The UK has some of the highest percentages of chemsex users in Europe – the conversation can no longer stay underground. Impulse London’s latest exhibition, Chemtrail: This Is Killing Us, brings that hidden world into the light, reminding us that art can do what statistics can’t: make us feel what’s at stake.
Illustration by GAY45. Poster of the exhibition by Impulse London.You can simply scroll past—but please don't overlook the importance of an independent queer press.
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You can simply scroll past — but please don’t overlook the importance of an independent queer press.
You can simply scroll past—but please don't overlook the importance of an independent queer press.
Time is now or never.
Queer voices disappear without independent journalism to amplify them.
We document what others won't touch.
We hold power to account when it threatens our communities.
This work exists only because you choose to fund it directly.
Donate over €25/month and receive our limited-edition tote bag — a badge of resistance, a statement that you stand for fearless journalism.
We are grateful!
Can't donate? Sharing our work helps more than you think
Since 2023, at least three Londoners have lost their lives every month from chemsex-related causes, with the London Ambulance Service treating at least one person a day due to intoxication from substances. Behind these statistics are real people, with real struggles and stories to tell; with this exhibition Impulse London was able to bring those people to the forefront of the conversation.
Chemsex, for those unfamiliar, refers to the practice of consuming drugs whilst engaging in sexual activity. There are a few abbreviations associated with the practice, like “high and horny” (HnH), or “party and play” (PnP), and it’s most common among gay and bi men. With the widespread availability of GHB, mephedrone and crystal meth (commonly referred to as ‘Tina’), it is easily seen on social media accounts and queer dating apps like Grindr.
People partake in chemsex for various reasons. Some want to feel enhanced pleasure and less inhibitions, whilst others it eliminates an element of shame or the feelings of stigma and issues of self-esteem. One person from the event said: “It started with one night of pleasure, you forget about the way people look at you and hurtful comments. And the loneliness I felt was a factor that I think encouraged that behaviour – it was just something that I thought everyone was doing on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday night after the clubs.”
Problematic chemsex use might manifest itself through mental health disorders, strained relationships, and addiction – sometimes escalating to outcomes such as suicide or overdose. Many activists and charities like Controlling Chemsex and London Friend, have tried to raise awareness about the consequences and educate people on safer practices. Still, there is a glaring lack of resources and comprehensive strategies to address these situations effectively.
The hidden danger of chemsex is the silence that accompanies it; within the LGBTQ+ community, chemsex sits at the intersection of whispered shame and moral panic. Even among queer people, it’s discussed in hushed tones, a scene that you’re either a part of or turn a blind eye to and pretend not to know.
The stigma can make it almost impossible for people to seek help and can be a death sentence. Admitting an addiction or even ‘just a habit’ risks being judged by peers, rejected by partners, or dismissed by healthcare providers who don’t understand the intricacies of queer sexual culture. When addiction intersects with shame, it can be self-reinforcing – the guilt leads to more use, which leads to more isolation.
This is exactly the type of isolation and silence that Chemtrail aims to dismantle.
One never really knows what to expect from exhibitions like this. Some are well-intentioned but performative, while others are so bleak that they alienate the very people they hope to reach. But Chemtrail was different. You didn’t leave with pity, but perspective.
Over two days, Impulse London transformed a small Soho gallery into a living, breathing portrait of a crisis that is often reduced to statistics. Testimonials from chemsex users and survivors lined the walls, recounting lived experiences of addiction, relapse, recovery, and grief. There were stories from mothers leaving unanswered voicemails for sons who never came home. There were notes from friends who’d sat through overdoses. And there, in the middle of it all, stood a mannequin – faceless, bruised, its arms dotted with the marks of injection.
The effect was gutting but grounding. It wasn’t misery for shock’s sake. It was a mirror.
The mannequins said everything words couldn’t, faceless, anonymous, yet painfully human; it became a stand-in for everyone who has ever felt lost due to shame. Around it hung accounts not just from users, but from the people orbiting them: therapists, partners, teachers. The message was simple but necessary: no one is immune.
One corner of the gallery became a “Reflection Room”, where visitors were invited to write directly onto the walls in chalk. What emerged was extraordinary: messy, heartfelt handwriting stretching from floor to ceiling. Some messages offered hope. Others were elegies. A few turned into poetry – strangers using pain as raw material for creation. It felt like healing happening in real time. One poem read: “Neon hums through crystal veins, desire blurs the line. We chase a rush that burns too fast, then aches beyond its time.” It acted as a commentary on chasing the rush and the impacts of the void left behind by the person who is lost to drug usage.
The space didn’t feel clinical or accusatory, but alive – bright, inviting, unexpectedly communal and inspiring. It replaced stigma with understanding, reminding visitors that conversations about chemsex don’t have to be cloaked in shame.
Even though the exhibition has ended, its impact has only just begun. Throughout the space, QR codes linked to organisations offering immediate support routes. Volunteers spoke openly about mental health, sexual wellbeing, and recovery. The message was clear: this wasn’t a one-off event, but the beginning of a movement to normalise these conversations in queer spaces, bars, clubs, homes – wherever silence has taken hold.
Impulse has made it their mission to create spaces of compassion instead of condemnation, and Chemtrail was proof that art can do what statistics alone cannot: reconnect empathy with understanding. Surprisingly refreshing, the exhibition didn’t moralise or sensationalise. It felt alive with purpose, hopeful even, whispering to anyone who has ever struggled; it gets better.
In the end, Chemtrail wasn’t just about drugs or death. It was about connection – about how art, at its best, can turn confession into conversation. If silence kills, this exhibition proved that honesty could heal.
Support Resources
If you or anyone you know is struggling with chemsex, understand that no one is alone in a community. Kindness is free – here are some organisations that can offer confidential support to those who need it: 56 Dean Street, Soho, Controlling chemsex, Terrance Higgins Trust
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