The Safety of a Queer Space: Outie or Innie?

The familiar burn of bourbon slides down my throat as Miguel places the glass in front of me—Buffalo Trace tonight, its vanilla notes fighting against the caramel undertones like they're having their own goddamn identity crisis. The amber liquid catches the new track lighting, throwing honey-colored shadows across the restored bar top while Stevie Ray Vaughn's "Crossfire" bleeds through the sound system, that Texas blues guitar cutting through conversations like a hot knife through bullshit.

Mom, I'm fucking terrified, Erik announces without preamble, dropping onto the stool next to me like his legs just gave up on holding all that fear. His factory-stained hands wrap around the beer Miguel slides him—some local IPA that smells like pine trees had an orgy with grapefruit.

Phoenix looks up from where they're curled against River in the corner booth, their ruby promise ring catching the light as they gesture. Babe, what happened? they ask, and River's arm tightens protectively around them, still in scrubs from their twelve-hour shift.

Some asshole at work found my old Facebook, Erik says, and the words fall out of him like broken glass. From before. When I was... He can't finish the sentence, doesn't need to. We all know what "before" means in this sanctuary.

Della emerges from the kitchen, the sizzle of her blackened catfish still clinging to her apron, and even from here I can smell the cayenne and paprika she's been throwing around like confetti. Motherfucker, she breathes, and it's both curse and prayer.

How old are the photos? Sage asks from their corner table, looking up from the intricate mandala they're drawing on a napkin—concentric circles that somehow capture the feeling of being trapped and free simultaneously.

Seven years, Erik replies, and his voice cracks like ice under pressure. Pre-T, pre-surgery, pre-fucking-everything. I look like a completely different person, but this guy, Tony—he's one of those conspiracy theory assholes who thinks he's Sherlock fucking Holmes with Google.

The opening bass line of Rush's "Tom Sawyer" thrums through the floor, and Geddy Lee's voice pierces the air just as Chris shifts uncomfortably near the pool table. Maybe it's God's way of— he starts, but Lisa cuts him off with a look that could peel paint.

Don't you fucking dare, Lisa growls, her farm-girl pragmatism wrapped in newly-discovered lesbian rage. This isn't about your sky daddy's plan. This is about some piece of shit violating Erik's privacy.

Chris shrinks back, clutching his whiskey and Coke like it might absolve him. The man's been wrestling with his own sexuality for so long, sometimes I think he forgets other people's struggles aren't fodder for his theological crisis.

What exactly did Tony say? I ask, watching Erik's shoulders hunch like he's trying to disappear into himself.

Nothing yet. But he keeps giving me these looks, you know? Like he knows something. And yesterday he asked if I'd always worked in manufacturing, real casual-like, but with this shit-eating grin.

River shifts forward, their genderfluid identity making them hyperaware of the violence that can hide behind seemingly innocent questions. You need to get ahead of this, they say, today's pronouns sitting comfortably in the feminine. Control the narrative before he does.

How the fuck do I control anything? Erik explodes, his fear transforming into anger because that's easier to hold. I've got a wife and two kids who know everything, but at work? I'm just Erik the guy who can lift heavy shit and doesn't complain about overtime. If this gets out...

Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" starts playing, and suddenly I'm thinking about Gizmo, how we used to belt this song in the car when she was eight, before everything got complicated, before the distance grew between us like a living thing. My eyes burn, but I push through it.

You document everything, Brandon says from his spot at the bar, his humor stripped away to reveal the steel underneath. Every look, every comment, every fucking microaggression. You build a case before you need one.

That's the thing about factory work, Erik continues, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. It's this toxic masculine cesspool where guys compete to see who can be the biggest asshole. They say shit about women, about queers, about anyone who isn't exactly like them. And I just... I stand there and take it because they think I'm one of them.

Della returns from the kitchen with a plate of catfish, the cornmeal crust golden and glistening, and sets it in front of Erik like an offering. Eat something, honey. Can't fight on an empty stomach.

I don't know if I can keep doing this, Erik admits, picking at the fish. Pretending to laugh at their jokes, staying quiet when they talk about 'trannies' like we're some kind of joke. But I've got bills, kids who need braces, a mortgage...

Capitalism's a fucking vampire, Phoenix spits, their anger sharp enough to cut. It keeps us trapped in these situations where we have to choose between eating and existing.

The opening riff of Def Leppard's "Photograph" fills the space, and I'm transported to another car ride with Gizmo, both of us screaming the lyrics while she was still young enough to think I hung the moon. The memory stings like antiseptic on an open wound.

Here's what you're gonna do, Sage says, their asexual aromantic perspective offering clarity the rest of us can't find through our emotional fog. You're going to quietly reach out to HR, not to report anything yet, but to establish a paper trail. You mention you're concerned about potential harassment based on medical history.

Medical history? Erik looks confused.

That's what transition is, legally speaking, Brandon interjects. Medical treatment for a medical condition. If they discriminate based on that, it's a fucking lawsuit waiting to happen.

But I don't want to be the trans guy who sued his company, Erik protests. I just want to do my job and go home to my family.

Sometimes we don't get to choose our battles, I tell him, the bourbon warming my chest like liquid courage. Sometimes they choose us.

Queen's "Somebody to Love" starts playing, and I catch myself humming along, remembering Gizmo at twelve, using a hairbrush as a microphone, back when she still wanted to share her world with me. My throat tightens.

You know what pisses me off most? Erik continues, his voice gaining strength. I'm good at my job. Really fucking good. I've never missed a shift, never caused problems, always hit my quotas. But none of that will matter if Tony decides to make me his personal crusade.

Then you make him the problem, River suggests, their tactical mind working through scenarios. If he outs you, you make it about him being a creepy stalker who spent hours digging through your personal history. What kind of weirdo does that?

The kind that gets promoted for being a 'team player,' Erik responds bitterly.

Fleetwood Mac's "Everywhere" thunders through the speakers, the bass line vibrating through the floorboards like a heartbeat. Miguel wipes down the bar with practiced efficiency, his own transition so far behind him it feels like ancient history, but his eyes hold understanding that transcends time.

Mom, what would you do? Erik asks me directly, and the weight of that title—that trust—sits heavy on my shoulders.

I take another sip of bourbon, let it burn away the easy answers. I'd probably do something stupidly brave that would blow up in my face, I admit. But you're smarter than me. You've got more to lose.

Do I though? Erik challenges. What's the point of having a job if I have to die a little bit every day to keep it?

That's the fucking question, isn't it? Della calls from the kitchen, where she's prepping tomorrow's special—something with andouille sausage that's making the whole bar smell like Louisiana decided to throw a party.

The opening synthesizer of The Cult's "She Sells Sanctuary" fills the space, and Phoenix starts moving slightly to the beat, their body finding rhythm even in anxiety. River pulls them closer, a gesture of protection and love that makes my chest ache for Keira, who's probably at home wondering when I'll stop running to this bar every time the world gets too sharp.

I knew a guy, Chris suddenly pipes up, his voice uncertain. At my old church. He was... different. People talked, made assumptions. He ended up leaving town.

That's not helpful, Chris, Lisa snaps.

No, wait, Chris continues, surprising us all. What I mean is... I watched it happen and did nothing. Said nothing. And I think about him all the time, wonder if my silence made it worse. I don't want to be silent anymore.

It's the closest Chris has come to growth in months, and even Sage looks up from their napkin art, intrigued.

The thing is, Brandon adds, swirling his whiskey like it holds answers, toxic masculinity is its own kind of closet. Those guys at your work? Half of them are probably terrified someone will find out they cried at a movie or actually love their wives or, God forbid, have feelings.

That doesn't make them less dangerous, River points out, their medical training making them acutely aware of how violence escalates.

No, Brandon agrees, but it makes them predictable.

AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" explodes through the speakers, and Miguel turns it down slightly, reading the room's need for conversation over concert.

You could transfer departments, Phoenix suggests. Get away from Tony without making it obvious why.

And let him win? Erik's jaw clenches. Fuck that.

It's not about winning, I tell him, thinking about all the battles I've fought and lost, all the ones I've won that felt like losing anyway. It's about surviving with as much of yourself intact as possible.

That's depressing as shit, Mom, Erik responds, but there's affection in it.

Welcome to being trans in America, Sage says dryly, adding another layer to their mandala—this one looks like factory smokestacks transformed into flowers.

The opening piano of Supertramp's "The Logical Song" fills the space with its questions about identity and belonging, and I realize we're all asking the same questions, just in different keys.

Here's what I know, Della says, emerging from the kitchen again, her hands still dusted with cornmeal. You can't control what that asshole does. But you can control how you respond. And you've got a whole fucking army behind you.

A basement full of queers isn't exactly an army, Erik points out, but he's smiling now, just slightly.

You'd be surprised, I tell him, thinking about all the ways this community has saved each other, one crisis at a time. We've got lawyers, doctors, hackers, writers, and enough collective rage to power a small city.

Plus, I know some people, Phoenix adds with a grin that's slightly dangerous. People who are very good at making other people's digital footprints very interesting.

We're not doxing anyone, River says firmly, but there's amusement in their voice.

Who said anything about doxing? Phoenix responds innocently. I'm just saying, Tony might have some interests he wouldn't want his church friends to know about.

I hate that this is my life, Erik says quietly. I hate that I have to strategize my existence.

Join the fucking club, Lisa raises her beer. We've got jackets.

And catfish, Della adds. Really good catfish.

Erik finally takes a real bite of his food, and the sound of satisfaction he makes is the first genuine thing we've heard from him all night.

You know what the worst part is? Erik continues between bites. My wife keeps saying I should just come out, be done with it. But she doesn't get it. She's never had to sit in a break room while guys joke about 'beating up fggots' and laugh along like it's hilarious.*

The privilege of the cis, Brandon mutters into his whiskey.

What if, Sage suggests, their voice cutting through the music, you didn't think of it as coming out, but as setting boundaries? You don't owe anyone your history, but you can make it clear that certain topics and jokes are off-limits.

Yeah, because that won't make me a target at all, Erik responds sarcastically.

You're already a target, River points out with medical precision. Tony made sure of that. The question is whether you're going to be a stationary or moving one.

The opening of Kansas's "Carry On Wayward Son" fills the bar with its promise of peace when we're done, but we all know that's a lie—there's no done, just different levels of tired.

I keep thinking about my kids, Erik says suddenly. What kind of example am I setting? Hiding who I am, letting fear dictate my choices?

You're setting an example of survival, I tell him firmly. That's not nothing.

But what if survival isn't enough anymore? Erik asks, and it's the question we're all afraid to answer.

Then you change the game, Phoenix says simply. You find a new job, a better place, somewhere that doesn't require you to sacrifice pieces of yourself for a paycheck.

In this economy? Erik laughs bitterly.

In any economy, River insists. Your life is worth more than any job.

Easy for you to say, Erik shoots back, then immediately looks apologetic. Shit, I didn't mean—

Yes, you did, and that's okay, River responds calmly. We all have different levels of privilege and risk. But that doesn't change the fundamental truth—you deserve to exist without fear.

David Bowie's "Heroes" starts playing, and we all pause, letting Bowie's voice wash over us like a benediction, a promise that we could be heroes, just for one day, even if that day never seems to come.

Tomorrow, Erik says finally, I'm going to HR. Not to report anything, just to... establish presence, like Sage said. And I'm going to start looking for other jobs. Quietly.

And if Tony says something? I ask.

Then I'll deal with it, Erik responds, and there's steel in his voice now, forged in the fire of this basement sanctuary. But I won't let him make me small. Not anymore.

That's my boy, Della calls from the kitchen, and Erik actually smiles, real and unguarded.

Miguel pours another round without being asked, his movements efficient and caring, the kind of bartending that's more ministry than service. The bourbon hits my glass with a satisfying clink, and I raise it slightly toward Erik.

To controlling our own narratives, I say simply.

Even when the story sucks, Erik adds, raising his beer.

Especially then, Phoenix chimes in, their voice fierce with love.