Vers Twinks Exhaust Me

There’s a moment in every person’s dating life when you encounter the “vers” guy. He’s handsome, charming, and effortlessly flirty, and when you ask about his preferences, he says, “Oh, I’m versatile.” Sounds perfect, right? Wrong. Because what he really means is: “I have no idea who I am, what I want, or where this is going—but I’m flexible about it.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good vers. They’re adaptable, open-minded, and down for anything. But what I have found in my experience is being vers is often less about sexual roles and more about being emotionally stuck in the middle of nowhere. They’re not tops. They’re not bottoms. They’re… lost.

Take Lane, for example. A Yale-educated triple major in journalism, philosophy, and political science, Lane was the kind of guy who could quote Kierkegaard and name every Pulitzer-winning article since 2000. He loved Ethel Cain and took pride in being a Chappell Roan fan before she went mainstream. A Kansas transplant, he had moved to Somerville post-grad to work for a newspaper specializing in rural Midwestern politics.

During my pre-screening of his social media (as one does), I noticed he had a chameleon-like approach to fashion. One post he was emo, the next he was rocking a light academia aesthetic, and then he pivoted to full-on nightcore-inspired looks. It was like watching a time-lapse of someone trying to find themselves, one aesthetic at a time.

Our first date was fantastic: we grabbed a joint from Newdía, and I promptly tried to light the filter like an idiot. After that embarrassment, we got high, zoned out, and ended up having deep conversations about life, art, and everything in between. The sexual tension? Let’s just say I wanted to pounce onto his thick thighs that were bulging out of his slutty short shorts. 

But by the second date, it became clear that being a vers wasn’t just his bedroom preference—it was his entire personality.

“I hate labels,” he said, swirling his IPA like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. “I just want to feel free, you know?”

I nodded politely, but internally I thought, Translation: I have commitment issues.

By the third date, we were high out of our minds again but he was spiraling into full emotional chaos. “Sometimes I want to be in control,” he said, staring deeply into my beautiful brown eyes. “And other times, I just want to let go.”

I tried to redirect. “So… like a switch?”

“No,” he replied solemnly, “it’s more than that. It’s like… who am I, really?”

I just thought we were talking about what gets us hard? I didn’t fucking sign up for a Socratic Seminar on existential philosophy.

And it’s not just Lane. Over the years, I’ve dated enough vers men to recognize the pattern: they don’t want to commit to a role—or a relationship. They’ll tell you they’re open to everything, but what they really mean is they’re afraid to pick a lane (lol).

Vers becomes their catch-all for indecision, a way to avoid defining anything, from their preferences to their feelings. They’re the human equivalent of “it’s complicated,” floating somewhere between top, bottom, friend, and boyfriend.

Whenever I bring up sexual preferences, it’s like I’ve asked them to define the meaning of life. They always take a deep, contemplative breath—like they’re about to reveal a long-buried secret—and then say they’re a vers.

But here’s the thing: being vers never fucking means what they think it means.

There was Evan, who confidently declared he was vers on the first date—but then admitted he only bottoms for his ex. A true romantic, I guess, because apparently, no one was good enough to top him. 

Then there was Jesse. His Tinder profile said vers bottom, but on our first date he claimed he was just a regular old vers. By the time we got a few drinks in, he confessed he “used to mainly bottom” but complained that even when he topped, his exes still didn’t respect him. The existential crisis was palpable.

Louis also had vers in his Tinder bio, but after 20 minutes of chatting, he was already complaining about how much he hated topping in his past relationships. He’d sigh dramatically like a war hero recounting a particularly harrowing battle.

And then there was Andrew. His Grindr profile boldly said vers, but in person, he confessed he actually only ever topped. Honestly, the bait-and-switch was impressive—it was like finding out a four-star restaurant secretly serves fast food.

Miguel was a bit more complicated. He claimed he was strictly a top, and even had a Twitter account to prove it (which, by the way, is absolutely worth a follow). But then I hooked up with his ex-boyfriend Ian, who casually informed me that Miguel used to be “more of a bottom” until they broke up. Apparently, titles in the gay world are as fluid as Starbucks seasonal drinks.

Then there was Sarvesh, who studied at Brown and carried himself with the confidence of someone who knows how to use praxis in casual conversation. In bed, he was all dominant energy—throwing me around like he was auditioning for the next season of American Gladiators. He had the sexiest biceps and the most perfect smile. I was impressed. Very impressed.

There’s Joey, the McKinsey consultant, who I loved throwing around instead. A corporate ladder climber by day, he became an adorable, flustered mess by night. It was exhilarating.

But here’s the kicker: both Sarvesh and Joey, for all their bold moves and sexual energy, turned out to be complete virgins. Virgins! I couldn’t decide whether to feel flattered, betrayed, or like I’d accidentally become a character in their coming-of-age movie.

It’s always the ones you least expect, tbh.

And then there’s Joe. Sweet, indecisive Joe. He’ll tell you he’s into tying people up—or being tied up—but he exclusively tops and somehow still manages to be the most submissive person when it comes to initiating romance. I’ve never met someone who could make being assertive feel optional.

Now, don’t get me wrong—being versatile is great. It’s freeing. It’s liberating. It’s exciting! But when being vers is used as a stand-in for emotional confusion, it becomes less about flexibility and more about dodging accountability.

The worst part? I always fall for it. Because there’s something intoxicating about their indecisiveness. It’s like dating a Choose Your Own Adventure book—chaotic, unpredictable, and impossible to put down.

But eventually, you realize that those vers twinks aren’t always sexy or mysterious. Sometimes, it’s just exhausting. You spend more time breaking through their emotional stonewall than actually enjoying their company. One moment, they’re crying about wanting something serious, and the next, they’re talking about moving to New York to “find themselves” as if you’re not sitting right there.

And then there’s the endless wondering: Are they actually into me, or are they just going along with the flow because making a decision would require effort? It’s like dating a Magic 8-Ball—every fucking response is vague, noncommittal, and somehow leaves you with more questions than answers. I almost want to rip my hair out and just let out a blood curdling screech. 

You’ll over analyze every look, every pause in conversation, every “haha” in a text message, trying to figure out if it’s real or if they’re just mirroring your energy like some emotionally unavailable chameleon. Spoiler: it’s probably the latter.

And yet, they’re so convincing. They’ll say all the right things—“I really like spending time with you” or “You’re different from anyone I’ve met before”—but it’s hard to tell if they mean it or if it’s just easier than having an honest conversation about their feelings (or lack thereof).

Or do you think this is what they tell all their other uncut brown twinks on their roster?

It’s like they’re stuck on a lazy river of indecision, and you’re just floating alongside, hoping the current eventually leads somewhere worthwhile.

So now, whenever a guy says he’s a vers, I take a deep breath and ask myself: Is he actually versatile, or is he just emotionally confused?

Because here’s the truth: being versatile isn’t about indecision. It’s about knowing what you want and being open to exploring it. It’s about communication, trust, and understanding—not using vagueness as a shield.

So, to all the emotionally confused vers guys out there: please take your time. Figure it out. But until you do, maybe stop dating and start journaling.Or try pilates, it’ll help you with all of the trauma that you’ve been storing in your hips. 

As for me, I’ve learned my lesson. The next time a guy says he’s a vers, I’ll smile, nod, and quietly prepare myself for the inevitable existential crisis. Because you just need to let them figure it out by themselves if they’re a top, a bottom, or just lost in the middle.