Looking back in anger

London's gay scene can be a hedonist's paradise. It caters to every taste and we enjoy more freedom than ever before. Yet while we celebrate it, we should also recognise its darker side. What happens when the apparently endless opportunities for recreational sex and substance abuse spiral out of control? When does a gay man begin to realise that he is no longer in Kansas?

Earlier this year, Alan Downs's book 'The Velvet Rage' provoked intense debate about internalised homophobia in gay men. Downs argues that deep-seated anger and feelings of inadequacy stemming from childhood experiences can lead to compulsive acting out and self-destructive behaviour in adult life.

It's a thesis which has been taken up by life coaches Darren Brady and Ade Adeniji, who explored the book with a series of group sessions for gay men at Barcode Vauxhall. They will be running an intensive weekend workshop this month.

'We are interested in offering a mutually supportive environment in which people can identify the stages they are at in Downs's book,' explains Brady. 'It is not a critique, but a way of being unashamed of shame, of celebrating it, sharing our experiences and feeling compassion as we go on a journey together.'

Everyone's experience on the gay scene is different. My own echoes many of the patterns described by Downs. Five years ago I was drinking my weight in Jack Daniels. Almost every Friday night I sought escape from the job I loathed by languishing in a gay sauna snorting ketamine off random men's locker keys.

Something like an epiphany came at 3am one morning. In a dark cabin one of three anonymous partners shovelled a little too much of that white powder up my left nostril. Within minutes I was sweating uncontrollably and writhing about on the plastic-covered mattress like an animal. I knew I couldn't go on like this.

I had morphed from an overly sensitive, bullied child into a latter-day Neely O'Hara from 'Valley of The Dolls'. I felt like an outsider and was searching for a sense of belonging through meaningless sex. As with all addictions, nothing was ever enough - neither a revolving door in my flat for random men to waltz through, nor receiving 100 nominations to enter Gaydar's auspicious Sex Factor contest
could satisfy my hunger or assuage my pain.

'In our workshops we heard stories about anonymous sex, all types of abuse and people who felt that contracting HIV proved what they had always believed - that they were intrinsically unworthy,' adds Brady. 'The work around Downs's book feels like a second evolution. Many gay men in their forties are now realising that they have a lot of baggage and as they get older it's just getting heavier. They need to do something about it. They are looking for release and the release they have used is simply not working any more.'

Many of the men who attended the first course had already taken the initial step by recognising their own self-destructive patterns behaviour. As with any recovery programme, Brady believes that it's only when you step back and become more conscious of what drives you that you can really start to evolve. The aim now is to spread this message to a wider audience.

'The best way to do this is by continuing to tell our stories,' says Brady. 'It is not by coercion, but by example. We are all fellow travellers. People will witness others' transformations and the courage it has taken for them to confront their demons. It's the change that people create for themselves, and hopefully others will want a part of that too. '

The next workshop will be Sat 22 and Sun Oct 23 (10am-5.30 pm) , with a pre-workshop Fri Oct 14 (7-9.30pm), Angel Wharf, 51 Eagle Wharf Rd, N1 7ER (Old St tube/rail).

To register, email Aadeniji@me.com