I wasn’t even a full beat in before I knew I was gonna be obsessed. Thorne’s “Honey” doesn’t just flirt—it seduces, and I’m not talking cute winks across the dance floor. I’m talking slow-rolling hips, eyes locked, mouths parted, you can practically taste the tension.
Like Mariah Carey’s 1997 track of the same name that explores a similar theme (although from a decidedly straight perspective), this is the kind of track you play when your lip gloss is sticky, your thighs are bare, and you’ve already decided someone’s going home with you—you just haven’t told them yet. The moment that bassline hits, it’s over. And by the time he moans “your sweet dropping down from the honey pot,” I’m gone. Done. Melted.
Thorne’s Guyanese-Australian and raised on a diet of Stevie Wonder, Chaka Khan, Jill Scott, and every golden-era R&B artist who knew how to make a groove feel like foreplay. Honey is the result of that education—pure heat with soul at its core. He blends the sensuality of 70s soul with the sweet slickness of early 2000s R&B, wrapping it all in a queer, confident attitude that feels completely his own. The influence is there, but never copy-paste. It’s heritage, not homage—and Thorne’s building something new with it.
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He calls this one a “feel-good feel-yourself anthem,” and yeah, babe, it is. But it’s also a full-on tease. It’s a slippery, sweat-slick banger with lyrics so cheeky you’d almost miss how tight the production is. Almost.
That first verse sets the scene: “Hey boy, you remind of a time when we / were just two bees buzzing round life’s tree.” Cute. Innocent. But then he flips it—“Share with me don’t be greedy / Better give me your honey.” That’s the thing about Thorne. He doesn’t ask twice.
And I love how unbothered he is about being bold. He’s not holding back or coding his desire—“Boy I’m craving your honey” is so naked, so direct, you can practically hear the grin behind it. I can feel it in my lower belly. That lazy ache. That damn I miss being touched like that kind of energy.
Verse three? My favorite part. “Hey boy, ain’t no other girl or guy like me / I’m not a one to leave a man thirsty.” Okay, bitch, flex. The whole thing’s like a whispered dare—soft enough to pull you in, but with just enough bite to leave a mark. And he keeps sliding in those punchlines: “I got that tea, ice tea / I’ll share with you won’t be greedy”—that’s not just clever, that’s sexy and self-aware.
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But then he fucking levels up on the bridge. “Liquid gold, you got that good.” Like—who says that and makes it sound like a holy experience? Thorne does. His vocals are silky but dangerous. No runs for no reason, no melisma melodrama. He knows how to let a line hang, and babe, it works.
And if you haven’t seen the video yet—fix that. It’s dreamy, but don’t get it twisted. There’s heat under all that haze. The way he moves, the close-ups, the tease of skin, the tension between sweetness and sweat—it’s queer joy on fire. You can feel the love. You can feel the lust.
Everything about this song says, come get it, but only if you know how to ask. It’s a declaration and a seduction wrapped in one, and it doesn’t just celebrate queer sexuality—it revels in it. Loud, lush, and not sorry for a damn thing.
If this is the first taste of what’s coming, we’re gonna be full-on gluttons by the time the full project drops. Keep Thorne on your radar, girls. He’s not just making bops—he’s making moments. And Honey is the kind of track you don’t forget the night after.
