By Fiona Alison Duncan

I often hear complaints about “top scarcity” in lesbian and gay communities. Everyone wants to be fucked, no one wants to fuck… I wonder if the same isn’t true in the straight world. Maybe that’s what the “crisis of masculinity” and “heteropessimism” are really about. While I’m fascinated by this topic, it merits a panel of experts. What I’m going to talk about here is a different type of top scarcity —

I struggle finding tops to wear. This problem has been plaguing me for years. Since I’ve been spending more time in Los Angeles lately, this problem has become harder to ignore because most days in LA, during the belly of the day, it’s so warm, you can’t wear more than a single layer. If it’s not a dress or romper, it’s a top and bottom. Like most people, I’ve got a lot of problems in my life: housing problems, hormone problems, work problems, war problems. With so many real, high-stakes conflicts in the world, relatively inconsequential ones—like this top scarcity issue—become appealing to resolve. What do you do when you have a problem? In LA, people like to tell you to visualize positive solutions, manifesting the results you want. I prefer to dissect the issue; root out the cause. With a proper diagnosis, then, maybe, a cure can be found. So, what is the nature of my top scarcity issue? 

I went into my closet to find out, since that’s where the trouble resides. This is how I know I have an issue in the first place: Usually, when I go to build an outfit, I’ve no trouble selecting which bottom, blazer, sweater, dress, shoes, and/or bag to wear. If something’s missing, it’s almost always a shirt, a top, a blouse. If a stranger were to visit my closet, they might not notice my lack. It’s not that I don’t have any tops, it’s that the ratios are off,  and by that I mean the ratio of how many tops-to-bottoms I own and the ratio of my excitement. I’m rarely thrilled to put a top on. There are exceptions, though, and that’s the perfect place to start my diagnosis. 

Among the tops I love is this yellow-and-green striped silk butterfly top with a bias cut and a sailor-like collar that I bought from Mati Hays a.k.a. House of Iconica during one of her Instagram closet sales. It’s Galliano for Dior. Stunning on its own, it also layers beautifully. I’m waiting for a special occasion to pair it with my Alexander McQueen pinstripe suit from the same era. But here’s the problem: I consider this top a “special occasion” top. And this is true of most of my favorite tops: My Comme des Garçons lumps and bumps blouse that I bought for my debut novel book launch. My Galliano for Margiela “Benjara Tribe” Replica top. This Gogo Graham wrap top. This white lace God/Dog Eckhaus Latta crop top. And this stretch top with baby snaps, also from Eckhaus Latta, that can be worn four different flattering ways. Season after season, Eckhaus Latta makes tops that flatter my figure, maybe because designer Zoe Latta has, like me, wide hips, a high waist, and little perky tits? If I had more disposable income, I’d buy two of every EL top I love because, even when they’re casual, I’m afraid of wearing them too much and wearing them down. Which brings me to a correlated issue: 

I have acid sweat. I fuck tops up. When my excessive sweat first came on in junior high school, I went through a phase where I only wore tank tops. All year long. In Canada. All throughout the Canadian winter. My tweenage tank tops had to be black or another forgiving color or pattern (like houndstooth), anything to mask my baby-head-sized pit stains. To this day, there are several tops in my closet that I won’t put on unless I know I’ll be in a temperate environment, for example, this tan Vivienne Westwood oxford from James Veloria that hugs my pits like it does my waist and turns dark brown when wet. Pit stains can be cute, I’ve come to embrace them as an accessory. But just as I prefer to wear one item of jewelry at a time, I like my pit stains to be small. Maybe if I got Botox in my armpits, I’d find myself in a whole new world of shirts. (My friend, nurse Asya Ulanova, is a top-tier injector.) But I’d rather buy shoes than Botox. And so, my top scarcity issue continues.

Here are some reasons why I think a good top is so hard to find—and keep: 

One. Tops frame the face and since the face is the most important part of the body, a top needs to serve it—be the right color, texture, shape. 

Two. Organs. Tops have to contend with the heart, lungs, liver, stomach, and intestines, this is emotional stuff. Throughout the day, my stomach grows and shrinks. Throughout my hormonal cycle, my tits and womb do the same. A top that fits beautifully at 10AM during my follicular phase might feel claustrophobic after dinner when I’m luteal. (Bottoms can have this issue too, depending on their construction vis-à-vis the bloat-area.)

Three. Stains and rips. Since tops are located between the mouth and hands, they’re vulnerable to stains while cooking and eating. Add sweat, children and pets, working with your hands, or just being in the world, and tops don’t stand a chance.

Four. Tops aren’t as forgiving in the mending process as other garments. My cobbler knows me well. I’ve an incredible tailor; he’s patched jeans and trousers. And when I need to darn a sweater, I go to Martina Cox’s Mending Club. But non-knit tops are fussier. I treat my stains as best I can with OxiClean, Bio-Clean, Dawn dish soap, white vinegar, and/or corn starch. I dry clean. I hand wash. I use Soak. Even though I love a disintegrated look—a tear, a patch—sometimes the only thing you can do with a ravaged shirt is turn it into a rag. Point three and four account, I think, for why fewer good tops are available second-hand compared with other garments. I buy mostly second-hand. 

Five. Meaning. Tops can feel so loaded, reference-wise. It’s feminine signifiers I have the most trouble with, and desire for. The wrong kind of frill or bow or corseting can send me in the opposite direction, abandoning my feminine urges for the ease of an oxford shirt. I love androgyny. I’d love to look like Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, or the New York Dolls in feminine clothes. I’d love to give Bette Porter in a suit. Being five-foot-four with a doll face, though, gender play doesn’t come easy to me unless I’m in menswear, but I’m drowned in by most men’s clothes. Fortunately, I’ve started to gain power in the world. Prestige, intimidation, respect. I’ve just enough money to say no to fucked shit. No longer concerned with being a victim, endowed with the protections of a white man, I feel more comfortable than ever in girly clothing. My horizons have opened, in theory. If only things were…

Six. Made better. Too boxy. No structure. Lazy. Cheap. Fast fashion. Fast everything. Even “high fashion” is made like fast fashion now. Not everything should be cut like a t-shirt. We rely too much on stretch fabric. Slap-dash ready-to-wear doesn’t do the female figure justice. Tits, waist, hips. I want to show mine off. 

For a long time, I thought my top scarcity problem would resolve itself, that through enough passive shopping, I’d find shirts to love. Year after year, though, the problem persisted. Instead of addressing it head on, I fell back on a topless look. I went through a whole phase of wearing sheer sex shop body stockings and body suits. Then I relied too heavily on white ribbed Fruit of the Loom boys’ undershirts. I wore them backwards. I felt “undressed.” It’s a gay look. Sometimes, I just wouldn’t wear a shirt at all! Under blazers and cardigans, I’d go without. 

I wonder if other people have this problem. Certainly, I can’t be alone in longing for more, better tops. Every time I go shopping, online or in person, I force myself to look for shirts. Last time I went to James Veloria, I found three shirts I was down for: a Chanel bustier, a Margiela net tank, and a Westwood cropped knit (basically a sweater, doesn’t really count…). I left the store with a new pair of glasses! A similar thing happened when I looked at 6397’s new collection. Although I admired their twisted velour vest and tuxedo shirt, what really got me riled were these raw jeans and Fair Isle sweater. I don’t need more jeans, though! And I don’t need more sweaters! I exited the shopping window thinking, I don’t need to be spending money at all. I like spending a little on occasion though, which is why I’ve been considering buying one of ALL-IN’s layered tops. But the purchase feels forced, like eating vegetables for a kid who doesn’t like vegetables. I’m an adult, I love vegetables, but this ALL-IN sweater is a steak, and these boots are a plate of oysters, and this dress is the pearl pie from Superiority Burger—worth every penny. Maybe this is the crux of the problem: I don’t value shirts like I do other garments. I feel that shirts, like vegetables, should be affordable. It’s about use-value. If I wear the same shirt two or three times a month and the same bottoms six or seven times a month, if a skirt like this is valued at $846 US dollars, then the blouse it’s styled with should be $555, but it’s priced at $1,035 US dollars. Ouch. 

My boyfriend has a friend, an older man, who was a bottom for decades. From the 70s into the aughts, this man had no trouble getting fucked. There were more tops than bottoms, he said, in the gay clubs back then. He could easily (although not without risk) get fucked by ten, twenty men a night. Now, on the apps and in the clubs, bottoms outnumber tops. After a few years of being frustrated by this—years in which he barely got laid—this man decided to change: He became a top! In his mid-sixties, he switched. Now he’s super in demand! If his body was up for it, he could be fucking at the same rates he used to get fucked in his twenties.

Like the bottom who became a top, maybe I have to change. Maybe I have to learn to value shirts more, to cough up. Or maybe…

Recently, I was sent a look by a young brand. They wanted me to model it for Instagram. The pants fit perfectly but the top was too large. It flopped comically off my body. My friend, the multi-talented Alicia Novella Vasquez, ended up styling it for me with a push-up bra and a bunch of hidden pins, nipping the waist, tucking the hem. It looked amazing. This reminded me that a skater I know has all of his t-shirts and flannels tailored. 90% of his covetable style comes from this secret fact. Kids will buy the brands he wears but it never looks the same on them because this skater is doing himself a service by keeping his tailor in business. I think this has got to be my first step, then, in resolving my top scarcity problem. While I’m not about to drop thousands on blouses, I’m more than happy to pay my kind, genius tailor at La Mode 1st Cleaners on 78th Street in Yorkville, Manhattan to adapt affordable, cute-enough tops I scout to my unique torso: 36AA, 24.5 inch waist, 35 inch hips, 17 inches from hip to shoulder tip, belly: variable.

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Fiona Alison Duncan is an author, curator, and the founding host of Hard to Read, a literary social practice. Her books include Ex-Best Friends (2025), Pippa Garner: Act Like You Know Me (2023), and Exquisite Mariposa (2019).