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Miguel slides amber liquid across scarred wood—Elijah Craig small batch, honey and vanilla notes catching overhead light like captured sunlight in glass. Mom , We got hardship tonight. Sarah look like she gonna pop, Madre.
I wrap fingers around plastic cup, let bourbon heat chase December cold from bones. Sarah occupies her usual corner, flannel pressed sharp enough to cut glass, boots planted like she's defending territory. But tonight something's different—her stoic certainty has developed cracks, foundation showing stress fractures under weight she's been carrying.
Genesis bleeds through speakers, "Land of Confusion" painting irony thick across basement walls. Ezra's claimed their beanbag throne, blue hair electric against crimson paint. Della emerges from kitchen carrying plates of blackened catfish that smell like defiance made edible. Keira reads near the restored pool table, presence anchoring chaos without demanding attention.
Sarah, Renee calls from corner where she's racking pool balls with mechanical precision, you gonna tell us what's eating you or we gonna watch you think yourself to death?
Sarah's jaw works, processing words through philosophical gears that never stop turning. I found something. Inside.
And? Remy exhales smoke, half-French wisdom flowing with nicotine. Mon Dieu, cher, you look like that truth bit you in the ass.
It wasn't the truth I expected. Sarah's voice carries weight of tectonic plates shifting, rearranging everything she thought she understood about herself. Spent years thinking I had life figured out. Came out as lesbian, thought that was the final answer. The missing piece.
I take bourbon slow, let her build toward whatever revelation's tearing her apart. Bar fills with evening's usual suspects—Elaine claiming stool near Miguel, Dani arranging crystals while Marcus spins wedding ring like rosary beads. Bubba's massive presence fills window seat where he sits sentinel, Grubby quiet beside him.
But it wasn't, Sarah continues, words careful as surgeon's cuts. Being lesbian answered who I'm attracted to. Didn't answer who I am.
Fucking gender, Della announces, emerging with more plates. Always complicating sexuality like they're married concepts when they're barely fucking acquaintances.
Sarah's laugh sounds hollow, echoing in chest cavity too full of questions. I've always been butch. Even when I was performing femininity—wearing dresses my ex requested, trying to grow my hair out—I was still butch underneath. Always preferred men's clothes. Always felt more comfortable in masculine presentation.
Nothing about us is simple, cher. Remy grinds cigarette into ashtray, Louisiana accent thick as mama's gumbo. We're living complexity made flesh.
Pink Floyd transitions to "Learning to Fly"—song that used to fill car rides with Gizmo's voice hitting notes that made angels weep. My chest tightens remembering tiny human with enormous voice, before transition destroyed trust between us.
The parts of femininity that weren't performance, Sarah continues, hands gripping beer bottle like lifeline, were about caring. Healing. Not with medicine but with patience, time, attention. Those parts felt real. Authentic. But masculinity?
She pauses, philosophical gears grinding against each other. Masculinity feels like performance too. Different costume, different stage, but still acting. And that's what's tearing me apart.
Then I watched Miranda, Sarah says quietly, gesturing to where Miranda sits near Sage, both creating something on napkins—art meeting poetry. Watched her exist as woman. Trans woman. Just woman. And something shifted.
Oh shit. Leila looks up from phone tracking legislative attacks on queer existence real-time. You're questioning gender.
I'm questioning everything. Sarah's stoic mask cracks completely, showing vulnerability underneath armor. Came out as lesbian thinking I'd found myself. Found community. Women who love women. Simple. Clean. Makes fucking sense.
Except? I prompt, knowing where this road leads because I've driven it myself.
Except I don't feel like woman. Words tumble faster now, dam breaking. Never have. Performed femininity when closeted because that's what women do. Came out butch, stopped performing femininity, thought that was liberation. But butch still says woman. Masculine woman. And I dunno what I think right now.
Identity, Miranda finishes, voice carrying poetry even in single words. It's about looking in mirror and seeing stranger wearing your face. About pronouns feeling like sandpaper against eardrums. About body being house you've never felt home inside.
Her voice cracks on final words, tears streaming down face holding forty-one years of remembering exactly that feeling—the profound alienation of being called she/her when something inside screamed wrong, wrong, wrong. She wipes eyes with napkin corner, smudging ink from Sage's collaborative art piece.
Fuck, Miranda, I'm sorry— Sarah starts.
Don't. Miranda's tears keep flowing but voice strengthens. Don't apologize for making me remember what it felt like before I had language for it. Before I knew trans woman was possibility instead of impossibility.
Sarah nods, hands shaking against beer bottle. But here's where it gets complicated. I'm attracted to women. Still. That hasn't changed. But the way I express that attraction—the way I want to express it—feels trapped between performed femininity and performed masculinity.
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What do you mean? Ezra asks, blue hair catching light.
I see someone attractive. Sarah's voice drops lower, confession requiring smaller space. And I want to show interest. Want to express desire. But every method I know feels like toxic masculinity. Being too forward. Aggressive flirtation. Arrogance disguised as confidence.
The Moody Blues shifts to "Nights in White Satin," melancholy bleeding through speakers while Sarah's architecture collapses and rebuilds simultaneously.
So you dismiss the attraction entirely, I observe, bourbon warming understanding.
Exactly. Sarah's frustration bleeds through words. Because I don't want to be that guy. That toxic masculine energy treating women like conquests. But I also don't know how to express interest without falling into those patterns. So I just—don't. I watch people I'm attracted to, and I do nothing, because doing something feels like becoming the toxicity I'm trying to escape.
Fuck, Renee says quietly. Sarah, that's not about attraction. That's about not knowing how to show interest authentically because everything you've been taught is toxic bullshit.
So what are you? Renee asks, gentleness surprising from muscle-bound bouncer who usually communicates through intimidation.
I don't fucking know. Sarah's laugh breaks halfway through. Non-binary maybe? Trans masculine? Agender? There's entire fucking vocabulary I'm just learning exists. Spent four decades being woman, four years being butch lesbian, and now I'm—
Starting over, Keira says without looking up from book, words precise as scalpel through infected flesh. Not starting over. Continuing. You're just finally on right road instead of parallel route.
Fuck, Sarah breathes, that's exactly it. I've been walking beside myself for forty-two years. Watching life happen adjacent to my actual experience.
Miguel refills my bourbon without asking—Eagle Rare this time, caramel and oak notes heavier than first pour. His hands shake slightly, sultry voice carrying childlike crack when he speaks. Sarah, you want something stronger?
No. Need to feel this. Sarah presses palms against table like stabilizing earthquake. And there's more.
Miguel turns back to bar, shoulders trembling. I catch him wiping eyes with bar towel, fifteen years with Della teaching him that sometimes witnessing someone else's coming out resurrects your own—the terror, the liberation, the profound uncertainty of becoming visible after lifetime of strategic invisibility.
Jesus, how much more? Elaine demands, gray-sexual energy crackling. You're already rebuilding entire identity architecture.
My intuition is strong, Sarah says quietly. I can read people, situations, emotional weather like meteorologist tracking storms. Except when my own feelings cloud it. When I'm attracted to someone, when I want something personally, my intuition becomes completely unreliable. I cant read for shit from someone in that brain mode.
Because desire makes you doubt yourself, Miranda offers gently, tears still tracking down cheeks. Makes you question whether what you're sensing is real or just what you want to be real.
Exactly. Sarah's hands clench. I see a woman and I'm attracted. All the components that should add up to clear interest. But then I second-guess everything. Is she interested? Am I reading signals right? Or am I just seeing what I want to see? And while I'm questioning, the moment passes. The opportunity disappears.
So Sarah, That's fear, cher, Remy lights fresh cigarette, wisdom flowing with smoke. Not lack of attraction. Fear of expressing it wrong. Fear of becoming toxic thing you're trying not to be.
Rush transitions to "Freewill," Tom Sawyer's philosophy about choices bleeding irony through Sarah's confession.
But what if performing masculinity to show interest IS toxic? Sarah's desperation surfaces. What if the only way I know how to express desire is fundamentally flawed? Then what? I just—never express it? Never pursue anyone? Never take the fucking risk?
No, Della announces, emerging with fresh plates. You learn new ways. You unlearn toxic patterns and build healthy ones. You ask questions instead of assuming. You respect boundaries while expressing interest. You be fucking honest about attraction instead of playing games designed by straight men who never learned communication.
But how? Sarah's voice cracks. How do I show confidence without arrogance? How do I express interest without being too forward? How do I navigate desire without falling into toxic patterns that feel like only language I speak?
Carefully, Marcus speaks up, bi-invisibility giving him particular insight into navigating attraction outside heteronormative scripts. With honesty. With willingness to be vulnerable instead of confident. With recognition that authentic desire looks nothing like performed masculinity.
Yeah, and when a girl makes eyes at you, and gives you signals, maybe you need to pay the fuck attention, I brashly say with a sly cavalier tone.
Shut up Wendy, Sarah belts out firmly. I am trying to be NORMAL….
Define normal, Sage says quietly, napkin art spreading across table. Cultural narrative says masculine attraction manifests as pursuit, conquest, aggressive confidence. But that's one story. Toxic story. Not universal truth.
I feel like I'm disappointing everyone, Sarah admits. Came out, joined community, and now I'm discovering I don't fit here either. I'm not—I'm not feminine enough to be lesbian, not masculine enough to be—whatever I am. Not confident enough to pursue attraction. Not clear enough about what I want.
Good, Miranda says firmly, maternal fierceness breaking through poetry. Expectations are cages decorated to look like liberation. Fuck expectations. Figure out who you are regardless of who anyone expects you to be.
The Cult transitions to "She Sells Sanctuary," Ian Astbury's voice carrying particular relevance about finding safe harbor in strange places.
Brandon's been quiet most of evening, notebook open but pages blank, gin and tonic sweating in grip. Now his voice cuts through, raw and honest. Sarah, I write about queer community. Published essays about finding yourself, coming out, claiming identity. And every fucking word feels off.
His hands shake, usually animated gestures stilled by weight of Sarah's confession. Because I write about it being hard but ultimately rewarding. Write about finding yourself and feeling complete. And you're sitting here proving that sometimes finding yourself just means discovering you have farther to go than you thought.
Tears track down his face, writer's armor cracking. I'm more successful than Mom is at getting published. My essays about queer joy, queer survival, queer identity—they get accepted while her stories collect rejections. And tonight I'm realizing maybe I'm getting published because I'm writing comfortable lies about identity being destination when it's actually—
Journey, Sarah finishes quietly. Endless fucking journey with no clear endpoint.
Yeah. Brandon wipes eyes, smearing ink across writer's calluses. And that's not marketable. That's not what editors want. They want tidy narratives about struggle and triumph. Not truth about how triumph just reveals new struggles requiring navigation.
I'm scared, Sarah confesses quietly. Spent decades being wrong person. And now I'm supposed to become a person I don't even know yet? Supposed to trust the process when the last process led somewhere incomplete? Supposed to learn how to express desire when every method I know is toxic?
Sarah, Keira says, finally looking up from book, every iteration brought you closer. You weren't wrong at thirty-eight when you came out. You were partially correct. You refined understanding. Now you're refining again. This isn't failure. This is growth.
Feels like failure. Sarah's voice cracks. Feels like I'm forty-two and starting from scratch while everyone else has decades of experience being themselves, expressing desire, navigating attraction without second-guessing every fucking impulse.
Bullshit. I lean forward, bourbon warming my certainty, tears still damp on cheeks. I transitioned at forty-seven. Came out to world. You think I felt confident? You think I felt like anything except terrified impostor playing dress-up? Being late doesn't make you wrong. Makes you brave for starting anyway.
My own voice cracks, tears burning behind eyes because I know—fuck, I know—what it costs to realize you've been building life on faulty foundation. Fifty years married to wrong gender, three children fathered while woman screamed inside, coming out and watching everything you built collapse into rubble. My throat tightens remembering Gizmo's voice singing Queen in car before I destroyed her trust, before truth cost me everything I thought mattered.
But you're binary trans, Sarah argues. Society has framework for that. Man becomes woman. Woman becomes man. Clear path. I'm—I'm somewhere between or beside or outside those categories and there's no fucking map. And even if I figure out gender, I still don't know how to express attraction without toxic patterns.
Then draw the map, Ezra suggests, blue hair electric against crimson walls. You're not first non-binary person existing outside clean categories. Won't be last. And you're not first person learning to express desire outside toxic masculinity scripts. But you get to decide what your identity looks like, what your attraction looks like, instead of forcing yourself into pre-existing frameworks.
What about attractions? Sarah asks quietly, circling back to immediate situation. I'm attracted. Genuinely. But I don't know how to show that without falling into toxic patterns or doing nothing at all.
You talk to them, her, whoever, Renee says bluntly. Don't perform masculinity. Don't play games. Just be fucking honest about attraction and let her decide what she wants. Just do you bitch, Renee quips with a hearty swat the the back, in buddy like fashion.
But what if my intuition is wrong? Sarah's desperation bleeds through. What if I'm reading signals that aren't there? What if I make move and then there is no interest, or there is offense or some shit, and I've become exactly the toxic thing I'm trying to avoid?
Then you've taken risk, I say gently. Asked question. Accepted answer. That's not toxic. That's vulnerable. Toxic is assuming yes, pushing past boundaries, treating rejection as obstacle requiring conquest. Vulnerable is asking clearly, accepting honestly, respecting response whatever it is.
But what if—
Sarah. Miranda's voice cuts through, tears still damp on her cheeks but voice carrying absolute certainty. Stop what-iffing yourself into paralysis. You're attracted. That's valid. You want to express interest. That's valid. You're scared of being toxic. That fear itself proves you're not. Toxic people don't agonize over whether they're being toxic. And maybe grab an ass when you feel like it, specially if you are WITH PEOPLE who trust yo.
Queen bleeds through speakers now—"Somebody to Love" painting particular irony across Sarah's crisis. Song I used to sing with Gizmo during car rides before transition destroyed trust between us. Fresh tears burn because that voice, that tiny human with enormous talent, that relationship I destroyed through being authentic—fuck, it never stops hurting.
I miss knowing who I was, Sarah admits quietly. Even wrong identity felt stable. Felt certain. Now I'm—I'm floating in undefined space where I don't know gender, don't know how to express attraction, don't know if desire I feel is real or clouded by wishful thinking.
You're not supposed to be anyone, Della announces, emerging with fresh catfish. You get to be whoever you are. Supposed to is language of conformity. You're already non-conforming by existing. Might as well do it authentically.
Easy to say, Sarah mutters.
Hard to live, Della agrees. But necessary. Because performing identity that doesn't fit will kill you slowly. Ask any of us. We've all tried being who we're supposed to be. Nearly destroyed us all.
The evening unfolds around Sarah's crisis—Ezra sketching character designs while processing their own identity evolution, Sage creating mandalas incorporating symbols from decades of queer history, Remy and Bubba discussing survival strategies from different Southern geographies.
Sarah, I say finally, bourbon warming certainty in my chest despite tears still threatening, you want answers right now. Want clear identity, clean expression of desire, obvious path forward. You won't get that. Identity is messy, complicated, constantly evolving project. Attraction is vulnerable, a terrifying risk requiring honesty you've never practiced. You're forty-two. Probably have another forty years to figure this out. Give yourself time.
Time feels like luxury I can't afford. Sarah's hands shake against beer bottle. Feel like I've already wasted so much.
Then stop wasting more, Leila says firmly, political pragmatism cutting through philosophical spiral. Stop performing identity to fit community expectations. Stop assuming every expression of desire is toxic masculinity. Stop questioning your intuition because it's clouded by feelings—feelings are supposed to cloud it, that's how desire works. Start being honest even when honesty means admitting you don't have answers.
What if honesty means I don't belong anywhere?
Then you build new belonging, Grubby says quietly. That's what Sanctuary is. People who don't fit anywhere else building space where we fit together. You’ll always have a home here. Who the fuck is going to judge you here?
Sarah looks around basement—crimson walls warm with intentional love, professional lighting revealing character instead of damage, chosen family processing their own identities while holding space for hers.
I thought finding truth would feel like relief, she says finally. Like puzzle piece clicking into place. Instead it feels like—
Earthquake, I finish. Like foundation you built a life on revealed itself as sand. Like everything you thought you knew proved incomplete. Yeah. That's what truth feels like when truth contradicts everything you believed about yourself.
How do I survive this?
Same way we all do. I gesture around basement full of survivors. One day at time. One identity experiment at time. One honest conversation at time. You try things on. Keep what fits. Discard what doesn't. Build yourself piece by piece instead of expecting excavation to reveal complete person.
And attraction? Sarah asks quietly. What do I do about wanting someone but not knowing how to show it without toxic patterns?
Feel what you actually feel, Miranda says gently, voice still thick from earlier tears. Express it honestly. Accept response gracefully. That's all vulnerability is. Not conquest. Not performance. Just honesty risking rejection.
I'm so tired, Sarah admits. Tired of being wrong. Tired of starting over. Tired of not fitting anywhere. Tired of being paralyzed by fear of toxicity.
Then rest here, Della commands. That's what Sanctuary is. Place you rest between identity iterations. Place you're safe while figuring out who you're becoming and how you want to express who you are.
The evening bleeds into night, conversations fragmenting and reforming around Sarah's crisis. Miguel keeps bourbon flowing, hands steadier now but eyes still red-rimmed from crying. Della keeps food appearing, Keira keeps reading while holding space without demanding engagement.
Around eleven, Sarah looks at me from the bar seat on the righ, stoic mask completely gone. Wendy, how do you do this? How do you live in uncertainty? How do you express desire when every pattern you learned was toxic?
I finish bourbon, let question settle. Carefully. With chosen family. With recognition that uncertainty beats false certainty every time. With understanding that learning new patterns requires unlearning old ones, which means being vulnerable, making mistakes, trying again. You'll figure it out, Sarah. Won't be quick. Won't be easy. But you'll figure it out because staying wrong isn't option anymore.
What if I fail?
Then you fail forward. I stand, joints protesting titanium reconstruction. Toward authentic instead of away from it. Toward vulnerable instead of toxic. Toward honest even when honest feels terrifying. That's all growth is. Failing in right direction instead of succeeding in wrong one.
Sarah nods, processing wisdom through philosophical gears that never stop turning. Around her, Sanctuary pulses with life—chosen family existing in complexity, refusing clean categories, building belonging through honesty instead of performance.
Thanks, Wendy, she says finally.
For what? You know I don’t do that here. I don’t take Thank you’s, I say with my own internalized contempt for myself
For showing me failing forward is possible. For building space where uncertainty is acceptable. For proving identity can be project instead of destination. For reminding me that learning new patterns is possible even when old ones feel like only language I speak.
I nod, throat tight with bourbon and emotion and tears I'm too exhausted to keep suppressing. That's what mothers do. Even chosen ones. Especially chosen ones.
"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any." — Audre Lorde
Sarah discovered truth inside herself—but truth wasn't clean revelation fitting neatly into existing frameworks. Truth was messy, complicated recognition that identity she'd built through courage four years ago was still incomplete. That being butch described presentation but not gender. That attraction existed but expression of that attraction felt trapped between performed femininity she'd escaped and performed masculinity she refused to embody. That her intuition, so reliable about everything else, became clouded by her own desire—making her doubt every signal, question every impulse, second-guess every potential expression of interest.
But recognizing the problem is the first step toward solving it. Sarah found truth inside—not the truth she expected, not the truth she wanted, but truth nonetheless. And truth, however inconvenient, however disorienting, beats beautiful lies every time. Because you can build authentic life on uncertain truth, can learn new patterns of expressing desire outside toxic frameworks. You can only build prison on comfortable fiction. Sarah has the power to become who she is, to express attraction authentically, to build identity outside prescribed categories. First step is recognizing that power exists—even when everything feels uncertain, especially when everything feels uncertain.