BY PATRICK TSAKUDA
The visibility we’ve gained as gay men has been hard-won, bringing with it a language to describe our lives and our desires. Yet, there’s one aspect of our community’s discourse I find increasingly limiting, even distasteful: the insistence on labeling and compartmentalizing specific sexual preferences and acts.
As a gay man, I find that assigning rigid categories to the type of sex I prefer—whether through monikers like “top,” “bottom,” “versatile,” or through overly specific fetish tags—often strips the sexual act of its spontaneous complexity and reduces intimacy to a transaction of roles.
Labels are initially useful tools for seeking community and expressing identity. However, in the realm of sexual preference, they quickly become a self-imposed prison. They encourage a static view of desire, forcing fluid, context-dependent experiences into binary boxes.
My attraction, arousal, and enjoyment don’t fit into a tidy, predefined category. What I enjoy on a Monday night with one person may be entirely different from what I enjoy on a Saturday afternoon with another. When we prioritize a person’s sexual label over their personality, connection, and consent, we inadvertently create a marketplace where people are valued based on their adherence to a type rather than their capacity for genuine intimacy.
For me, the most profound sexual encounters are driven by connection, mood, and mutual discovery—not by checking off a preference on a digital profile. When dating or hooking up, being asked immediately to define my “type” or “role” feels less like an invitation to intimacy and more like an assessment for compatibility in a narrowly defined utility function.
This labeling culture fosters two significant drawbacks.
It can shame those whose preferences shift or who don’t conform to the accepted roles. The pressure to “perform” a label can lead to sexual dissatisfaction and misrepresentation.
Defining sex by a set of expectations short-circuits the conversation necessary for true intimacy. The most exciting sex is often the one we invent together, not the one we download from a template.
I believe we can honor our sexual visibility while reclaiming the fluidity that truly defines human desire. My sexuality is inherent to who I am, but my sexual preferences are complex, evolving, and depend entirely on the partner and the moment.
The true language of great sex isn’t a fixed label; it’s the continuous, honest dialogue of consent, enthusiasm, and openness to exploration. Instead of asking, “What are you?” I prefer the conversation that asks, “What do we want to discover together?”
By resisting the urge to neatly categorize our desires, we make space for more profound, more authentic, and ultimately, more fulfilling connections.
We liberate ourselves from the typology and allow our sexuality to remain what it should be: a vibrant, dynamic, and intensely personal part of the human experience.
