Let’s talk about the curse of the vers.

Not the “best of both worlds” that Hannah Montana once sang about, but the tragic reality of being a versatile man in a city experiencing a severe top shortage.

Sydney is overflowing with bottoms.

We’re talking surplus. Overstock. Bottoms on sale, two-for-one, next-day delivery.

And me? I’m stuck in the middle, quite literally, as a versatile man who suddenly finds himself topping every single time just to keep the city running.

And look, just because I have a big bottom does not mean I am one.

But it also doesn’t mean I’m not.

What it does mean is that I apparently give off “top energy.”

Why?

Because I make strong eye contact?

Because I’m 6-foot tall?

Because I have a beard?

Sure, I can top. I will top.

But sometimes I want to be tossed around like a sweaty gym towel and rearranged to the sounds of Chappell Roan under the glow of a $7 Kmart candle.

I want softness. I want balance. I want… options.

But being vers in Sydney means you don’t get options.

You get… assignments.

You’re not a man exploring duality.

You’re the designated driver of a very full car of bottoms all begging, “Are we there yet?”

Even my dating app inbox reads like the intro to a group project I didn’t agree to lead:

“Masc? Top? Into taking charge? Love that.”

Sir, I just said I like techno and morning gym sessions. I’m not trying to be your Daddy.

Versatility should be liberating.

It should be “let’s see where the moment takes us,” not “he’s vers so I don’t have to be.”

But here we are.

Another night, another shift, another moment of quiet mourning for the flip that could’ve been.

So if you see a vers guy out there, hug him.

Buy him a coffee. Ask if he’s okay.

Better yet… offer to go on top. Just once. For the culture.