The Safety of a Queer Space: July 23rd, 2025

When Politicians Sell Their Souls

The basement air hung stale tonight, cigarette smoke and desperation clinging to the exposed brick like barnacles on a sinking ship. I descended those familiar stairs, each step echoing the bone-deep exhaustion that had been gnawing at my marrow since dawn.

Miguel looked up from behind the bar, his dark eyes soft with that particular blend of tenderness and knowing that made my chest tighten. Without a word, he reached for the bottle of Rémy Martin VSOP—liquid amber that caught the light like trapped sunfire.

"Rough day out there in the world of the living?" he asked, his voice carrying that sultry childlike quality that always reminded me why this place felt more like home than anywhere else on this godforsaken planet.

The brandy hit my lips like velvet fire, warming pathways through my throat that had been cold since I'd seen the morning news. "Rahm fucking Emanuel," I muttered, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. "That soulless, opportunistic piece of shit just threw every trans person under the goddamn bus on Megyn Kelly's show."

Ezra looked up from their beanbag throne, blue hair catching the light like electric cotton candy. "What fresh hell did that political cockroach crawl out of now?"

"Said men can't become women. Just like that. Flat out. No nuance, no context, just pure fucking betrayal served up with a smile and a joke about needing witness protection." The words tasted like battery acid in my mouth.

Sarah, perched on a wobbly barstool with her usual air of cosmic understanding, swirled her drink thoughtfully. "Of course he did. Politicians are like parasites—they'll feed on whatever host keeps them alive longest. Right now, throwing us under the bus polls better than defending our humanity."

"Motherfucking coward," Bubba's voice rumbled from the demolished leather couch, his usually stoic demeanor cracking like ice under pressure. "Forty years I've been watching these spineless fucks sell us out the moment it gets inconvenient. Obama's former chief of staff? That administration wouldn't have happened without queer votes, and now this asshole's positioning himself for 2028 by stabbing us in the back."

Remy emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of Della's famous grilled cheese, his Cajun accent thick with disgust. "Cher, my grand-mère used to say, 'Tu peux pas faire confiance à un homme qui vend son âme pour du pouvoir.' You can't trust a man who sells his soul for power. This Emanuel, he's got no more soul than a catfish got wings."

"The timing's no fucking coincidence either," I continued, feeling the brandy burn away some of the day's accumulated rage. "Trump's approval is tanking—down to forty-four percent overall, forty-seven with men. His own base is getting tired of his deportation theater and economic failures. So what do Democratic opportunists do? They throw red meat to the transphobes, hoping to steal some of those disaffected voters."

Sarah leaned forward, her eyes holding that particular intensity that meant she was about to drop some uncomfortable truth. "Here's what really pisses me off—Emanuel's positioning this as political pragmatism, but it's actually moral cowardice disguised as strategy. He's betting that sacrificing our dignity will win him suburban wine moms who are uncomfortable with trans kids in sports."

"And the fucked-up thing is, it might work," Ezra said, their voice small and bitter. "My own sister voted for Trump partly because she was scared about trans girls in her daughter's volleyball league. People who claim to love me personally will still vote against my basic right to exist if you package it right."

Bubba shifted his considerable frame, the couch creaking in protest. "What gets me is how these political fucks always frame it like we're asking for special privileges. Bitch, I just want to piss in peace and not get fired for existing. That's not special—that's basic human dignity."

"Emanuel's playing the oldest political game in the book," Sarah continued, her voice cutting through the haze like a scalpel. "Find the most vulnerable group, sacrifice them to appease the masses, then claim you're being 'realistic' about electoral politics. Same playbook they used on welfare queens, immigrants, Muslims—now it's our turn."

Miguel refilled my glass without being asked, his movements precise and comforting. "The thing that makes me want to punch walls is how he laughed about it. Like our lives are a fucking punchline. Like my transition, your transition, all of our struggles to become who we are—it's just political theater to these assholes."

Remy set down his sandwich, his usually animated face grave. "My mama always told me that your character shows when nobody's watching, but politicians? Their character shows when everybody's watching and they still choose to be shit. Emanuel knew exactly what he was doing—courting conservative media by throwing trans folk under the bus."

"The CBS poll data makes it even more cynical," I said, feeling the familiar rage building in my chest like a pressure cooker about to blow. "Trump's bleeding support because he can't deliver on his economic promises. Sixty-five percent of men think he's not doing enough about prices. His immigration crackdown is playing worse than expected. So Democrats like Emanuel see an opening and think, 'Hey, let's grab some of those voters by being transphobes too.'"

Sarah's laugh was sharp and bitter. "The beautiful irony is that Trump's hardcore supporters will never trust Emanuel no matter how many of us he sacrifices. And progressive voters will remember this betrayal forever. He's trying to thread a needle that doesn't exist."

"It's not just Emanuel though," Bubba said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "This is the Democratic Party showing its true colors. When push comes to shove, when they need to choose between defending us and winning elections, they'll sell us out every goddamn time."

Ezra pulled their knees up to their chest, suddenly looking much younger than their years. "Sometimes I wonder if we're just fooling ourselves thinking we can ever be safe. Like, maybe the best we can hope for is benign neglect instead of active persecution."

"Fuck that defeatist bullshit," I snapped, the brandy and maternal fury combining into something fierce and protective. "You think I transitioned at forty-seven just to roll over when some political hack tries to erase us? You think I raised three kids and built a life just to let Emanuel and his ilk decide our worth?"

Remy nodded enthusiastically. "Damn right, cher. My grand-mère survived the Klan in Louisiana by being tougher than alligator hide. We got that same strength—these politicians just forgot we bite back."

"The other piece of this whole clusterfuck," Sarah said, her analytical mind dissecting the situation like a surgeon, "is that Emanuel's not wrong about the political calculus being brutal. Harris lost partly because Trump spent hundreds of millions on anti-trans ads. But his solution—throwing us overboard—isn't political realism. It's moral bankruptcy."

Miguel wiped down a glass with more force than necessary. "What pisses me off is how they frame it as protecting women's rights. Like trans women aren't women. Like we're some invading army instead of your neighbors, your coworkers, your family."

"Emanuel's betting that suburban voters care more about keeping trans girls out of sports than they do about trans kids not killing themselves," I said, feeling the familiar ache of worry for every young trans person trying to navigate this hostile world. "He's gambling with our lives for a few percentage points in swing states."

Bubba's voice carried decades of political disillusionment. "Been watching this same script since the eighties. Politicians promise the world during campaigns, then throw the queers under the bus the moment it's convenient. Reagan did it with AIDS, Clinton did it with Don't Ask Don't Tell, Obama took six years to support marriage equality, and now Emanuel's doing it with trans rights."

"The worst part is the false choice they're creating," Sarah continued. "Like you can either support trans rights or win elections, but not both. It's bullshit. Most Americans don't give a damn about trans people—they just want jobs, healthcare, and affordable housing. But politicians would rather fight culture wars than address those real issues."

Remy finished his grilled cheese and leaned back in his chair. "My cousin works for a polling company in Baton Rouge. Says most voters' opinions on trans issues are soft—they can be moved with the right messaging. But Democrats are so fucking scared of their own shadows, they'd rather preemptively surrender than fight."

"Emanuel's presidential ambitions are probably dead anyway," I said, swirling the brandy and watching it catch the light. "Progressive activists have long memories, and this kind of betrayal doesn't get forgotten. He might win over some suburban moderates, but he'll lose the base that actually shows up for primaries."

Ezra uncurled from their beanbag. "Do you really think things will get better? Sometimes it feels like we're just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic."

I looked around at these beautiful, broken, resilient souls—my chosen family in this basement sanctuary where honesty was the only currency that mattered. "Things get better because we make them better. Not by waiting for politicians to save us, but by taking care of each other and refusing to disappear."

Sarah raised her glass. "To surviving another day in this fucked-up world."

"To Emanuel learning what political exile feels like," Miguel added with a grin.

"To trans kids who won't have to hear this bullshit when they're our age," Bubba rumbled.

Remy lifted his beer. "To my grand-mère's wisdom—politicians come and go, but family is forever."

I drained the last of my brandy, feeling the warmth spread through my chest like armor against the world's casual cruelties. "To the Sanctuary Bar—where we're all family, and politicians can go fuck themselves."

The Christmas lights flickered overhead, casting rainbow patterns across our weathered faces, and for a moment, Emanuel's betrayal felt like just another storm we'd weather together. In this basement full of misfits and survivors, his words had no power. Down here, we knew exactly who we were, and no amount of political opportunism could change that truth.

The night was young, the brandy was strong, and we were still here—scarred but unbroken, battered but unbowed, ready to face whatever fresh hell tomorrow would bring.