t ever go wrong with a classic.

Unlike past sex ‘trends’, that became popular when homosexuality was illegal, and there was a far greater need for “safe” spaces to engage in sexual activity, we aren’t as restricted. Which suggests there isn’t a need for ChemSex.

But an article in VICE claims that gay men use ChemSex to find their place in big cities, stating:

“It’s precisely an experience beyond words. Language fails to capture its intensities,” but the bigger question is, does logic fail to comprehend its destructive inevitability?

As appealing as it is, to check your inhibitions and insecurities at the door of an apartment stagnant of sweat, sex and rebellion, while ordinarily composed men swap suits for singlets, and take it in turns to squark like zoo animals, and manhandle each other’s private parts as would sex-starved convicts; the exchanges are as meaningful in our quest for love as Tulisa’s line was to Fashion Week runways.

(Fashion line, not cocaine).

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We can all be “Charlotte the optimist”, but you’re downright deluded if you think you’re gonna birth a successful and healthy relationship out of a gangbang.

Gay men have found a worse crutch to rely on than deep V-necks. Albeit this one assists escapism and heightens the likelihood of having casual sex; but it’s not assisting any meaningful pursuits.

Although chewing your eyebrow off at a rave isn’t the same as limping between sex parties while incessantly scrolling through Scruff; as in these latter scenarios, drugs are only half the fix, and sex is the other.

But neither are the fix we need to mend gay society… or their fashion choices.

Anthony Gilét on Twitter/Instagram.