This is a cliché tale of something all too common in the queer world - especially for those of us who entertain men who publicly identify as straight. So, join me as I delude myself (as many of us have in our 20s) over a ‘DL’ guy and the impact he had on a few months of my life in 2019.
Please note: Some details, locations, and references have been altered to protect his privacy.
DL: Down-low
A sexual slang term that refers to a subculture of closeted homosexuality or bisexuality
Can also be used as a term for discreet
He was supposed to be a one-night stand. The plan was just to have some fun, and that was it. Obviously, I found him attractive, but I’ve learned to keep certain guys in the fun box and others in the boyfriend box.
But he was different.
We got talking and he chased me down on a well-known hookup platform (not the one you’re thinking of).
He wanted to chat on the phone before meeting, which I liked. Little did he know, that’s exactly what I always suggest anyway. Believe it or not, I’ve never been one for completely sensuality-free hookups - I need some level of getting to know before sex. Some people can operate like that, but I can’t.
I’m quite personable, and a call like that helps ease any tension - especially when you’re inviting a stranger into your home. We had a little chat, and I instantly liked his voice, his vibe. He was charming, and there was something distinctive about the way he spoke - like a certain musician I’ve had a thing for since I was about 11 years old.
I still remember seeing him in person for the first time - I was genuinely struck by how much more handsome he was than in his photos. And his photos were gorgeous anyway. Exactly my type - like the universe had taken notes and 3D-printed a ‘dream man’ just for me.
Uh oh.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with high cheekbones, bright white teeth, and deep brown eyes, which were almost black - striking and intense. There was this confident-yet-coy way he moved, like he knew exactly what he was doing. As he walked towards me, he dipped his head slightly but kept his eyes raised, looking at me almost devilishly. I always remember things like that. His tongue rested in the corner of his mouth, caught between his teeth. I could tell this was his go-to move - and well, it worked.
Normally, stuff like that would make me cringe. It’s a very Y2K-South-London-rudeboy-in-the-club move. But hey, when you look like that, you can make me cringe all you like.
I was putty in his hands. Usually, that sort of thing doesn’t fly with me - but with him? It did. I liked him instantly. I melted.
One of the most charming things about my first impression of ‘Jay’ (as I knew him then) was the way he reacted to me. His face lit up. He did a double take, almost like he was surprised by my face, before complimenting my looks and my smile.
I think he said I looked like a girl, but I can’t quite remember - by that point, the adrenaline had taken over.
The man could’ve read the winning-fucking-lottery numbers to me and it would’ve become a blur.
For a little backstory and perspective, this guy presented as - and personally identified as - straight. I’m not one to tell someone what their sexuality is or what their preferences mean to them. I figured this was an exercise in experimentation on his part. I’m used to that, and I didn’t believe I was in the head space for anything serious, so it was all OK with me.
It didn’t take long for me to clock that my attraction to ‘Jay’ wasn’t just sexual. He’s one of the only people in my life to give me butterflies just by interacting with me. And the fun (God - I loathe people using that word for sex) was incredible. The eye contact made me feel exposed. It was different with him.
At one stage, I was halfway down his chest when he grabbed my face and told me how cute he thought I was. You don’t need to flatter me, I thought - we were already in bed - but it was endearing. I could feel him slipping out of his masculine bravado and into something softer, something more affectionate. It almost made the situation feel romantic. He corrected himself a few times, pulling back whenever he got too tender, but then he’d fall back into it again.
I know when a man is being wrapped around my fingers and I could smell it in the air. In this moment, he was mine.
I had Garage Classics playing, and at one point, he stood up and started dancing - just vibing, bopping around. Once again, normally, that kind of thing would make me cringe… but with him? It didn’t. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had charmed me massively. He’d turned up with a small bottle of Wray & Nephew and ginger beer, which he finished over the evening.
Ironically, now in 2025, Wray & Nephew and ginger beer is one of my favourite drinks.
You should try it! Just make sure you get the measure right - just 1ml off, and it’ll taste like battery acid. When clubs reopened after the COVID-19 lock-downs, it was the first drink I had, so now, it tastes like freedom… and him.
Anyway, back to the evening. The night lasted much longer than I expected… and then it was over. As he was leaving, he complimented me again, telling me how cute I was, and gave me a kiss. His big body filled my doorway as he stepped out - I watched him walk to the gate, disappear into the night… and then he was gone. What a night.
And then, life went on.
I didn’t hear from ‘Jay’ for a couple of weeks. Naturally, I assumed he’d got it out of his system and moved on. C’est la vie!
I don’t ring or text men first, so I just left it. It didn’t make me feel great, but I wasn’t about to hurl myself off a bridge over it either.
Then, out of the blue - just before Valentine’s Day - I got a phone call from him. His voice made me light up, just like before.
He wanted to meet again, but I actually couldn’t. In a few days, I was heading to Mexico for a two-week holiday and had a tonne of things to pack and organise - alongside a few plans with friends. I’m not the kind of person who throws plans away for a man, so he’d have to wait.
I was heading to Mexico for one of my best-friends weddings. At that time, she was living between Los Angeles and Merida, so I was incredibly excited to get away to this elaborately planned and incredibly romantic event.
However, I was surprised by how elated I felt just hearing from someone I’d only met once. I told him I wouldn’t be able to see him before I left the UK, to which he was very gracious - and that was that.
I arrived in Mexico the day after Valentine’s Day in 2019. And that’s when the calls started.
Pretty much every day I was away, he called. The first one came as I was literally unpacking my suitcase in my room. I was staying in a private recording studio on my friends property.
The call took me by surprise - but I absolutely loved that he’d called.
At first, the conversations were mostly sexual, but by the end of my holiday, something had shifted. He started asking about my day. Remembering little things I’d said. Quoting them back to me - things I had already forgotten. The sexual stuff was still very much there, but I was also being listened to.
I could sense him stopping himself from being affectionate - then slipping back into it again. And repeat.
I loved seeing my phone light up with his number while I lay sunbathing. It gave me a rush of excitement. He always seemed to catch me at just the right moment - never in the middle of an event or some touristy shit, but when I was stretched out by the pool, lounging on the beach, or just relaxing at my friend’s place.
I knew I liked him because I couldn’t remember what he looked like - something that always happens when I really fancy someone. Their face just becomes a blur, and I need to see a photo or see them in person to piece it back together.
I was staying with someone who also clocked how much these calls were changing my mood.
"Who IS this guy, Topher?!" she’d ask me in her East Los Angeles accent.
I was in trouble.
And I knew it.
But I’m not scared of a little bit of trouble. A bad habit of mine.
I arrived back in London on a fucking miserable Sunday afternoon. The moment I stepped off the plane, I was hit by a wall of freezing cold air. And it was raining. Gross.
As soon as I took my phone off ‘Airplane Mode,’ a few texts from ‘Jay’ popped up. One asking how I was. Another - sent later - chasing to check if I’d landed safely. And then another, just to make sure everything was OK.
I hadn’t even seen the first message yet, but he’d come back online again to check in? That was a nice feeling.
I called him while waiting for my Uber, and we actually arranged for him to come over that evening.
I got home and, instead of decompressing from 18 hours of air travel, ran around trying to make my exhausted body look as fresh as possible. I really wanted to look great for him. I was tanned, tired, but needed a slice of him.
He turned up on time, and there he was. That face that I’d forgotten about was better than I even remembered.
Within minutes, we were having sex, cuddling, talking.
The sex was really, really good. The perfect mix of intense fucking, playful giggling, and being thrown around.
His body was beautiful and his skin was flawless - and let’s just say, he definitely ate his vegetables growing up, if you know what I mean…
We showered together once and nearly took the retractable glass door off its hinges. How? I’ll leave that to your imagination.
One of the things I liked about him was the way he spoke to me, how he actually listened and remembered the things I said. He seemed to look beyond my butt cheeks. (Don’t get me wrong, they got attention - but he seemed to like me too.)
I could tell I was a breath of fresh air for him, and I liked that.
Much later that evening, he went home.
And so it began.
We started texting. He’d notice when I changed my WhatsApp photo. He called me daily, and each time my phone rang in my office, I’d bolt outside - mid-sentence, mid-task, whatever - just to hear his voice. Even if I tried to act cool, my reaction was instant.
I loved hearing little mundane facts about his day - how someone had stolen boots from his locker, where he ate for lunch, how his colleague grassed him up for smelling like weed. I felt protective.
His voice was so distinctive - croaky, rough, distinctive -and every single time, it made me melt. He’d always open with: “Hello, Hello, Hello…”
And I loved it.
He told me that every time I said his name, he got an erection. And to be honest, I could tell - so, of course, I started doing it on purpose.
We arranged to meet again a few times - it was so much fun. Too much. I ate him alive and got the energy matched in return.
But eventually, we had to talk about what this was. We both acknowledged that we wanted to keep seeing each other, though we knew exactly what that meant. It wasn’t just ‘sex’ anymore, at least not for me. And that freaked both of us out.
I’d unconsciously stopped replying to texts and DMs from other men.
He admitted he had hurt people in the past. As had I, I said. I told him he could easily find someone like me again. But he shook his head. Actually, he said, he knew he couldn’t.
One evening, he was eating a takeaway on my bed, and I felt this weird sense of satisfaction just sitting next to him - me on my phone, writing; him watching Netflix on my laptop, eating his food. It felt… comfortable.
At some point, I drifted off. When I woke up, he was gently kissing my neck.
That night was wonderful. And after that, seeing each other a couple of times a week became the norm - phone calls scattered between the meetups.
Then, one evening as things were becoming increasingly intense - we had the talk.
Sitting in my bedroom, he told me he had a young daughter. That her mother wasn’t quite ready to let him go yet. And suddenly, I was crying at the edge of my bed.
Now, for anyone who doesn’t know me - I am not a ‘cry over a man’ person. And I definitely don’t inject myself into the life of a young family. But he assured me it was over, and honestly, it did made sense. His phone never blew up when he was with me. He seemed to live very independently. He wasn’t going quiet in the evenings - no ‘hidden life’ clichés.
That same night, he also told me his name wasn’t really Jay. It was… let’s call him Whopper.
His life had been chaotic. He had spent a harsh amount of time in prison - on charges of very bad behaviour when he was in a gang, that he went onto lead, as a young man. This wasn’t my first time being sexually or romantically involved with reformed bad boys, unfortunately. So there were things I understood that probably surprised him. He’d been out for about five years now and was sorting his life out. I respected that.
But it was also clear that his lifestyle would never allow him to be out. He said I made him feel conflicted.
He told me he had converted to Islam in prison, that his faith meant something to him, that he wanted to follow it. I found that unusual - he drank rum, smoked weed, was in bed with a man - but I wasn’t about to contest someone’s belief system. If anything, I actually liked that he had faith. I understood that religion gives people a sense of calm, and his life had been chaos.
I was raised Roman Catholic, and for all its toxicity, I saw the peace it gave my grandmother as she was dying of cancer - so I’ve always had a level of respect for people’s beliefs.
On paper, he wasn’t a good person.
But I respected him. I liked him. He was experienced, he was wise, and - whether I wanted to admit it or not - I sought his approval.
Anyway, back to the tears.
Being hit with the news of his young family, combined with my post-holiday blues, tipped me over the edge. I got so emotional. And I cried.
He climbed up the bed and bear-hugged me - literally grappled me, speaking directly into my ear as he swayed me side to side. Pleaded with me to not stop what was happening with us.
By the end of the night, I told him we couldn’t see each other anymore. I knew how this was going to end, and I had to protect myself.
But he reassured me that it wouldn’t end badly. That he wanted to prove himself to me.
Prove what, exactly?
I had no idea.
But I was already invested. So I thought - fuck it.
I may as well ride it out.
I have never really existed in a normal way, even when I’ve tried, so it almost made sense that I’d meet this type of person in an unconventional way, too. That’s what my brain told itself.
He said he was going to meet me one evening after work but wouldn’t say which day - he wanted it to be a surprise. He told me the daily calls would stop, and this would come next.
Then one day, he did call.
He was coming the following night to get me.
So much for a surprise! But I didn’t care. Hearing his voice calmed me. He’d even Googled my office and planned to swoop by to get me. There was something quite exciting about it, almost romantic. I welcomed it.
I wanted my colleagues to see me with him. I guess I was proud? I know that’s corny, but it’s the truth.
The day came, and I purposely dressed up for work - made myself look as good as possible without going over the top. As 6 pm (when I finished) got closer and closer… no sign of him.
I daren’t call. I didn’t want to bother him. Didn’t want to sound insecure. This was meant to be a gesture, after all.
6 pm hit.
No sign of Whopper.
Fuck.
I was mortified. My colleague, Adam, knew it. I felt the colour drain from my face -that prickly cheek feeling you get when something emotionally shocks you.
I walked with Adam to London Bridge station and just muttered, “I don’t even think I can talk about it.” I was so embarrassed. I felt like a zombie as I made my way to my train, my body moving on autopilot, the lump in my throat so big I thought I’d choke if I took a deep breath.
I got on my train.
Two minutes before departure, I caved. I texted him:
"You didn’t come?"
Instantly, my phone rang.
I declined.
He called again.
I picked up.
He was at London Bridge station. 1% battery. The area is huge, so I asked him where exactly.
“Tooley Street.”
OK. I ran off my train just as the doors literally closed behind on my back, leaving a big black smudge, and made my way down to where he said he was.
Nowhere to be seen.
I walked around every exit, every entrance, pacing, scanning faces, that horrible sinking feeling creeping in. Fuck. He’s thought of the perfect way out of this - say you came, phone died, couldn’t find each other, went home.
My stomach dropped. I turned back towards the station to get the next train…
And then I looked up.
He was right there. Like something out of a movie.
Neither of us could hide our reactions - mine, pure relief and excitement; his, a mix of nerves and awkwardness.
“This feels bait,” he muttered, giggling nervously.
I must have looked so obvious. So ‘bait’. But I didn’t care. I was elated to see him. That face I’d forgotten about, again, was stunning.
I told him we could just go home if he wanted. He hesitated. Then he shook his head.
We decided to go to Soho. So, we jumped on a train to Charing Cross.
The evening was fun and, surprisingly, intimate.
After a couple of drinks in Friendly Society - including probably the strongest Cosmopolitan I’d ever had in my life - while he sipped on a Brandy, he got touchy-feely with me.
Then I took him to Admiral Duncan - I wanted him to experience gay Soho. An environment in which he was safe to be with me. I spent most of the night leaning into him, my fists resting against his pecs, my body at a diagonal angle.
At one point, a tall blonde guy came up to us and said, “You make such a beautiful couple - I’m actually jealous.” His female friend chimed in, agreeing.
And I was buzzing that Whopper had heard it.
See? We aren’t circus freaks. We’re just a normal couple in a bar.
Actually, no - scratch that. We’re a beautiful couple in a bar. I could sense how powerful we looked together.
I then took him into Clonezone Soho, where he was introduced to a few of my colleagues.
But the moment that really stuck with me?
At one stage, we were sitting down having a drink, and he just stared at me.
“I swear, in another life,” he said.
I knew exactly what he meant.
He was telling me that this couldn’t happen properly. But we were both still walking the plank.
What the fuck am I doing? I kept asking myself, over and over. I knew this wasn’t going anywhere, but I just wanted to test the waters.
Later that night, we went back to mine - drunk. And passed out together after he met people I lived with - and he got along with them, too.
I felt proud to be seen with him. It gave me a rush. Watching him communicate with people in my world was bizarre, but gratifying.
Over the next few weeks, I saw and heard from him often. He even met more people in my life when he randomly turned up at my place while a colleague was crashing on my sofa.
But something had shifted. It was either fizzling out, or reality was sinking in - that this wasn’t going to work for him and his lifestyle.
We had a conversation where he admitted that his sexuality wasn’t straight - at least, not with the way he felt about me. He even said that thinking about his own self-discovery had affected his appetite.
Jokingly, he brought up what our wedding would be like. Page boys and everything.
I was endlessly distracted by it. His voice sat in my mind, playing on a loop.
But I kept flashing back to something else he’d told me.
That he had hurt people before.
And deep down, I guess I already knew… I was just becoming another one on his list.
It all came to a head when I did a photoshoot with Matt Spike. He wanted to shoot me in lingerie and Atsuko Kudo latex attire - basically, me with my ass hanging out, as usual.
The shoot was to celebrate my upcoming birthday, by recreating that ‘milk’ picture which made me famous at Myspace, at 16-years-old.
I was incredibly anxious about the shoot. I’ve never been comfortable modelling.
I’d seen Whopper the night before, and as I arrived at work the next morning, he called me - just to see how I was. I loved that.
We spoke throughout the day, and in the early evening, as I was sat in hair and makeup, he texted me.
And just like that, my anxiety lifted.
I sent him a photo of the huge latex bunny ears I’d be sporting. He told me I was going to kill it. That I’d be spectacular. And I can’t explain why, but I gave his words so much weight that all my nerves just… dissipated.
The fact that he’d spent time with me and my people the night before, called me without a reason in the morning, and made sure I was okay before my shoot? That felt good. I felt secure with him.
By this stage, I had taken myself off the market.
Not because I was obsessive. But because he made me comfortable. And to me, that was sexier than any one-night stand. Plus, our sexual chemistry was insane.
The shoot ended that evening, and I’m pretty sure he’d said he’d call me later that night.
I didn’t hear from him.
Not that night. Not the next day.
Not for two weeks.
I snapped. I texted him eventually, and we agreed to meet.
He came over.
We talked - though this time, he was far more interested in just having sex.
It wasn’t the same as before.
I could feel something had shifted. The bravado had slipped. Or maybe he’d just found something (or someone) else to focus on.
Maybe the 2-week gap gave him time to reconcile and step into the reality of the situation. I wish it had done the same for me, to be honest, but it hadn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t give a shit throughout it all?
What started as this cute little whirlwind at the tail-end of my Mexican adventure had become… a chore. And it was pissing me off.
I hated the idea of making someone feel obligated to speak to me. Not. My. Style.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have a big ego… but I do think I’m above begging for basic contact and simple respect.
To quote Samantha Jones:
"I am not the kind of woman who sits at home all day waiting for a man."
As he left my house that evening, he gestured for me to give him a kiss on the cheek.
I did.
And in that moment, I thought it would be the last time I’d see him.
I know that sounds corny, but something in my gut just felt it. The disappointment in him that evening was heavy, and most of the excitement had drained away.
After that, we didn’t speak for a week. And this time, I felt it. I was down. Distracted at work.
Then, that Sunday, as I was approaching my parents’ house in South-East London, my phone lit up.
It was him.
For 40 minutes, I paced up and down outside while my mum watched me from the kitchen window. We talked about how horribly wrong it had all gone.
I told him - repeatedly - that I couldn’t do this anymore. That I didn’t want to feel sad anymore. That I didn’t deserve it.
He agreed. Then contested. Then agreed again. Then contested again.
The conversation was polite, with a bit of resistance from him - but not like before. We both were very defeated, by this point.
He asked me to give him a few months to sort shit out.
"Then what?" I reminded him. You’re still not going to come out and see me openly.
We both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
He kept repeating that it was his plan to see me for the year.
I never really understood what he meant by that. Why a year?
But by that point, the spark had gone. It was over.
The call ended politely, with him saying he’d call me back the next day. That didn’t happen.
That afternoon, I told my mum the whole story.
She was not impressed. To say the least. She got a bit bored of hearing tales about ‘bad boys’, and I don’t blame her.
It’s not all about the rawness of sex. Sometimes, a little bit of emotion reminds you that you’re human. Even when it feels so far removed from your day-to-day life.
Looking back at the situation now, months later (we last spoke a couple of weeks before Ramadan)… am I mad? Am I upset?
Not really.
I’m grateful. But, of course, a little disappointed.
This man reminded me that I can feel those feelings I thought I wouldn’t anymore. He woke up fractions of those emotions you hear about in song lyrics and see in movies - a fun and nauseating experience all at once.
Plus, the sex was amazing.
Was I being played? Probably.
Would I do it again? Probably.
Because it was fun.
And honestly? I think I would have chosen an evening with him - sat on my bed, eating takeaway, talking shit - over front-row Madonna tickets.
And that’s the truth.
Plus, sometimes, typing this shit out is incredibly cathartic.
It’s nice to know I can feel that way again.
UPDATE:
After posting my pieces about Myspace and Getting into the Adult Industry, a few people who had read this on my website years ago asked me to repost it - and to give an update. So, here we are.
And I do actually have a little one, albeit quite predictable. From what I remember, anyway - it was over five years ago now.
This piece was written in 2019, back when we were still in contact, and he knew I was writing it. I wasn’t about to blindside someone with a piece like this, and he knew I’d never identify him. I’d never do that to a ‘DL’ guy. Lord knows, back in the day, I was offered money by tabloids to do so. But I’m loyal.
When I posted it on my WhatsApp story, he saw it and read it immediately. Then he contacted me and asked to meet.
I asked if he wanted me to take it down. He said no. He found it moving - especially my reference to picking him over Madonna tickets. That’s the part that stuck out to him.
He ended up coming over, and we had sex.
Bad sex.
The first time that had ever happened, and I felt nothing like before.
As he was leaving that night, we kissed, and he said it was making him not want to go.
I suggested that he did.
The next day, I blocked and deleted his number - and eventually changed mine.
I decided it was better to look after myself than to invite chaos back into my life. One of the rare times I’ve forced myself to break a bad pattern - and actually succeeded.
Every now and then, I still think about him.
Since him, I’ve been in two long relationships and experienced real love with a good man.
But like I said, it was nice to know I could feel that way at that time - and I’m grateful.
Funnily enough, I can remember what he looks like now.