The Safety of a Queer Space: July, 27th 2025
The Taste of Compromise
The basement thrummed with the deep growl of Muddy Waters’ “Mannish Boy” bleeding through speakers that had seen better decades, while I descended into The Sanctuary like I was entering a confessional booth where the truth tasted like bourbon and righteous fury. The lights painted their usual rainbow riot across water-stained ceiling tiles, and the familiar cocktail of vanilla candles, stale beer, and concentrated rage wrapped around me like a battle-worn flag.
Miguel’s face lit up behind the bar, that sultry grin already reaching for the good stuff. “Mom! Perfect fucking timing. Got some Maker’s Mark that’s been waiting for you all day.” He poured three fingers into a rocks glass, the amber liquid catching the light like liquid rebellion mixed with resignation. “Figured you’d need something with backbone after watching democracy get auctioned off to the highest corporate bidder.”
I settled onto my usual stool, feeling the familiar crack in the vinyl like an old wound that never quite healed. The bourbon hit my tongue with that sweet burn that tasted like caramel and compromise, exactly what my soul needed after today’s shitstorm parade.
Ezra bounced in their beanbag throne, blue hair electric under the fractured light. “Mom! Did you see Trump’s jerking himself off about this EU trade deal? ‘Biggest deal ever made,’ he says, while literally giving them a discount on tariffs because his golf course overlords probably whispered sweet nothings in his ear at Turnberry.”
From the kitchen came the violent sizzle of Della’s latest creation—tonight sounded like she was executing some salmon with lemon and pure aggression. “Thirty percent tariffs magically become whatever-the-fuck-percent because some European suit stroked his ego properly!” she hollered over the cooking chaos. “Man’s got the negotiation skills of a wet paper bag in a hurricane, but somehow that’s a victory?”
Keira’s voice sliced through from her corner table, clinical and sharp. “The EU’s our largest trading partner. He threatened economic warfare, then folded like a cheap tent when they offered him photo ops and flattery. That’s not dealmaking, that’s extortion followed by capitulation.”
Elaine sat at the bar nursing what looked like a rum collins, her graysexual energy radiating sardonic amusement. “At least we know his price now. Ego stroking and golf course meetings. Hell, I’ve paid more for worse entertainment.” She took a sip, her voice dripping with that witty sexuality that kept everyone on edge. “Though I prefer my compromises to involve better orgasms and less international humiliation.”
Grubby sat quietly in the corner, their intersex perspective offering the kind of profound silence that spoke volumes. When they finally spoke, their voice carried the weight of someone who understood marginalization at a cellular level. “It’s always about the performance, isn’t it? The big show while the real damage happens in the fine print nobody reads.”
Phoenix perched on the pool table’s edge, their latest purple-streaked hair falling into eyes that had seen too much too young. “Meanwhile, RFK Jr.‘s running around claiming victory because Coca-Cola’s switching to cane sugar and Froot Loops is maybe, possibly, thinking about removing artificial dyes by fucking 2027. Two years to make cereal less poisonous—what a revolutionary timeline.”
Marcus twisted his wedding ring, that familiar gesture of a bisexual man caught between worlds. “My wife’s excited about the food changes. Keeps saying maybe now our kids won’t be hyperactive sugar demons. But she doesn’t see the bigger picture—this is all performance theater while they gut healthcare and education.”
I took another sip of bourbon, feeling it burn away some of the day’s accumulated nausea. “Steak ’n Shake using beef tallow for fries while kids lose lunch programs. The cognitive dissonance is so violent it makes my brain hemorrhage.”
Sage looked up from the geometric pattern they were sketching on a napkin, their asexual wisdom cutting through the noise. “It’s misdirection. Get people excited about marginally less toxic food while systematically dismantling the infrastructure that feeds the hungry. Classic sleight of hand.”
Della emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that had witnessed decades of rebellion. “You want to know what really pisses me off? It’s not the corporate pandering—it’s the fucking inauguration. Did anyone else notice there wasn’t a single Muslim voice at that Christian revival masquerading as a swearing-in ceremony?”
The silence that followed was heavy with recognition. Ezra’s beanbag squeaked as they shifted forward. “Five Christians and one Jew for the benediction, while Trump concluded his oath with ‘so help me God’ like he’s personally tight with the divine. The Constitution doesn’t even require those words, but here we are.”
“Eight mentions of Jesus at his first inauguration,” I said, the memory bitter on my tongue. “I thought I was watching a tent revival, not a presidential ceremony. And somehow that’s supposed to represent all of us?”
Elaine’s laugh was sharp as broken glass. “Paula White heading the White House Faith Office—because nothing says ‘separation of church and state’ like tax-funded evangelical programming. That woman’s prosperity gospel bullshit makes televangelists look subtle.”
Grubby’s voice was soft but cutting. “They invoke unity while systematically excluding entire faith communities. Muslims get mentioned only as ‘radical Islamic terrorism’ to be eradicated. That’s not unity—that’s erasure with a biblical soundtrack.”
Phoenix’s anger was palpable, young and fierce. “My parents kicked me out in the name of Christian love, but somehow these assholes get to use religion as a weapon while calling themselves righteous. The hypocrisy is so thick you could cut it with a fucking knife.”
Miguel slammed a bottle down with enough force to make everyone look up. “Madison and Jefferson are spinning in their graves. They specifically warned against mixing ecclesiastical and civil matters, and here we are with government-sponsored prayer sessions funded by our tax dollars.”
Marcus’s voice cracked with frustration. “National Day of Prayer declared by presidential proclamation, congressional chaplains paid with public money—the wall between church and state isn’t just cracked, it’s been demolished and rebuilt as a megachurch.”
I watched the bourbon catch the light, thinking about founding fathers and broken promises. “Jefferson wrote to the Danbury Baptists about separation specifically to protect religious freedom, not to establish Christian dominance. But here we are, forcing people to swear on books they don’t believe in, to a god they might not worship.”
Sage’s pen stopped moving across their napkin art. “Madison argued against congressional chaplains in 1820, said it violated constitutional principles. Two hundred years later, we’re still having the same fight, only now the theocrats are winning.”
Della’s voice carried from the kitchen doorway, fierce and uncompromising. “They added ‘under God’ to the Pledge in 1954 because of Cold War paranoia. ‘In God We Trust’ on currency in 1957. None of this is original—it’s all reactionary Christian nationalism dressed up as patriotism.”
Keira’s clinical tone cut through the emotion. “Every successful example of separation between ecclesiastical and civil matters proves that both religion and government exist in greater purity when unmixed. Madison’s words, circa 1822. They knew this shit would happen.”
The basement fell quiet except for Muddy Waters still growling through the speakers and the distant sizzle from Della’s kitchen. In this sanctuary of chosen family, surrounded by the beautiful wreckage of democracy, the truth felt as solid as the concrete under our feet and twice as unforgiving.
Elaine raised her rum collins in a mock toast. “To compromise and capitulation—may they taste as bitter going down as they do coming back up.”
Sometimes the armor doesn’t just crack—sometimes it dissolves entirely, leaving you naked and raw in the face of systematic betrayal. Tonight, watching trade deals and food policies used as distractions from constitutional demolition, that felt like the most honest assessment available.
How are we doing with these ?
Oh, this is good.