The bass line from Kiss “Turn On The Night," thrummed through the refurbished walls of The Sanctuary as I descended those familiar stairs, the day's weight settling into my shoulders like a lead blanket. The crimson paint seemed to pulse with the rhythm, and the clean white ceiling reflected warm light that made everything feel less like a bunker and more like a fucking home. Miguel looked up from polishing glasses behind the restored bar, his childlike grin cutting through my exhaustion.
Hey Mom, rough day topside? His voice carried that sultry undertone that always made me think of smoky jazz clubs and secrets shared in dim corners.
The usual bullshit, I muttered, sliding onto my regular stool. The wood grain beneath my fingers told stories of resilience, of countless nights like this where the world above tried to grind us down and failed. Something brown and strong, Miguel. Make it count.
He reached for a bottle of Maker's Mark, the amber liquid catching the light like liquid gold. This batch has been aging in my heart, waiting for you. The bourbon hit the glass with a satisfying splash, neat, no fucking around. The first sip burned clean down my throat, tasting of vanilla and charred oak, with just enough bite to remind me I was alive.
Across the room, Renee dominated her usual corner, shoulders broad enough to block out half the mirror behind her. Her biceps strained against a tank top that had seen better decades, and she was deep in conversation with Sarah, whose stoic demeanor couldn't quite hide the storm brewing behind her eyes. The restored pool table gleamed between them, unused for now but promising later battles.
You know what's a load of shit? Renee's voice boomed over Dream Acadmey’s “Life in a Northern Town” drawing attention from half the room. This whole fucking 'lesbian bed death' mythology. Like we're some kind of sexual wasteland because we don't fuck like rabbits.
Sarah leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. But isn't there something to be said about the statistical patterns? Long-term lesbian relationships do show decreased sexual frequency compared to—
Oh honey, Elaine's voice cut through the conversation like a rusty blade, her sixty-year-old frame leaning against the bar with a rum collins in hand. You want to talk statistics? I've got twenty-three years of lesbian bed death data, and let me tell you, it's not what you think.
Fuck your statistics, Renee interrupted, but Elaine held up a weathered hand.
No, no, muscled magnificence, let Auntie Elaine educate your young asses. I am a goddamn veteran of the Lesbian Bed Death Wars. I've survived three long-term relationships, two marriages, and one civil union that lasted longer than most hetero marriages. You want to know what killed the bedroom? It wasn't being lesbian. It was being fucking boring.
The room shifted its attention to Elaine, who basked in the spotlight like she was born for it. Miguel poured her another rum collins—this time with Bacardi and extra lime—while she held court.
My first girlfriend, bless her vanilla soul, thought sex was something you did on Saturday nights after 'Wheel of Fortune.' Same position, same routine, lights off because God forbid we actually look at each other while we're getting off. That wasn't lesbian bed death, that was sexual fucking suicide.
From the beanbag chair near the stage, Ezra's blue hair caught the light as they looked up from their sketchpad. Maybe the problem isn't the sex. Maybe it's that we're trying to fit our relationships into straight fucking templates.
Exactly! Elaine slammed her glass down with enough force to make Miguel wince. The heteronormative bullshit poisoned my second relationship too. Janet—may she rot in therapy hell—was convinced we needed to have 'roles.' I was butch enough to be the initiator, she was femme enough to be the receiver. Boom. Instant death of spontaneity. You know what's sexy? Unpredictability. You know what's not? A fucking spreadsheet of who does what when.
Miguel moved down the bar, serving Phoenix a craft beer that foamed over the rim. Phoenix wore their ruby ring like a badge of honor, their constantly changing hair now a vibrant purple that matched their fierce loyalty to River, who was notably absent tonight—probably pulling another double at the hospital.
I think, Phoenix said, their voice carrying the wisdom of someone who'd learned hard lessons young, that intimacy isn't just about getting off. It's about being seen. Really fucking seen.
Oh, sweet summer child, Elaine cackled, pointing her finger at Phoenix. You're absolutely right, but let me add this—being seen includes being seen as a sexual fucking being. Not just a life partner, not just a co-parent, not just someone who splits the mortgage. A woman who wants to fuck and be fucked and maybe occasionally surprise you with what she wants.
The kitchen door swung open with a crash as Della emerged, carrying a plate of loaded nachos that smelled like heaven and looked like sin. The refurbished kitchen behind her gleamed with new equipment, but she moved through it with the same fierce love she'd always brought to feeding her chosen family.
Y'all are talking about bed death like it's some kind of terminal diagnosis, she called out, setting the nachos on the bar where hands immediately reached for them. Miguel and I have been together fifteen fucking years, and let me tell you, there are seasons. Sometimes you're rabbits, sometimes you're best friends who share a bed, and sometimes you're so goddamn busy saving the world you forget your own body exists.
Seasons, my ass, Elaine interjected, taking a long sip of her rum collins. That's just what people say when they've given up trying. My third wife—the one who actually lasted—we had seasons too. Spring was missionary twice a month. Summer was missionary twice a month with the fan on. Fall was—
Elaine, I interrupted, feeling heat rise in my cheeks despite myself.
What? I'm making a fucking point here, Mom. The seasons excuse is bullshit. You know what fixed our bedroom? Communication and a goddamn sex toy catalog. Turns out we were both bored out of our fucking minds but too polite to say so.
Miguel's face softened as he looked at his wife, the love between them visible as the steam rising from Della's cooking. She's right about the communication part. Some weeks we fuck like teenagers. Some weeks we hold each other while crying about the news. Both are intimate. Both matter.
But do you talk about the weeks when you don't want to fuck? Elaine pressed, leaning forward like a prosecuting attorney. Because that's where the death starts. In the silence. In the assumptions. In the 'oh she must not want me anymore' spiral that nobody talks about until you're sleeping in separate beds and wondering where it all went wrong.
Marcus, hunched over a whiskey in the corner, looked up with hollow eyes. Try explaining that to Sara. She thinks because I don't want to tear her clothes off every night after dealing with homophobic assholes all day, there's something wrong with me. With us.
Oh honey, Elaine said, her voice suddenly gentler, that's not lesbian bed death, that's human exhaustion. But here's the thing—are you telling Sara that's what it is? Because if you're just rolling over and going to sleep without explanation, she's making up her own story. And the story she's making up probably isn't 'my partner had a hard day fighting bigots.'
That's the fucking problem right there, Renee said, her voice gaining volume. We're all trying to perform desire according to some bullshit standard. Like constant horniness is the only proof of love.
Performance! Elaine nearly shouted, pointing at Renee with her fresh rum collins—this time a Captain Morgan with cranberry that looked like liquid rubies. That's exactly it! You know what killed bedroom number two? Janet decided she was a pillow princess but was too ashamed to admit it. So instead of saying 'I want to be worshipped like the fucking goddess I am,' she just... laid there. Looking bored. Making me feel like a sexual failure.
The room had gone quiet, everyone hanging on Elaine's words like she was delivering the gospel according to dyke dysfunction.
And you know what the real kicker was? Elaine continued, her voice rising with old anger. I spent two years thinking I was shit in bed, when all she wanted was for me to take control and make her feel wanted. But she couldn't say that because it wasn't 'feminist' enough or some shit.
Keira, appeared beside me like she always did—arriving exactly when I needed her presence most. Her hand found my shoulder, a subtle reminder that I wasn't alone in this room full of beautiful broken people trying to figure their shit out.
The patriarchy has convinced everyone that men's sexuality is the default, she said, her voice cutting through the conversation like a knife through butter. That constant, aggressive, performance-based model. But that's not how most women operate, and it's sure as hell not how healthy long-term relationships work.
Dani looked up from where she'd been quietly arranging crystals on her table, her flowing scarves catching the light. In my experience, lesbian bed death isn't about lesbians at all. It's about what happens when any couple stops communicating about their needs, when they start assuming instead of asking.
Exactly! Bubba's deep voice rumbled from his corner table where he sat with Gus, the young man hanging on every word like gospel. Back in South Georgia, they used to say a man's job was to want and a woman's job was to submit. That's some fucked-up foundation for any relationship. No wonder straight folks divorce so much—half of them never learned to actually talk about what they want.
Gus nodded eagerly, his small-town innocence still shining despite months in the city. So what do you do when you want different things? Like, what if one person wants more and the other wants less?
The room fell quiet except for Dire Straits “Sultans of Swing,”, started bleeding from the speakers. I took another sip of the Maker's Mark, feeling it warm my chest from the inside out. These were the moments I lived for—when the armor came off and we all admitted we were just fucking human. A thought of Gizmo entered my mind for a second.
You talk about it, I said finally, my voice rougher than I'd intended. You get uncomfortable and you talk about it anyway. You figure out if 'different things' means different frequencies or different foundations. Because if it's just frequency, you can work with that. If it's fundamental incompatibility, better to know now than waste years pretending.
Renee laughed, but there was pain underneath it. Easy to say when you've got someone to talk to. I can bench press a fucking Volkswagen, but I can't figure out how to keep a woman interested past the initial 'holy shit she's strong' phase.
Maybe, Sage said quietly from their corner table, not looking up from the intricate mandala they were drawing on a napkin, the problem isn't that you can't keep them interested. Maybe it's that you're attracting people who are interested in your strength but not your softness.
The words hit the room like a physical blow. Renee's face crumpled for just a second before she rebuilt her walls, but we all saw it—the vulnerability she kept buried under all that muscle.
Fuck, she whispered.
Erik, still in his work clothes from the factory, looked up from his beer. I deal with toxic masculinity all day, right? And the thing that gets me isn't the obvious shit—it's how they talk about their wives. Like they're roommates they occasionally fuck out of obligation. No wonder everyone's miserable.
At least you pass well enough to avoid being a target, Miranda said from where she sat with her own drink, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd fought battles most of us couldn't imagine. I get to deal with men who think trans women exist for their entertainment and women who think I'm invading their spaces. Dating is like navigating a fucking minefield.
The conversation spiraled outward, each person sharing pieces of their story, their struggles with intimacy and expectation and the weight of living authentically in a world that demanded performance. Julie sat in her usual spot, mixing diet Coke with Jameson like it was some kind of magical weight-loss formula, occasionally adding commentary that cut straight to the heart of things.
You know what I learned from twenty-three years of marriage to a man who saw me as a convenience store? she said, her seventy-one-year-old voice carrying decades of hard-won wisdom. Intimacy isn't about how often you fuck. It's about whether you can be your ugliest, most honest self and still be loved.
The music shifted to Rush's "Time Stand Still," and for a moment, I felt that familiar ache thinking about Gizmo. We used to sing this song together in the car when she was eight, her voice high and sweet, both of us believing we could conquer the world. Now she was eighteen and distant, and I missed her with a ferocity that made my chest tight.
Mom? Phoenix's voice cut through my memory. You okay?
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Keira's hand squeezed my shoulder, understanding without explanation.
The thing is, I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt, we're all so fucking scared of not being enough that we forget to ask what 'enough' even means. Lesbian bed death, sexual dysfunction, relationship failure—it's all just different ways of saying we're afraid we're not lovable as we are.
Renee stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. For a moment, I thought she was going to storm out, but instead, she walked over to the bar and ordered another beer from Miguel.
I need to stop looking for women who want to be saved by my strength, she said quietly. And start looking for women who want to know why I cry during romantic comedies.
You cry during rom-coms? Ezra asked, genuine surprise in their voice.
Every fucking time, Renee admitted, and for the first time all night, her smile was real.
The conversation continued, weaving through personal stories and cultural observations, through pain and hope and the stubborn refusal to give up on love despite all evidence that it was complicated as hell. Miguel kept the drinks flowing, Della kept the food coming, and slowly, the weight of the day lifted from all our shoulders.
You know what's funny? Della said, wiping down tables with the efficiency of someone who'd been doing it for decades. We spend so much time talking about bed death like it's this terrible thing, but maybe it's just relationships evolving. Maybe it's okay to have seasons.
As long as both people are okay with the season they're in, Miguel added, restocking glasses with practiced precision.
I finished the last of my bourbon, feeling the warmth spread through my limbs and the familiar looseness that meant it was time to head home. But not quite yet. These moments—when the pretense dropped and we all just existed together in our messy, complicated humanity—these were too precious to rush.
I think, I said, surprising myself with the words, that the real death isn't in bedrooms. It's when we stop believing we deserve to be loved for who we are instead of who we pretend to be.
Renee raised her beer in a mock toast. To being our ugly, honest selves.
And finding people who love us anyway, Keira added, her voice carrying years of proof.
And to having the balls to ask for what we want in bed, Elaine added with a wicked grin, raising her rum collins. Because if you can't say 'I want you to fuck me senseless' to someone you love, what the hell are you doing with them?
You don’t have balls, Elaine, I quipped.
Fuck you, Wendy, Elaine bolted back
You wouldn’t like it Elaine, I’d just lay there, I joke as laughter erupts throughout the room around us.
Even without an official toast, the sentiment hung in the air like incense, blessing all of us gathered in this underground sanctuary where truth was served neat and love came without conditions.
We didn't actually toast—it wasn't that kind of night—but the sentiment hung in the air like incense, blessing all of us gathered in this underground sanctuary where truth was served neat and love came without conditions.
As I finally stood to leave, my body protesting the transition from barstool to vertical, I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar. Fifty-three years old, trans, tired, holding onto love and hope with the same stubborn determination that had gotten me this far. Not perfect, not performing, just me. They aren’t Wasted Years. They never were.
"The greatest revolution of our generation is the discovery that human beings, by changing the inner attitudes of their minds, can change the outer aspects of their lives." - William James
James understood that true transformation begins not with external validation but with internal acceptance. In this story, the characters grapple with societal expectations around sexuality and intimacy, ultimately discovering that authentic relationships require the courage to be vulnerable rather than performing desire according to external standards. The revolution isn't in the bedroom—it's in the radical act of loving ourselves and others without pretense, allowing relationships to evolve naturally through honest communication rather than forcing them into prescribed patterns. Like the refurbished basement that became The Sanctuary, love transforms when we stop trying to hide our damage and instead create spaces where imperfection is not only accepted but celebrated.
Today, I had an, eye doctor appointment. I heard all the , whispering,, going, on they wanted to, have an employee, dismissed, from, her, job, because, of her, sexual orientation. I stepped in as did others, speaking, kind, words. Eye, doctor, said, nope, and thanked for my kind , words. As did others, who , had spoken, ⬆️, also. Have a nice day and evening.