Top, Bottom, Vers: The Grammar We Invented, and Sometimes Forget Is Just Language

In the straight world, you don't ask on a first date: "And you – are you the one who gives, or the one who receives?" That's taken for granted. Or rather, it's not asked because it's not considered relevant – at least not in the sense that it's relevant to us. But we have this grammar. We have words that describe not just what we do in bed, but how we stand in a relationship, how we feel in the world, how we see ourselves in the mirror while getting ready to go out.

Top. Bottom. Vers. Active, passive, versatile. Terms that, when you say them outside our community, sound like technical jargon. But inside it, they carry the weight of identity. And sometimes, much more than we'd like to admit.

What We Are – And Why It's Sometimes Not Lifelong

When I first realised these categories existed, I thought it was simple. Who gives, who receives. Biology. Mechanics. But I quickly realised it's far more complicated. Because these roles aren't just positions. Sometimes they're confessions. Sometimes fetishes. Sometimes chains. And sometimes – liberation.

I'm a bottom. That's not just what I do, it's part of who I am. And to be completely honest, there's a bit of a fetish in there too. The fact that I'm in the "more feminine" role, that I receive, that I surrender – that sometimes turns me on more than the physical act itself. In that role, I feel gay. Not the way I feel gay when I look at a man in a club – but in a deeper, more primitive way. As if it confirms my identity. As if it's a ritual of repetition: yes, this is me, this is my nature, this is my desire. And that's powerful. That's magic. And it's, I have to admit, sometimes complicated.

Because what if that role has become my chain? What if the bottom identity is so rooted in me that I've forgotten I could be different? Am I a bottom because I want to be, or because I've told myself that story so many times that I no longer know how to take it off?

The Mask and the Skin: Who in Bed, Who on the Street?

But here's the thing that rarely gets said openly, yet should be obvious to anyone who's spent more than two days on our scene: your role in bed has absolutely nothing to do with how you look, how you dress, or how you behave while you're clothed.

There's a stupid notion – and not just a notion, but practically a law – that if you're feminine, if you're gentle, if you like wearing makeup, colourful clothes, talking with your hands, being "queer" in a way that's visible and audible – then you're automatically a bottom. Passive. The one who receives. As if femininity is just a precursor to penetration. As if you're less of a man if you like being touched inside.

And that's not only wrong, it's limiting to the point of tragedy.

I know guys who are so feminine that anyone on the street would clock them instantly. Makeup, nails, hair, body language, fashion – everything screams "female". And then you get into bed with them and realise they're a top. Active. Dominant. Some even ultra-top, the kind who commands, who never receives under any circumstances, who would be offended if you thought they were passive. And it's not an act. It's not compensation. It's what flows naturally from them. Their femininity is aesthetic, expression, lightness – but their role in sex is something else entirely. And that combination? That combination can be the most exciting thing in the world. Because it breaks your brain. Because you look at that person, you hear them, you see how they move – and then – the flip. And you realise you underestimated them. That you put them in a box before they even opened their mouth. And that's a lesson worth repeating.

And the reverse – and this is perhaps even more fascinating – there really are those who look like they were born in a gym, like they crawled out of a mine, a military exercise, a pub where people shoot. Big, hairy, rough voices, jeans, boots, tattoos, beards that could hide a gun. Real "man's men". Alpha types. And then you find out – maybe first-hand, maybe through gossip – that they're bottoms. That they love to receive. To surrender. To be led, held, even humiliated. And it's not because they're weaker. It's not because they're less of a man. It's because sexuality is more fluid than our culture allows. And because the role in bed – that physical and psychological position – is often a complement to who you are outside. As if the body seeks balance. As if the one who carries the weight of responsibility, authority, masculinity all day – in bed, wants to put it down. Wants someone else to hold it. Wants someone else to lead.

Style Is a Costume, Role Is the Spirit

This brings me to the question: how much are our roles connected to the way we dress, walk, talk? And the answer is – hardly at all. Or at least, they shouldn't be.

There are men who are ultra-masculine every day. Gym, short hair, black, grey, no makeup, no colour, no gesticulation. And then in bed – total bottom, maybe even submissive. Likewise, there are men who are visible, colourful, expressive, "feminine" by every social measure – and then in bed they command, direct, take. And of course, I know those where the outside and inside match. But that's just one variation, not the rule.

Our mistake is thinking that role is an identity that must be consistent 24/7. That if you're a bottom, you have to be gentle, caring, "feminine". That if you're a top, you have to be rough, dominant, "masculine". And then people adjust. They dress the way they think their role should look. They perform. They act. And that might be the saddest thing – when a sexual role becomes a costume you wear even outside the bedroom.

I'm not a bottom because I'm gentle. I'm gentle because that's how I am. And I happen to also be a bottom. These two things coexist, but they don't cause each other. And when you realise that, you free yourself. You can wear whatever you want. You can be whatever you want. Your jeans and your beard don't determine what you do in bed. Your makeup and your colourful shirt don't determine whether you'll receive or give.

Top as Physics, Bottom as Spirit

In the top role, at least for me, things are different. When I occasionally top – because yes, it happens, though rarely – it's mostly physical pleasure. The body does what it knows. I enjoy the power, the control, the view. But there's none of that depth. None of that surrender. None of that feeling of giving myself over to something larger than me. Bottom is, for me, a spiritual experience as much as a physical one. Top is just body. And that's fine. But it explains why I always return. Why my home is down there.

And then there's the physical pleasure of the bottom position – which, let's bust a myth, isn't just "sacrifice". Far from it. The bottom body has its own points, its own centres of pleasure, its own ways of receiving and giving simultaneously. A bottom isn't an empty vessel. A bottom is an active partner in the encounter. And that's something many – even within our community – misunderstand.

When the Compass Breaks: I'm a Bottom, and I Like Bottom Guys

Here's something that confused me for a long time. Although I'm a bottom, I'm most often attracted to – you guessed it – bottom guys. Not always, but relatively often. And that, if you think logically, is "wrong". Shouldn't top and bottom complement each other like puzzle pieces? Isn't it nature that the active is attracted to the passive, that magnets turn opposite poles?

But chemistry doesn't care about logic. And I've lain in bed with guys who are the same as me, and it was electric. Two bottoms together don't have to be an unhappy combination. Sometimes you take turns. Sometimes one of you takes on a role they don't usually wear – not because they have to, but because they want to in that moment, with that person. And sometimes, best of all, you simply do other things. Because sex isn't just penetration. And a role isn't just a position.

This brings me to the next question: is attraction to the same role an expression of some deep similarity? Do two bottoms see in each other what they themselves carry – that vulnerability, that readiness, that desire to receive? And is that actually more intimate than the classic top-bottom dynamic?

Love as a Change of Map

And now the most complicated thing. Can love – or at least strong passion – change your role?

I know a guy who was a top his whole life. Hard, dominant, never even thought otherwise. And then he met someone. And within a year, that same guy started describing himself as vers. And later, he confided in me, sometimes he's a bottom just with him. Just with that one man. Because with him, he felt safe. Because with him, he wanted to be different. Because love opened doors that had been locked his whole life. The desire to please the man you love can make you find things in yourself you didn't know existed. And that's not a lie. That's not acting. That's love expanding the repertoire.

But how much can we influence that? How much is choice, and how much is nature? I don't know the exact answer. I know I've tried to be vers. To "practice" the top role. And it was fine, but never as natural as the other. Like trying to write with my left hand. I can. But it's not mine. And maybe that's the key: we can expand our boundaries, but not change our core. Or maybe the core isn't what we think it is. Maybe the core is more fluid than we're comfortable with.

The Numbers: Which Are There More Of, and Why Do We Care?

The question often comes up: which are there more of, tops or bottoms? As if it's some kind of market. As if, if there are more bottoms, the price of tops goes up. And I see it on the apps. "Everyone's a bottom!" – tops scream. "There are no tops!" – bottoms lament. And then some panic sets in, some apparent shortage, as if a sexual role is a resource that gets used up.

But I think the numbers are deceptive. First, many identify as vers, but in practice are almost always one or the other. Second, many tops don't identify as tops because it carries a certain weight – being a top means you're "more masculine", and that's a label that doesn't suit everyone. Third, roles change with age. I've heard theories that younger guys are more often bottoms, seeking protection, experience, wanting to be led. And that older guys become vers or tops, taking control. But my experience doesn't confirm that. I know younger tops who were born dominant. I know older bottoms who wouldn't even think otherwise. And I know everything in between.

Maybe the question "which are there more of" is the wrong question. Maybe the right question is: how many of us dare to be what we are?

Role as Costume, Role as Skin

In the end, I have to return to what I said at the beginning. These categories – top, bottom, vers – are useful. They help us find what we want. They give language to desire. But they can also trap us. Make us one-dimensional. Make us feel inadequate if we don't belong to the dominant category. Make us perform.

I'm a bottom. That's my skin. But sometimes it's also my costume. And sometimes I take off that costume to see what's underneath. Am I in there? Am I something else? Am I all of it together?

And I think the answer is: yes. That we're all complex. That the role is a map, not the territory. That we can choose, but also be chosen. That we can love someone who is the same as us, and it can be fiery. That we can change for someone we love, but only if we want to. And that we can stay the same, and that can be enough. That our makeup or our beard doesn't determine who we are in the dark. That our brightness on the street doesn't mean weakness in bed. That our courage to be feminine isn't the same as the violent assumption that we must receive. And that our masculinity, no matter how rough and rugged, doesn't exclude the desire to be led, held, received.

Because in the end, it doesn't matter whether you're a top, bottom, or vers. What matters is that you're present. That you walk into a room – or into bed – as a whole person. With your fears, your fetishes, your desires, your willingness to be seen. And that you know the role is just the beginning of the story. And the story is always, always longer than you think.