Go Ask Alex: My first gay hookup blackmailed me. Is sex really worth it?

Dear Alexander,

Sex is not worth it. I refuse to do hookups. I had a bad experience; it was my first time and ended with me being blackmailed, but nothing happened. After that, I promised myself that I would never have a hookup again. I do not see the appeal anyway. All that work for really nothing. Feeling good for a little bit, then going back for more, like a drug addict.

I'm not against the idea of sex; sure, there are moments when I want sex, but I just remember that one experience and decide it's not worth it. Who wants to have sex with an inexperienced virgin anyway? Am I wrong for not wanting to be part of promiscuity and choosing to let sex go?

Howdy,

There’s a lot to unpack here.

First, I’m sorry your first sexual experience was so bad. That’s not how it should go.

Being blackmailed is more than a “bad experience” — it’s a violation that will feel painful to anyone who lived in the closet, afraid exposure would cost them their families, jobs, or lives.

This makes me think you’re still in the closet. Someone can only use your sex life as leverage if you’re not open or public about what you do. Being DL isn’t a moral failing — everyone has their own journey — but coming out brings joys beyond living and loving publicly; it also brings freedom from this kind of coercion. It gives bad actors no way to use your sex life against you. When I was in the closet, anyone who knew my secret had power over me. Coming out reclaimed that power. I was free. I believe everyone, if they can, should come out. You’ll be happier on the other side — I promise.

But back to your question: With all the risk and work that goes into it, is sex worth it?

Sex carries physical and emotional risk. It’s hard to be sexually active without getting an STI at least once. It’s hard to have beautiful, intimate experiences and not get your heart broken. And it’s impossible to have a gay or queer sex life without confronting the old enemy of happiness — shame.

Sex is full of wonders and pitfalls. It can take years before you feel confident doing it. So it’s fair to ask: With all that risk and effort, is sex worth it?

I’ve heard many answers to this — sex people (I was a sex worker for years) talk about it a lot. Invariably, someone compares it to food. Like this: If a person has never had ice cream and doesn’t want it, is their life worse for abstaining? Are they missing out?

Maybe not. But that comparison is faulty.

Sex is not like ice cream. It’s not, despite how you view it, a drug. Sex is a core biological impulse — one of few things humans are wired to do and want. It shapes religion, culture, art, and every industry. It’s one of the foundational human experiences that unites us across time and culture. Sappho’s poetry still moves gay women two thousand years later, and I cry at images of male skeletons from ancient times, still holding each other.

I can’t know what life was like for a peasant in the Dark Ages or a man in a hunter-gatherer tribe, but I know how desire feels — that dull flame of fear and lust that swells in me when I see a beautiful naked man. I know it’s the same ancient thing men like me have felt for thousands of years. It’s the marker of our big, big family.

My desires give me a glimpse into the past and, I hope, the future. They tell me what the most intense adolescent moments felt like for some of the most interesting people who ever lived. It’s all the same. We’re all the same.

Turning away from that isn’t equivalent to refusing a drink or scoop of ice cream — it’s refusing something that defines our humanity on this planet.

There was lots of messy, painful sex at the start of my sex life. I was new. I regret lots of it. I had much to learn. But when it was good, it felt like my body was finally doing what it was made for. That first kiss, that first fuck — I couldn’t describe them without invoking poetry, or even prayer. That’s how big it is. That’s a big thing to reject without giving it a fair shot. With all that at stake, the refusal — not the sex — better be worth it.

You’re not wrong for fearing it after a bad first experience. And you are always — at any time — free to decide hookups aren’t for you. Plenty of people don’t like them. But if assault survivors and victims of abuse can, with therapy, find healthy sex lives again, you can too — and they do. Every day, they do.

The story you’re building around sex — that it’s all hookups, and it’s only something the experienced enjoy or deserve — assumes sex is one thing. It isn’t. Hookups, especially ones done with apps, are just a small part of modern sex, and I’d argue one of the more stressful versions of it. There are other ways to experience intimacy. You’re rejecting all of them because of Grindr.

There is such a thing as slow, intentional, caring sex that happens with trust, and that sex has little in common with the scenario that hurt you. You won’t find it on Grindr, and you’ll find it more easily if you come out.

Consider reframing your first experience this way: You learned a hard lesson about safety, boundaries, and consent. That knowledge can make you cautious if you try again — and that’s good. For now, I strongly recommend therapy. Find someone you can share your feelings with, bound by confidentiality to keep your information private.

Abstinence might bring you peace now, but if you wait too long, sex gets harder to learn — not impossible, but harder. I can’t tell you how many men I’ve met who wish they’d been braver when they were young. Try not to confuse “this isn’t right for me now” with “sex is meaningless.” Sex can be tender, profound, and healing when you feel safe and found within it.

Also, lots of people like virgins — and everyone is a virgin at some point. The most advanced, piggy gay man you know was once a virgin. There’s no rule saying you can’t become like him.

Experience doesn’t make you desirable. When you’re ready, the work of finding people who make you feel safe can begin, and that’s the same journey we’re all on. We’re all just looking for the good ones. That’s life, babe.

Hey there! I’m Alexander Cheves. I’m a sex writer and former sex worker—I worked in the business for over 12 years. You can read my sex-and-culture column Last Call in Out and my book My Love Is a Beast: Confessions, from Unbound Edition Press. But be warned: Kirkus Reviews says the book is "not for squeamish readers.”

In the past, I directed (ahem) adult videos and sold adult products. I have spoken about subjects like cruising, sexual health, and HIV at the International AIDS Conference, SXSW, the Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai, and elsewhere, and appeared on dozens of podcasts.

Here, I’m offering sex and relationship advice to Out’s readers. Send your question to askbeastly@gmail.com — it may get answered in a future post.