The Hidden War in Ireland’s Gay Scene: The Chemsex Trap
By Seán Atkinson, Vice-President & Co-founder of Not All Gays
Think back to the heroin crisis of the 80s, or the AIDS epidemic that ripped through gay men in the 90s. Now imagine both stitched together and pumped full of speed. That's chemsex today. It stalks under the neon, in basements and bedrooms, waiting to drag another young man under.
At first you barely notice it. Shame drags men into it. The slide into chemsex doesn’t start with drugs, it starts with loneliness. That hollow feeling pushes men to look for connection, and what begins as a search for intimacy can spiral into dependency, health damage, and devastation. It’s not just desire driving it, but emotional vulnerability and isolation. But once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. The murmurs at the bar, the coded “chill” invites on Grindr, the lads staggering out of clubs with jaws clenched and eyes glassy, it’s all right there in plain sight. And when you see what it does, the wreckage left behind, you’ll never look at the gay scene the same way again. As well as shame, studies show that many who fall victim to chemsex have dealt with stigma, discrimination and internalised homophobia.
Take Daniel (not his real name), a friend of one of the members of Not All Gays. A young, Mexican gay man, who fought his way out of poverty and cartel violence to chase a better life in Ireland. He left his loving family, friends and everything he’d ever known - not knowing anyone or anything in Ireland, but he just knew he was destined for more than the life in his small town. Five thousand miles later, Dublin was supposed to be freedom. But the same darkness he ran from had been waiting here all along.
Daniel was clever, warm, the type of fella who lit up a room with a smile. Back home he’d watched friends vanish, either shot down by gangs or hollowed out by drugs. He swore to God he’d never follow them. That promise kept him alive long enough to escape.
So when he arrived here with limited English and big hopes, he went looking for what we all look for, mates, maybe love, maybe a bit of craic in the bars. But instead of a fresh start, he was swallowed by something worse.
One night in a gay bar, still new to the scene, full of nerves and smiles, looking for friends and to practice his English, he caught the attention of a well dressed man. The charm was captivating and the drinks kept coming. Then the invite to an afters, more youngfellas there, “just a bit of fun.” Daniel, lonely and desperate for connection, went along.
At first it seemed like a normal house party. Music, drink, lads chatting. Then the needles came out. He was promised it was safe, not addictive, “everyone does it.” He didn’t even understand half of what was said, just fragments of English, enough to nod along. That night he tried GHB. The next time it was meth. Then eventually he ended up hooked on heroin.
What followed was the darkest stretch of Daniel’s life. He thought these men were friends, but they were just the circle feeding his addiction. Days were spent sweating through endless shifts in kitchens and bars, nights chasing the next hit, collapsing onto a mattress stinking of sweat and chemicals. Eventually, he relied on his chemsex “mates” for everything. For the drugs, for a bed, for company, even if that meant waking up bruised and bleeding with no idea what happened the night before. STIs became routine, injuries normal. His body was a casualty from his spirit being ground down. One study from Manchester reveals evidence that 42.9% of men who participated in chemsex experienced non-consensual acts. In reality, the number is likely much higher due to underreporting.
Eventually, Daniel tried to claw his way out. New friends, real ones, dragged him back into daylight. He fought hard to stay sober, he even started his own group for migrant gay men to hold himself accountable, because he knew what it meant to be alone in this country, carrying that weight. On top of this, the evidence is overwhelming. Migrant men are disproportionately affected by chemsex. An Irish study found that 42% of men seeking help for chemsex-related issues were born outside of Ireland. Likewise, research from Barcelona shows that migrant gay and bisexual men are significantly more likely to engage in chemsex as a means of seeking connection. Both studies highlight the same grim reality, that isolation and alienation are powerful drivers pulling vulnerable men into this destructive cycle.
But addiction doesn’t let go easily. A night in a bathhouse, a bump of meth “just for old times,” and suddenly he was back at the bottom. Before he knew it, the cycle was repeating, meth, heroin, blackout sex, bruises, shame.
Chemsex ripped through every hope he’d carried across the Atlantic. The dreams of love, stability, and community were all swallowed. What’s worse, the scene around him told him this was normal, that this was just ‘gay culture’. And when he finally couldn’t take it anymore, when the weight of it all broke him again, he did the unthinkable: he left Ireland.
The country he thought would save him pushed him back to the cartel streets he once escaped. Because to Daniel, even there, he believed he stood a better chance of survival than in the chemsex underworld here. 5,000 miles away.
Chemsex isn’t easy to talk about, and it’s even harder to fight. But that’s exactly why we have to. If not for us, then for Daniel. And if not for him, for the next young man whose hopes are torn apart. We need spaces that are open and accessible, places where men who have sex with men, especially those isolated by language or circumstance, can find real connection that isn’t built on drugs, alcohol or sex.
Daniel deserved better, and so do the rest of us.
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