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The Rémy Martin XO tastes like crushed velvet and old leather—cognac swirling in crystal with amber depths that catch the overhead lights like captured fireflies drowning in expensive French mistakes. Miguel sets it down with the precision of a surgeon placing a scalpel, his wedding ring clicking against glass.
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This one's been aging since before you transitioned, he says, that sultry-warm voice carrying tenderness wrapped in smoke. Fifteen years in Limousin oak. Seemed appropriate for tonight—watching people circle each other, trying to figure out what they want versus what they think they deserve.
I take the glass without comment because he's not wrong. The Sanctuary thrums with different energy tonight—earlier in the evening, barely nine o'clock, and already the basement feels charged with anticipation rather than exhaustion. David Genesis “Tonight, Tonight, Tonight" bleeds through the speakers, Collins's voice climbing scales about transformation and time, and I watch Erin laugh at something Renee said near the pool table, her whole body animated with joy that makes even cynics lean closer.
She's been coming here three weeks now. Thirty-something pansexual writer who discovered The Sanctuary through an article about underground queer spaces and stayed because chosen family doesn't require application processes—just showing up, being real, giving a shit. Tonight she's wearing dark jeans and a burgundy sweater that makes her skin glow like she's lit from within, hair falling in waves that catch light with each movement. Her laugh carries across the basement—full-bodied and infectious, the kind of sound that makes you want to know what's funny so you can be part of the joke.
Renee's been circling her since she walked in forty minutes ago.
The bodybuilder lesbian leans against the pool table, all muscle and calculated casualness, biceps straining against her tank top like they're trying to tear through fabric and announce themselves independently. She's racked the balls three times already, explaining proper break technique with the intensity of someone teaching nuclear physics, hands gesturing in ways that just happen to flex shoulders broad enough to block out overhead lights.
So you want to hit the one ball dead center, Renee says, voice dropping into that register she uses when she's trying to sound authoritative and attractive simultaneously. Power comes from your legs, not your arms. Plant your feet like this— She demonstrates, legs spread wide, body coiled with stored violence that could become grace if directed properly. —and drive through the shot. Confidence matters more than strength.
Erin watches with writer's attention, green eyes tracking Renee's form with the focus of someone cataloging information for later use. Confidence over strength, she repeats, accepting the pool cue Renee offers. I'll remember that.
Their fingers brush during the transfer. Renee's face transforms—vulnerability bleeding through bodybuilder bravado for half a second before she crushes it back down. I know that look. Spent forty-something years watching Renee attract women interested in her body while her heart remained unseen, unacknowledged, undesired beyond the fantasy of being fucked by someone who bench-presses twice their weight.
Keira sits beside me, Jane Austen open but eyes tracking the room like she's reading different story entirely. Renee's trying, she observes quietly. Actually trying rather than just being admired from a distance.
Sarah's watching too, I murmur back, nodding toward the corner where Sarah the Stoic stands with arms crossed, flannel shirt pressed to military precision, boots planted like she's preparing to defend territory. Her gray eyes—sharp as broken bottle glass—haven't left Erin since the writer arrived. She's barely touched her beer, too focused on watching Renee demonstrate pool techniques with transparent desperation.
Is she? Keira's tone suggests she'd noticed fifteen minutes ago and has been waiting for me to catch up. Interesting.
Erin, Sarah says, voice carrying that blunt authority that makes people straighten their spines reflexively. You ever read Kierkegaard? The subjective thinker?
Renee's face goes dark. Really, Sarah? Philosophy? Right now?
Knowledge is seduction, Sarah replies coolly, gray eyes finding Renee's with challenge barely concealed beneath stoic expression. Some of us prefer stimulating minds rather than just demonstrating our big muscles.
The temperature around the pool table drops about twenty degrees. Erin glances between them, writer instincts clearly recognizing she's become the prize in a competition she didn't enter consciously but is now navigating with careful neutrality.
I've read some Kierkegaard, Erin says carefully, setting down the pool cue. "Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards." That one?
That's the sanitized version. Sarah steps closer—not crowding Erin's space but claiming conversational territory with the subtlety of someone who's studied territorial disputes from every philosophical angle. He wrote about the despair of wanting to be oneself versus the despair of not wanting to be oneself. About anxiety as the dizziness of freedom. Seems relevant in a space full of people who chose themselves over comfort.
Fuck's sake, Renee mutters, but she doesn't move away. Instead she leans against the pool table, muscles coiling with frustration. Not everything needs philosophical framework, Sarah. Sometimes people just want to play pool without existential crisis. NERD!
Sometimes people want substance. Sarah's tone remains neutral but her positioning shifts—subtle adjustment placing her between Renee and Erin by about six inches, claiming space without announcing the claim. Conversation that challenges rather than just entertain. Muscles.
I catch Miguel's eye across the bar and he's already pouring—two shots of his private reserve this time, understanding instinctively that watching this unfold requires liquid courage and solidarity. Della emerges from the kitchen carrying plates of bacon mac and cheese that smell like heaven wrapped in cardiac arrest, her eyes tracking between Renee and Sarah with the assessment of someone who knows exactly what's happening and finds it fucking fascinating.
Ezra bounces over to their claimed beanbag throne, blue hair electric under the lights, piercings catching glints as they settle in to watch. This is better than Netflix, they stage-whisper to no one in particular. Romance triangle featuring philosophy, muscles, and a writer caught in the middle.
Across the basement, Bubba and Remy sit pressed close in the corner booth—mountain and bayou stream still unable to stop touching, hands linked on the table between them, bodies angled toward each other like magnets finally allowed to connect after decades of forced separation. They're talking quietly, heads bent together, and I catch fragments of conversation that suggest they're still processing the fact that they're actually together after thirty-three years of circling.
...can't believe we waited so fucking long, Remy's saying, Cajun accent thick with wonder and residual disbelief. Thirty-three years, cher. What were we thinking?
We weren't. Bubba's massive hand engulfs Remy's smaller one, thumb tracing patterns across knuckles with devastating gentleness. We were scared. Protecting each other from risk. Keeping ourselves safe from happiness.
Safe from happiness. Remy laughs, bitter and beautiful. That's the most fucked-up thing I ever heard, and I grew up in Louisiana where my mama threatened to kill people for asking about her gumbo recipe.
Bubba grins—actual genuine smile that transforms his whole face into something younger, softer. You think she'd approve? Of us?
Mon Dieu, she been screaming at me from heaven for fifteen years to stop being a coward. Remy leans in, kisses Bubba quick and fierce. She'd fucking love you. Probably make you her gumbo and tell you stories about me as a kid that I'd rather you never heard.
Their conversation fades into intimate murmurs as I refocus on the pool table situation. Erin's holding her own remarkably well, writer training clearly including how to navigate situations where you're being competed for without explicitly acknowledging the competition.
I appreciate both perspectives, she says diplomatically, voice carrying warmth that suggests genuine interest rather than polite deflection. Physical skill and philosophical depth aren't mutually exclusive. Some of the most interesting people I've interviewed combine both—athletes who think deeply about their craft, academics who rock climb on weekends.
Exactly. Sarah nods, gray eyes softening microscopically. Integration rather than separation. Descartes had it wrong—mind and body aren't separate, they inform each other.
Renee straightens, muscles tensing. I think deeply about my craft. Just because I lift weights doesn't mean I'm all body, no brain.
PFFT. Let’s out a laughing Sarah.
The hurt beneath her words cuts through the competitive posturing. I set down my cognac and move—leg screaming with each step, titanium plates grinding, but some things matter more than pain. When I reach the pool table, all three women turn to look at me.
Renee, I say quietly, show Erin your tattoos. The ones on your ribs. Tell her what they mean.
Renee's face goes through several expressions—surprise, vulnerability, gratitude, fear—before settling on determined openness. She lifts her tank top carefully, revealing elaborate ink work covering her ribcage. Phoenix rising from flames on the left side, chrysalis splitting open on the right.
Got these years ago, she says, voice rough. When I realized I been building this body my whole life trying to be impressive, trying to be wanted, but all it did was make women see muscles instead of me. The phoenix is who I want to become—someone who rises from that bullshit and exists beyond the performance. The chrysalis is the process of getting there.
Erin steps closer, studying the ink with artist's appreciation. They're beautiful. Who did the work?
Timeless Tattoo in Atlanta. Where all Queer persons got their’s done. Took two sessions, eight hours each. Renee lowers her shirt, muscles still defined but expression softer now. Hurt like a motherfucker but good pain, you know? The kind that means you're choosing something for yourself rather than for how others see you.
That's philosophy in action, Sarah says quietly, and there's no competition in her tone now—just recognition. Embodied wisdom. Kierkegaard would approve—choosing yourself through suffering.
Renee meets Sarah's eyes and something passes between them—not attraction but understanding, the acknowledgment that they're both trying, both competing, both scared of wanting something real after years of settling for attention without connection.
Chapman’s “Fast Car" kicks in through the speakers, with her voice cutting through the basement like blade through water, and I watch the three women navigate their triangle with more grace than I expected. Erin's writer instincts transform competition into conversation—she asks Renee about training routines, asks Sarah about which philosophers address physical embodiment, weaves their separate attempts to impress her into dialogue that includes rather than divides.
By the pool table's other end, River and Phoenix huddle close—nurse in forest-green scrubs and non-binary person with purple-and-gold hair creating their own private universe amid the chaos. Phoenix's ruby ring catches light every time they gesture, promise made permanent through jewelry.
I been thinking about marriage, Phoenix says, voice carrying the particular uncertainty of someone testing waters they've never navigated. Like, what would that even look like for us? Traditional wedding feels wrong, but I want something that marks this as permanent, you know? Not just dating, not just living together, but actually committed legal binding whatever.
River's hand finds Phoenix's, fingers interlacing automatically. I want that too. Been thinking about it since I gave you that ring. Their voice shifts between registers—today's pronouns are she/her based on the jewelry choices, delicate silver earrings catching light. But you're right, traditional wedding doesn't fit us. Maybe something at the courthouse? Or here, in The Sanctuary, with everyone who actually matters? Wendy would you marry us? You can do that right?, they call out to the bar with an echoing voice.
Della would cry. I grin. Miguel would pour his best bourbon and make it some kind of sacred ritual. But yeah, I can marry you. State recognizes my siggy on a marriage license.
And you know Mom would probably write something beautiful and devastating that makes everyone sob. River sighs. But yeah, here feels right. Getting married in front of chosen family rather than performing for biological relatives who'd probably deadname you the whole ceremony.
Phoenix flinches at the word "deadname" but River's already pulling them closer, protective instinct and girlfriend devotion creating shield against even hypothetical harm. They kiss gently, ruby ring pressed between their bodies, two people navigating what commitment looks like when traditional frameworks don't fit.
Across the room, Lisa, Elaine, Miranda, and Leila cluster at a table near the stage, their conversation carrying the particular energy of women processing current events through personal lenses.
My flight last week— Elaine's voice pitches higher with frustration, fast-talking resistor energy barely contained. Passenger tried to argue with me about airplane safety protocols. Like sir, I been doing this twenty-three years, I think I know where the fucking exits are. But no, he read an article online so clearly he's the expert.
Everyone's an expert now. Leila scrolls through her phone with intensity, political maven tracking latest legislative bullshit. Saw three bills introduced this week targeting trans healthcare. Three. Like they got nothing better to do than legislate people's medical decisions.
Miranda sets down her wine glass—undeniably MILF energy radiating through exhaustion—and her voice carries poetic precision when she speaks. They legislate our bodies because our existence threatens their worldview. Every trans person living authentically is walking proof that gender isn't destiny, that assigned roles can be refused, that we're more than biological functions. That's terrifying to people whose entire identity depends on rigid categories.
Fucking poetry. Lisa laughs, pragmatic farm girl lesbian still adjusting to new identity at fifty-seven. You always make oppression sound beautiful, Miranda. But you're right. My ex-husband used to say I was just confused, that women don't know what they want. Turns out I knew exactly what I wanted—just wasn't allowed to want it.
Elaine nods vigorously. That's what makes me so angry. All these people telling us who we are, what we want, how we should live. Like they got any fucking idea what it's like to exist in these bodies, these identities, this world that treats our existence as debate topic rather than reality.
Which is why we organize. Leila's fingers fly across her phone screen. Why we show up to city council meetings and protest anti-trans legislation and make noise until they can't ignore us. Change doesn't happen quietly.
Their conversation continues—professional women processing personal political through the lens of lived experience, each one bringing different perspective to shared struggle.
I drain my cognac slowly, feeling the burn, watching chosen family navigate their various complications with the grace born from surviving long enough to know what matters. Keira's hand finds mine, squeezes once—recognition without words.
Back at the pool table, the triangle has shifted into something less competitive and more collaborative. Renee demonstrates proper stance while Sarah provides philosophical context about body mechanics and spatial awareness. Erin absorbs both, writer brain cataloging information while green eyes show genuine interest rather than polite tolerance.
You know what's funny, Erin says eventually, setting down her pool cue and turning to face them both directly. I came here three weeks ago to write an article about underground queer spaces. And instead I found something I didn't know I was looking for—community that doesn't require performance. People who show up as themselves and let you be yourself without demanding you fit predetermined boxes.
She looks at Renee. You're not just muscles. I see that. The tattoos, the vulnerability underneath the strength, the way you protect people here like it's your purpose. That's attractive—not despite the body you built but because you built it with intention, with meaning.
Then to Sarah. And you're not just stoic philosophy. I see how you watch everyone, how you think three steps ahead, how you challenge assumptions to make people think deeper. That's attractive too—the mind that refuses to accept surface-level answers.
Both women go very still. Erin smiles—gentle but firm. But I'm not a prize in a competition. If either of you actually wants to get to know me beyond demonstrating your respective qualities, ask me to coffee. Have a conversation. See if attraction translates to compatibility beyond who can impress me most in a bar setting.
The silence lasts approximately five seconds before Sarah speaks. Coffee. Thursday afternoon. That bookstore on Main and 4th, with the good espresso and philosophy section.
Dinner Friday. Renee's voice carries determination mixed with hope. That Thai place downtown. I know the owner, can get us the good table by the windows.
Erin laughs—full-bodied joy that transforms the tension into something lighter. Both sound perfect. Thursday with Sarah, Friday with Renee. And maybe we figure out what this is without competing for it.
She picks up her beer, raises it in casual salute, and walks toward where Phoenix and River are still discussing wedding plans, leaving two women staring after her with matching expressions of bemused respect.
Renee turns to Sarah slowly. She just—
Redirected the entire situation with writer precision. Sarah's lips twitch into something approaching a smile. Respected both of us, called out the bullshit, set boundaries, and gave us each opportunity to prove we're interested in her rather than just winning.
Fuck. Renee laughs, tension draining from shoulders that've been carrying competition weight all night. I think I'm even more attracted now.
Same. Sarah picks up her beer, finally takes a drink. May the best woman win. Or maybe we both win. Or maybe Erin decides neither of us fits and we handle that with grace because she deserves that respect.
They clink bottles—competition acknowledged but not consuming them, possibility remaining open rather than reduced to binary outcomes.
Across the basement, Bubba and Remy are leaving—hands linked, bodies close, mountain and bayou stream walking into the night together without hiding. Remy calls out goodbye to everyone, Cajun accent thick with happiness, while Bubba just raises one massive hand in farewell, too busy looking at Remy to care about anything else.
Thirty-three years, I hear Remy say as they reach the door. And now I get every night. Every fucking night for the rest of our lives.
Every night, Bubba agrees, pulling him closer. Starting now. Starting with forever.
The door closes behind them and The Who's "Baha O’Riley" fills the vacuum, Townsend’s singing about a teenage wasteland makes me laugh inside. Miguel refills my glass without asking, understanding instinctively that some nights you need continuity rather than variety.
Della brings out more food—comfort in edible form, bacon mac and cheese giving way to blackened catfish that makes the whole basement smell like Louisiana and defiance. She sets a plate in front of me, pats my shoulder once, says nothing because nothing needs saying.
Ezra's drawn elaborate designs on napkins, blue hair falling forward as they work—mandalas incorporating pool cues and coffee cups and ruby rings, visual representation of chosen family navigating desire and commitment and transformation.
The night continues its slow slide toward closing—conversations shifting as people move between groups, music playing on, bourbon flowing with Miguel's careful precision. Erin ends up talking with Miranda about journalism and poetry, their voices weaving together in appreciation of language's power. Phoenix and River show Della and Miguel the ruby ring, discussing wedding possibilities with increasing excitement.
Sarah and Renee play pool together—no longer competing but actually talking, discovering shared experiences beneath their different approaches to embodiment and attraction.
And I sit with Keira, watching chosen family exist in this basement sanctuary, processing another Thursday night where people showed up as themselves and navigated complications with more grace than the world outside would ever grant them.
The cognac burns warm in my chest. My leg aches with its usual electric fire. But around me, The Sanctuary pulses with the specific magic that comes from queer people finding each other, wanting each other, risking vulnerability in a world that treats their desires as threatening rather than human.
That's what Thursday night teaches those brave enough to show up.
That's what competing affections look like when everyone involved actually respects each other.
That's what love—romantic, platonic, chosen-family love—means when you build it consciously rather than accepting predetermined scripts about who gets to want whom and how.
Erin laughs at something Miranda said, green eyes bright with joy. Sarah and Renee lean over the pool table together, discussing break techniques and Kierkegaard in the same breath. Phoenix and River kiss softly, ruby ring catching light. And somewhere in the city, Bubba and Remy are discovering what thirty-three years of waiting transforms into when you finally stop protecting yourself from happiness.
The music plays. The bourbon flows. And chosen family continues its work of witnessing each other into becoming.
It's fucking beautiful.
"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds." — William Shakespeare
In The Sanctuary's sunset-crimson depths, Wendy witnessed the messy complexity of desire navigating respect—competition transformed into possibility through honest communication. Shakespeare understood that authentic love doesn't demand change or claim ownership, doesn't reduce people to prizes won through superior demonstration of worth. Tonight, Erin redirected two women's competing affections by refusing to be competed for, by inviting genuine connection over performative impression, by respecting herself enough to demand respect in return. Sarah's philosophy and Renee's embodied strength both matter—not as weapons in territorial dispute but as facets of full people deserving individual attention. That's what love looks like when stripped of possession: offering yourself honestly, accepting rejection gracefully, pursuing connection without destroying community in the process. Bubba and Remy's thirty-three year wait proved patience matters, but tonight proved something else—that sometimes the bravest thing is asking for coffee rather than performing worthiness. That attraction without respect is hollow. That chosen family witnesses and celebrates desire without weaponizing it. Love that doesn't alter when it finds alteration means loving people as they are, not as you want them to be, and trusting that authenticity creates connection performance never could.