The Safety of a Queer Space: First Time? We All Had 'Em....

First Times Are Always The Worst

The basement air hung thick tonight, vanilla candles fighting a losing battle against the metallic tang of spilled bourbon and the ghost of yesterday's cigarette smoke. The ceiling fan wheezed its ancient rhythm while Bonnie Tyler’s voice bled through the crackling speakers, her blues wrapping around us like a familiar blanket that smelled of heartbreak and hope. I settled into my usual spot at the bar's far end, watching Miguel's graceful hands work their magic behind the scarred wooden counter.

"What's it gonna be tonight, Mom?" Miguel's voice carried that sultry-childlike tone that always made me smile, his dark eyes dancing with mischief as he reached for the top shelf.

"I really need it tonight, kiddo."

He smiled and pulled down a bottle of Jameson Black Barrel, the amber liquid catching the rainbow Christmas lights as he poured three fingers into a rocks glass. The whiskey held stories in its depths—caramel and vanilla notes fighting with the burn of truth, smooth as silk going down but fierce enough to strip paint from the walls of your soul.

Ezra bounced in their beanbag chair, blue hair catching the fractured light like spun cotton candy. "Mom, you've got that look tonight."

Damn right I was. The air itself felt charged with confession, like storm clouds gathering before the first crack of lightning. Della's singing carried from the kitchen where she was frying up something that smelled like heaven wrapped in bacon grease, her laughter punctuating the sizzle and pop.

"First dates," Keira said from behind me, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a blade through butter. "We’ve all had them."

I turned to catch her eye, that knowing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She had this way of reading the room like sheet music, understanding the unspoken symphonies that played between us all.

Phoenix looked up from their spot near the pool table, tonight's hair a violent shade of magenta that screamed rebellion against every suburban nightmare they'd escaped. "Fuck, don't get me started on first dates," they laughed, the sound sharp and bitter as black coffee. "Especially when you're trying to figure out who the hell you are while some poor bastard is sitting across from you wondering why you keep changing your pronouns mid-sentence."

"Shit gets complicated when you're dating as your authentic self for the first time," Marcus chimed in from the couch, his beer sweating rings onto the decades-old leather. "Try explaining to someone that you're bisexual and you like sucking a huge dick off some guy named Jim, when you've been married to a woman for fifteen years. They look at you like you're either lying or having some kind of midlife crisis."

Remy's Cajun drawl cut through the conversation like molasses over broken glass. "Mon dieu, y'all act like it's rocket science. My mama used to say, 'Cher, you can't cook good gumbo if you ain't willing to let the roux get dark.' First dates are just the roux, yeah? You gotta let that shit burn a little before you know what you're working with."

"Easy for you to say," River called out, still in their hospital scrubs from a double shift, exhaustion painting dark circles under their eyes. "Try explaining genderfluid to someone when you walked into the restaurant presenting femme and now feel completely masculine. Had one guy literally ask me if I was fucking catfishing him."

Miguel slammed a glass down harder than necessary, the sound cutting through the basement like a gunshot. "Fucking transphobes, man. I remember my first date after I started transitioning. Spent forty-five minutes in the bathroom at Applebee's practicing how to tell this girl I was trans. When I finally worked up the balls to say it, she looked at me and said, 'Well, at least you're not one of those fake ones.'"

"Jesus Christ," Ezra breathed, their usual enthusiasm dimmed to something raw and painful. "What did you do?"

"Walked the fuck out. Left her with the check and my dignity intact." Miguel's jaw clenched, the memory still sharp enough to draw blood. "But not before I told her that her personality was faker than anything I'd ever seen."

Della's laughter boomed from the kitchen, approval clear in every note. "That's my boy! Speaking of fake bitches, y'all remember my first date with a woman? I was thirty-two years old, scared shitless, and convinced I was gonna burst into flames the moment I admitted I wanted to kiss her more than I'd ever wanted to kiss my ex-husband."

"What happened?" Phoenix asked, leaning forward with the hunger of someone desperate for stories with happy endings.

"I threw up in her car," Della called back, the sound of sizzling bacon punctuating her confession. "Right there in the parking lot of that fancy Italian place downtown. Poor woman thought I had food poisoning until I told her I was just terrified of being gay."

"And?" Marcus pressed, grinning despite himself.

"She held my hair back and told me she'd help me through it. How the fuck do you think I met Miguel?"

The basement erupted in cheers and wolf whistles, the kind of celebration that only happened when one of us shared a victory worth claiming.

Grubby spoke up from their corner table, voice quiet but carrying the weight of mountains. "First time someone saw all of me and didn't run..." They paused, fingers tracing patterns on the scarred wood. "I cried for three hours. Happy tears, angry tears, everything I'd been holding back since I was twelve and learned there wasn't a box for people like me."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was full of understanding, thick with the kind of recognition that only came from walking similar paths through hell.

Sage looked up from the intricate mandala they'd been sketching on a napkin, their voice soft but clear. "My first date as openly ace was this coffee thing. Spent the entire time explaining that I could love someone without wanting to fuck them. They kept asking if I'd tried therapy, like being asexual was some kind of disease that needed curing."

"Fucking ignorant assholes," Dani spat, her crystals catching the light as she gestured emphatically. "Love is love, desire is desire, and the universe doesn't give a shit about anyone's narrow-minded definitions."

Jimmie struck a dramatic pose near the stairs, even out of drag managing to command attention. "Honey, try going on a date and having to explain that you're not a man, you just play one on stage. Had one super insistent girl follow me home asking if I was 'really' a man or if it was all an act."

"What a creepy skank-bitch," Ezra snarled, protective fury blazing in their eyes. "Did you call the cops?"

"Called my drag bro, Nick the Dick. Nothing solves harassment like a drag king in combat boots showing up."

Renee's voice cut through the air like a blade, her muscled frame shifting on the couch with the kind of controlled power that made straight women question their marriages. "First date after I finally stopped pretending I was interested in men was this tiny little thing, all curves and soft smiles. I was terrified I'd crush her just by existing in the same space."

"Because of your size?" River asked gently.

"Because I'd spent so many years being the 'friend' that stolen wives confided in, the safe lesbian who helped them explore without commitment. First time someone wanted me for me, not as some experiment or rebellion against their husbands, I didn't know what the fuck to do with myself."

The room held that confession like a sacred thing, each of us understanding the monumental courage it took to show up as yourself when the world had spent years telling you that self wasn't valid.

Miguel refilled my glass without being asked, the whiskey catching the light like liquid amber. "You know what the fucked up part is? We spend so much time worrying about that first date, that first time being real with someone, and half the time they're just as scared as we are."

"Speak for yourself," Dani laughed, tossing her scarf over her shoulder with theatrical flair. "I went on a date with this woman who spent the entire night trying to convince me I wasn't really pansexual, just confused. Told her the only thing I was confused about was why I hadn't left that bitch twenty minutes ago."

"Fuck," Phoenix grinned, raising their beer in salute. "I respect the hell out of that energy."

Bubba's deep voice rumbled from his spot near the wall, carrying the weight of decades and southern heat. "Y'all talking about first times like they're supposed to be perfect. My first date with a man, back in Atlanta in '78, we had to meet in some back-alley dive where the cops wouldn't look twice. Wasn't romantic, wasn't pretty, but it was real. Sometimes real is all you get, and sometimes real is enough."

The gravity of his words settled over us like smoke, each of us understanding the different kinds of courage required across generations, across identities, across the spectrum of what it meant to love authentically.

"That's the fucking truth," I murmured, taking another swallow and beckoning for more drink. "First time someone used she/her without me having to correct them, I felt like I could breathe again."

Marcus raised his beer, the gesture encompassing all of us in its sweep. "To first times, then. The messy, terrifying, beautiful fucking disaster of showing up as ourselves and hoping someone else is brave enough to see us."

"To first times," we echoed, voices blending in harmony that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with recognition.

Miguel's smile was soft and fierce as he topped off glasses, the amber liquid flowing like liquid courage. "And to all the times after that, when we get to be ourselves without explanation or apology."

"Amen to that shit," Ezra laughed, raising their cup. "Here's to growing into ourselves and finding people crazy enough to love us for it."

The basement filled with laughter and clinking glasses, the sound bouncing off brick walls that had absorbed countless confessions, celebrations, and moments of raw truth. Outside, the world continued its relentless march of judgment and narrow definitions, but down here in our sanctuary, we were exactly who we needed to be—scarred, brave, and authentically ourselves.

As Bonnie Tyler’s voice faded into something softer, I caught Keira's eye from a side glance and saw my own understanding reflected back at me. First times might be terrifying, but they were also beginnings—the first note in a symphony of becoming that never really ended, just grew richer and more complex with each brave soul willing to show up and be seen.

The whiskey burned warm in my throat, carrying with it the taste of truth and the promise that tomorrow would bring new chances to be real, to be seen, to be loved for exactly who we were becoming.