This November marks ten years since Stephen Port was convicted of using drugs associated with chemsex to murder four young gay men in East London.
I remember following the case and feeling deeply unsettled. The details of the case, which remain troubling, became the subject of documentaries and dramas.
This focus was not so much a result of the horrifying nature of the crimes themselves, but of revelations about how the Metropolitan Police had handled the deaths of Anthony Walgate, Gabriel Kovari, Daniel Whitworth and Jack Taylor – specifically, the opportunities the police had to prevent more deaths.
Watching those details emerge was particularly scary, as someone who came all too close to finding myself in a similarly vulnerable position.
As a young queer man living in London, I was introduced to chemsex: the unique blend of taking specific drugs in a sexualised setting.
What began as an exploration of my sexuality eventually exposed me to something darker. I was drugged and sexually assaulted. I never reported what happened to the police.
I've questioned that decision for a long time. But having spent years investigating the systems that made failures surrounding Port's murders, I still struggle to imagine whether my experience would have been taken seriously.
That question was the starting point for Catch Us When We Fall, my new six-part investigation for QueerAF. A decade on from those devastating murders which shocked the nation, I wanted to discover: have we learned how to protect queer people from harm?
Over three years, I've spoken to survivors, those recovering from addiction, doctors, police officers and grieving families. Their experiences resist easy headlines.
Some describe chemsex as an experience that can be pleasurable and manageable with appropriate harm reduction in the forefront; others describe a scene with patterns of coercion, isolation and devastating loss.
Treating everyone who takes drugs during sex the same is as unhelpful as dismissing the dangers out of hand. But what connects so many accounts is the shame many queer people grow up with.
That shame plays out as adults when it comes to sex, drugs and even asking for help. That, alongside a sharp fear, learned from experience, that institutions will see a stereotype before they see a person.
Sexual health doctor Chris Ward told me about patients who disclosed sexual assault only after being asked more specific questions about consent. His account challenges an uncomfortable assumption: that what happens during drug-fuelled sex is somehow less deserving of scrutiny.
I also met Miriam Blythe, whose 19-year-old son Ed Cornes died in 2021 with two other men in the room with him. She has spent years challenging the police investigation into his death, which has resulted in no charges.
In June, the Met apologised for aspects of its handling of the case and said specialist officers were reviewing the investigation. The catalogue of errors includes losing all the evidence collected in the investigation into his death. Miriam's fight for answers should trouble anyone convinced lessons have already been learned.
The Met says it has made changes since Port's murders. An LGBTQ+ liaison officer I interviewed spoke about rebuilding trust.
But trust isn't restored through promises alone. It depends on what happens when somebody vulnerable asks for help: whether they're listened to, believed and treated with dignity, without fear of judgement, dismissal or being blamed themselves.
Nor is policing the whole story. Dating platforms, healthcare providers, drug services, journalists and our own community shape whether people feel safe enough to speak. We need queer-informed support, accountability and reporting that distinguishes consensual sex from exploitation and crime.
I know what silence feels like. Ten years after Port's conviction, we should not simply ask whether institutions have learned lessons, but whether they’ve done enough to earn back the trust of queer people when it matters most.
The answer to that, nuanced and complex, is as troubling as you might expect. It’s a tacit reminder that the systems set up to catch people when they fall are missing vulnerable gay, bi and queer men, who deserve our love and compassion, not stigma and shame.
Catch Us When We Fall is the first season of QueerAF’s new podcast, QueerAF Uncovered. Our new home for documentary series uncovering the truth behind the headlines, hot topics and hidden history shaping LGBTQIA+ lives. For fans of Tortoise Investigates, Slow Burn, or World of Secrets and Intrigue – it begins Nov 9th, 2026 - subscribe now
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