What happens when sex comes with a free therapy session?

For the Single Man, it’s a jungle out there. But in between the big weekends, terrible hook-ups and shit advice from friends is a lot of pleasure seeking, a load of cringing, some sort of self-discovery.

There’s a code among friends that should never be broken: don’t abandon them for a bloke, especially on a night out. But there are special circumstances that, to some, might sound selfish.

One Friday night, although I was armed with end-of-the-week optimism and Mad Mate, the atmosphere in the local pub was waning: shit, repetitive music rivalled only by a shit, repetitive security guard who, like clockwork, said ​“If you’re not smoking, go inside” every few minutes.

But night-time. Possibilities. London. Usually when it’s just me and Mad Mate, the night can go in two directions. We either get tired, piss each other off and go home or we end up in the studio of some guy she fancies at 7am, looking at each other in disbelief at our self-destruction. We did it again.

I really admire Mad Mate. Not only for being a top best friend, but because she’s always up for a proper adventure, egging me on to slap a smile on my face and fuck myself up. Friends, eh?

Anyway, after leaving the pub, we end up at a club in Bermondsey, and it’s slightly more ominous than we’d hoped. It’s only 2am, but already the clubbers look a bit tits-up, flailing around to terrible, down-tempo drum and bass.

On the dance floor, as Mad Mate’s trying to get me out of a funk, I slyly open Grindr. Ten minutes pass before a message pops up from ​“B”. He’s 54 and appears to be in good nick: a bit of stubble, chiselled jaw, slim, not bald. After a bit of a chatty exchange, we send each other pictures of our cocks. His is bright red, hard and veiny, assisted by a silver cock ring. Much more inviting than the guy dancing in harem pants to my left.

I break the news to Mad Mate by telling her – in a sort of jokey way – that I’ll shortly be on my way to get fucked by a 54-year-old. She loses her shit and we end up having it out in the toilet cubicle in between keys. I felt bad. No, really, I did. But he was fit and up for it. Most importantly, I was horny.

After sharing my live location on Grindr at the request of ​“B”, he asks what I’m into while I’m sitting in the back of the car, out of my head. My brain slot machines through blowjobs, rimjobs, spitting in mouth, spanking. Eventually, I land on ​“football socks”.

The door swings open at his semi-detached on the top of a hill. In the flesh, ​“B” is pretty lanky, wearing nylon PE shorts, a black vest and – ah ha! – football socks pulled up to the knee. He’s also holding a crutch, which he quickly explains is because of a torn tendon in his leg.

The living room is dimly lit, with a free-standing flat screen TV in one corner, a bookshelf drilled into the wall in the other and a glass coffee table in the middle of the room with a full ashtray, a copy of The Guardian and a remote control on top. He leaves me alone for a few minutes, so I perch on a maroon L‑shaped sofa. When he returns, ​“B” passes over a glass of red wine.

“Shall we put some porn on?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure,” I reply with a little too much enthusiasm. I’d never fucked with porn on in the background, nor did I have any intention of ever doing so.

“What turns you on?”

“Er… gangbangs?” I say. Not entirely true.

He fiddled around with his TV, got XHamster up and found a gangbang filmed in a changing room. A guy, dressed as a rugby player, was laid down with his back flat on a wooden bench, while five or six guys took turns fucking him from behind, the side, his mouth.

We started snogging and feeling each other up, then he took apart the seat cushions of the sofa and made a makeshift mattress on the floor. He laid down, I got on top and started sucking him off while he stuck a finger up my arse. I told him to bite my neck and, in between, he whispered in my ear: ​“I’m on T.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty fucked, too,” I replied, equally up for it, but also out of it.

It all felt a bit retro, having porn on in the background. To be honest, my first thought was that I alone couldn’t get him hard. His hard-ons lasted about two minutes, before they disappeared. Lucky for ​“B”, I’m not adverse to a soft cock and his looked pretty decent, so I carried on sucking him off. Besides, I was struggling to keep it hard, too. And with the incessant groaning of seven-ish men fucking in the background, I wasn’t really in the mood to try. Then, he said it again: ​“I’m on T.”

Once we’d accepted that neither of us were going to shoot a load, we laid back and ​“B” told me he was a psychotherapist. The large house he lived in was also once home to his ex-husband, whom he’d divorced a few months prior. I wasn’t bothered telling him much about myself – his life sounded far more interesting.

But given his profession, he started asking me all sorts. Do I have any siblings? Do I enjoy my job? When did my parents find out I was gay? Without realising, I started to open up as if I was sitting in a therapist’s chair. Must be good at his job, then.

We said our goodbyes and I jumped on a Lime bike back to mine in the pissing rain. Later on the next day, I remembered those whispers in my ear. I messaged my other mate, a Grade‑A Gay with a six pack, a penchant for orgies and who fucks genuine 10/​10s. ​“Shagged a guy last night. What’s ​‘T’?” I asked.

“It’s crystal meth, babe,” Grade‑A Gay replied. Ah.

Still, I felt an odd sense of satisfaction. No, I hadn’t come. But it turns out some free, frazzled late-night therapy could be equally rewarding. Who knew?