The conversation around sexual roles in gay communities often carries more judgment than is acknowledged. On social platforms, Dr. Matthew Brinkley, a Los Angeles–based queer therapist and sex educator, has been calling out what he sees as a persistent double standard: people who identify as tops frequently criticize those who identify as bottoms, yet rarely accept the same scrutiny themselves. This critique lands in feeds where dating advice, boundary talk, and calls to avoid emotionally unavailable partners are routine, but where sexual hierarchies still quietly shape who is praised and who is shamed.
Brinkley’s posts combine relationship coaching with blunt cultural observations, and his recent commentary has zeroed in on how shaming operates in physical spaces as well as online. He frames the problem not as a debate about preference but as a moralizing practice that polices bodies. By naming the pattern—people who denigrate receptive partners while escaping equivalent critique—he invites readers to question who gets to set the rules for sexual respect. His tone can be frank, and he sometimes punctuates arguments with sharp calls for basic courtesy and self-reflection.
The long shadow of history and health
The stigma aimed at bottoms has deep historical echoes. Observers trace attitudes back to classical eras when sexual roles were bound up with status: the receptive role was often associated with youth, servitude, or noncitizen status in some societies. Over centuries those perceptions hardened into a cultural shorthand linking receptivity with weakness or impurity. In the twentieth century the HIV/AIDS crisis amplified myths about risk and cleanliness, with certain sexual acts unfairly singled out as evidence of moral failing rather than behaviors to be understood and managed with public health tools.
From risk to resilience
Medical advances, including PrEP and effective antiretroviral therapy, have drastically lowered transmission risk and changed the calculus many communities use to think about safety. Still, social taboos rarely disappear as quickly as viral statistics do. The practical reality of receptive sex—its higher biomedical risk in certain contexts—was once used to castigate people who bottomed; today, the same risk exists alongside tools and knowledge that can make sex safer, yet the moral judgments persist. That mismatch between scientific progress and social attitude is part of what practitioners like Brinkley are trying to disrupt.
Sexism, policing, and the dark-room code
Bottom shaming does not exist in a vacuum; it mirrors broader patterns of gendered judgment about sexual behavior. Historically, societies have applied different labels to men and women for identical actions, rewarding male promiscuity while castigating female sexuality. Within queer spaces, a similar asymmetry appears when some men celebrate multiple encounters for themselves but ridicule others for their roles. Brinkley frames such policing as a form of internalized misogyny and insecurity and emphasizes that shaming someone for a position they take during sex is a moral overreach—one that tends to reveal the shamer more than the shamed.
Practicalities behind the judgment
Beyond morality plays, there are logistical concerns that shape sexual norms: douching remains a preparation many bottoms use to feel comfortable, and while it is a personal choice, it can be time-consuming and imperfect. Encounters are often spontaneous, and cleanliness anxieties can be weaponized as ridicule rather than addressed as practical considerations. Meanwhile, spaces such as bathhouses or sex-on-premises venues are experiencing renewed interest in some cities, making it all the more important to cultivate etiquette rather than policing. That means prioritizing consent, communication, and care over moral posturing.
Therapeutic reframes and cultural shifts
Brinkley extends his critique into the realm of emotional health. He frequently asks followers to practice what he calls an emotionally unavailable game: identify partners who are inconsistent, evasive, or unwilling to repair harm, and then question the wisdom of staying. His therapeutic orientation links sexual behavior with emotional patterns—if someone is quick to judge another person’s body or role but slow to examine their own relational habits, that is a red flag. He also used his platform to model joy and visibility, sharing personal milestones such as marrying his partner, David Brandyn, in a striking red ceremony as a reminder that closeness and celebration are part of the same community.
Moving from policing to practice
Shifting culture requires both public critique and private accountability. Calling out bottom shaming is one step; teaching basic sexual etiquette, promoting harm-reduction tools like PrEP, and encouraging people to reflect on their own vulnerabilities are practical follow-ups. Ultimately, Brinkley’s message centers on a simple ethical question: who gave anyone the right to dictate what consenting adults do with their bodies? When the answer is collective respect rather than individual moralizing, spaces can become safer and more pleasurable for everyone.
These conversations are not about erasing preference or denying safety concerns; they are about replacing contempt with curiosity and judgement with boundaries. For queer communities navigating a landscape shaped by history, health, and evolving social norms, that shift matters—both in private rooms and in public life.