Swinging in Gisborne: The Quiet Hunt for a Third (or a Whole New Circle)
Swinging in Gisborne: The Quiet Hunt for a Third (or a Whole New Circle) Look, let’s cut the crap. You’re […]
Gisborne, New Zealand, Swinging
Author name: Luke_Shanahan
Luke Shanahan: Sex, Sand, and Second Chances on the East Coast Yeah, I'm Luke. Born and raised in Gisborne, New Zealand—the first city in the world to see the sun. Bit of a cliché, but it's true. I'm a sexologist by old habit, a writer by trade, and these days? I spend my time dissecting the strange dance between money, desire, and the digital chaos of dating apps. I've had more partners than I care to count and made more mistakes than most. But it's all data, right? Human data. And I've been collecting it my whole life, right here on the East Coast. Look, you don't spend twenty years studying human connection—its failures, its fleeting brilliance, its sheer transactional weirdness—without getting a little bruised. A little... skeptical. I've sat in sterile clinics, I've sat in smoky back rooms, and I've sat on the beach at 5 a.m. with someone whose name I couldn't remember, wondering what the hell we were all so afraid of. That's the thing about sex and money. They're just proxies. We're all just terrified of not being enough. Of being alone. So we swipe, we earn, we perform. But I've learned that competence isn't about having all the answers. It's about being comfortable with the questions. And Gisborne—this place—it's always been my quiet space to ask them. Living here isn't like living in a city. It's more like living inside a landscape. The town hugs the Poverty Bay flats, with Kaiti Hill looming over one shoulder and the vast, empty Pacific rolling out in front. You can't escape the geography. It defines you. I walk from my little place up on the Kaiti slopes, past the wharf where the logging trucks rumble through at dawn, down to Waikanae Beach. The sandpipers scatter, the tide's either in or out, and the air smells of salt and wet cutty grass. It’s grounding. You can't bullshit someone when you're standing barefoot on a beach that's been there for millions of years. This place keeps me honest. I know every backstreet, every corner store that sells a decent pie, every spot where you can watch a storm roll in from the sea and feel tiny. And I wouldn't have it any other way. My current gig? I write for a project called CamoWallet. It's a website, camowallet.app, focused on privacy and finance in the digital age. And my beat is the intersection of all that with relationships and dating. The money you spend on a date, the financial power dynamics in a marriage, the economics of being single and swiping. I'm not running a clinic anymore. I'm just... observing. And writing. From Gisborne. I take the raw stuff of my past—the therapy rooms, the reckless nights, the hard-won truths about what people want—and I filter it through the lens of this town. It’s a weird combination, but it works for me. It gives me perspective. Growing up here was its own kind of education. I remember, must've been the late 90s, surfing the river mouth at the Breakwater after a big storm. The water was the colour of milky coffee, churning with logs and who knows what else. Stupid, probably. But you feel alive. Or sneaking into the Gisborne Showgrounds after dark, just to sit in the grandstands and talk shit with friends. The smell of sawdust and animal hay from the A&P Show still hanging in the air. There was a real sense of being on the edge of things. The world felt far away. We'd drive out to the beaches past Wainui, park the car, and just listen to the radio under the stars. It was innocent, in a way, and also incredibly intense. Those long, quiet nights on the coast, they teach you to listen. To the waves, to the silence, to the other person breathing next to you. I was born at the old Gisborne Hospital, on Ormond Road, on a scorching hot January day in '86. My parents had a bach out at Makorori Beach back then, and the story goes my dad nearly didn't make it to the delivery because he got a flat tyre on the dirt road. Classic Gisborne. The heat would have been thick, cicadas screaming in the pōhutukawa trees. The whole town probably smelled of sunscreen and barbecues and the faint, sweet tang of the Wattie's factory over on the other side of the river. I came into the world just as the afternoon sea breeze kicked in, the one they call the Doctor. It's a good way to start, I think. With that cool air arriving off the Pacific, clearing the heat of the day. Sets the tone. A reminder that after the sweat and the struggle, something refreshing always comes in from the sea.
