The fucking day had been a goddamn emotional minefield, and by the time I descended those familiar concrete steps into The Sanctuary, my bones felt like they'd been through a meat grinder. The basement air wrapped around me like a warm blanket soaked in whiskey and understanding, while The Who’s “Baba Orilley” bled through the speakers with that signature guitar bite that could make angels weep and sinners repent.
Miguel's face lit up when he spotted me, that childlike grin spreading across his features as he polished a glass behind the restored bar top. Mom! You look like you've been wrestling with demons and lost.
More like wrestling with insurance companies and customer service representatives, I muttered, settling onto my usual stool. The warm crimson walls seemed to pulse with the bass line, and I could smell Della's latest culinary masterpiece—something involving bacon and onions that made my stomach growl despite the day's stress.
Let me guess, bourbon night? Miguel's sultry but innocent tone carried that perfect blend of maternal concern and bartender intuition.
Make it something that'll burn the bullshit right out of my system.
He reached for a bottle of Maker's Mark, the amber liquid catching the warm lighting as he poured three fingers into a rocks glass. The first sip hit like liquid fire wrapped in velvet, coating my throat with that sweet, smoky burn that reminded me why Kentucky knew what the fuck they were doing.
Ezra bounced up from their usual beanbag chair, blue hair catching the light like electric cotton candy. Mom! Perfect timing. We were just getting into some heavy shit about community drama.
I glanced around the room, taking inventory of tonight's emotional landscape. Keira sat at our corner table, her presence a steady anchor in the chaos, while Della's voice carried from the kitchen over the sizzle of what smelled like her famous loaded potato skins. Phoenix sprawled across another beanbag, their latest purple-and-silver hair creation practically glowing under the lights, while River sat nearby in scrubs that looked like they'd survived a twelve-hour hospital shift from hell.
But it was Erik and Grubby who caught my attention—both nursing their drinks with the kind of thousand-yard stare that screamed of emotional warfare. Erik's calloused factory worker hands wrapped around a beer bottle like it was a lifeline, while Grubby sat in their usual corner booth, scotch glass reflecting the overhead lights like amber tears.
What kind of heavy shit are we talking about? I asked, settling deeper into my stool as Pink Floyd's "Young Lust" started flowing through the speakers. The irony wasn't lost on me—Gizmo and I used to belt this one out during our car rides when she was still small enough to think I hung the fucking moon.
My chest tightened at the memory, that familiar ache that came whenever thoughts of my daughter surfaced. She'd be in her dorm room now, probably studying psychology and learning all the ways I'd fucked up as a parent. The bourbon helped, but it never completely numbed that particular wound.
Erik cleared his throat, his voice carrying the roughness of someone who spent their days on an assembly line surrounded by toxic masculinity. Grubby and I were just... comparing war stories about breakups in small communities.
Oh, fuck me sideways with a rusty spoon, Della called from the kitchen, her femme butch energy radiating even through the serving window. Y'all are about to unpack some serious baggage. Miguel, better pour stronger drinks.
Miguel chuckled, that sound mixing childlike joy with bartender wisdom. Already on it, babe.
The room seemed to collectively lean in, the way our chosen family always did when someone was about to bleed truth all over the floor. Toto's "Africa" began its hypnotic opening, and I watched as Erik's shoulders tensed like he was preparing for battle.
You want to go first, or should I? Erik asked Grubby, his factory-hardened exterior cracking to reveal something vulnerable underneath.
Grubby's intersex perspective had always brought a unique depth to our conversations, their rare words carrying weight that could shift the entire room's energy. You start. I need another drink before I dive into that particular shitstorm.
Erik took a long pull from his beer, then set it down with the deliberate care of someone choosing their words like ammunition. So there was this place called The Underground, up in Macon. Not underground like this beautiful basement sanctuary—underground like hidden behind a fucking laundromat, where the spin cycle covered the sound of drag shows and the detergent smell couldn't quite mask the desperation.
Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, Phoenix muttered, their young voice carrying the wisdom of someone who'd learned early that safe spaces were as rare as honest politicians.
The thing about small queer communities, Erik continued, his voice gaining strength, is that everyone knows everyone's business, everyone's dated everyone, and when you break up with someone, you're not just losing a partner—you're potentially losing your entire fucking support system.
River, still in their hospital scrubs, nodded grimly. Like playing Jenga with your soul. One wrong move and everything collapses.
Erik's laugh held no humor. Exactly. So I'm dating this guy Marcus—different Marcus than our Marcus here—and we're the golden couple at The Underground. Been together eight months, which in gay years is basically a fucking lifetime.
Miguel refilled my bourbon without being asked, the liquid amber catching the light like captured sunlight. The Moody Blues' "Nights in White Satin" began its melancholy journey through the speakers, and I found myself thinking about the communities within communities, the delicate ecosystems of trust and belonging that could shatter like cheap crystal.
What happened? Keira's voice carried that subtle strength that always made my feminine side purr with contentment, even in the middle of heavy emotional excavation.
He cheated, Erik said simply. But not just cheated—cheated with someone from our friend group. And not just cheated once—apparently had been cheating for three fucking months with half the people I considered my chosen family.
The room went silent except for Della's cooking sounds and the music. It was the kind of silence that held space for pain, the way only our little basement sanctuary could.
Motherfucker, I breathed, the bourbon making my tongue loose and my maternal instincts flare. That's not just betrayal—that's fucking emotional terrorism.
Erik nodded, his factory-worker hands trembling slightly around his beer. The worst part wasn't even the cheating. It was watching our entire community choose sides like we were divorcing parents at a custody hearing. Half the bar stopped talking to me because they thought I was 'too intense' about the whole thing.
Too intense about betrayal? Ezra's blue hair practically vibrated with indignation. What the fuck were you supposed to do, throw a goddamn congratulations party?
That's what they expected, Erik continued, his voice growing harder. Everyone kept saying 'let it go,' 'don't make waves,' 'the community is bigger than your relationship.' As if my pain was somehow inconvenient for their weekend drag shows.
Grubby finally spoke, their voice carrying that profound quality that made everyone listen when they decided to share. That's the fucked-up thing about small communities. They preach love and acceptance, but when shit gets messy, suddenly there's no room for actual human emotions.
Your turn, hon, I said gently, watching as Grubby's fingers traced the rim of their scotch glass with the precision of someone buying time.
The music shifted to Yes's "Love Will Find A Way" and the irony felt like a punch to the gut. Grubby took a deep breath that seemed to draw in half the room's oxygen.
Mine was different, they said finally. There was this coffee shop in Athens called The Grind—stupid fucking name, but it was our place. Not officially queer, but queer enough. Board games on weekends, open mic nights where people could be themselves without pretending.
Phoenix leaned forward, their young face reflecting the universal hunger for belonging that drove so many of us to these hidden spaces. Sounds perfect.
It was, until it wasn't. Grubby's laugh carried decades of disappointment. I was with this person—Sam. They were genderfluid before genderfluid was even a word most people knew. We'd been together two years, living together, talking about getting a place with a garden where we could grow our own vegetables and maybe adopt a dog.
The domestic dream hit different when you'd spent your life fighting for the right to even exist, let alone build something stable and beautiful with another person.
What went wrong? Della called from the kitchen, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd seen love crash and burn more times than she'd care to count.
Sam decided they needed to 'find themselves', Grubby said, air quotes dripping with bitter sarcasm. Which apparently meant fucking their way through every queer person in Athens while I was working double shifts to pay for the apartment we shared.
Jesus Christ wrapped in bacon, Miguel muttered, his bartender empathy working overtime.
But here's the kicker, Grubby continued, their voice gaining a sharper edge. The coffee shop crowd knew. They all fucking knew. For months. And instead of telling me, they just... watched. Like I was some kind of tragic entertainment.
The bourbon in my glass suddenly tasted like liquid anger. They watched you get humiliated and said nothing?
Worse. They justified it. Grubby's words hit like hammer blows. Said it wasn't their place to get involved, said relationships were complicated, said Sam was 'going through something' and deserved space to figure it out.
Erik nodded grimly. Same fucking playbook. Make the victim responsible for everyone else's comfort.
The music shifted again, this time to The Cult's "Love Removal Machine," and the guitar felt appropriate for the rage simmering in the room.
So what happened to your communities? River asked, their nurse instincts probably cataloging the emotional wounds being reopened.
Erik finished his beer before answering. I stopped going to The Underground. Couldn't handle watching Marcus—my ex Marcus—hold court with his new boyfriend while our mutual friends acted like nothing had happened. Eventually, I just... disappeared. Found other places, other people.
That's the real tragedy, Grubby said, their intersex perspective cutting through to something deeper. When you leave a toxic situation, you lose the good parts too. All the friends who genuinely cared but didn't want to deal with drama, the safe space itself, the feeling of belonging somewhere.
Like losing your religion, Keira observed quietly, her words carrying weight that made my feminine side flutter with appreciation for her insight.
Exactly like losing your religion, Erik agreed. Because these spaces become sacred when you've spent your whole life looking for somewhere you can breathe.
I took another sip of bourbon, thinking about the delicate ecosystem we'd built here in The Sanctuary. How Miguel and Della had created something different—not just a bar, but a place where messiness was allowed, where people could be human without losing their community card.
The fucked-up thing about both our situations, Grubby continued, is that the communities we lost weren't actually that different from straight spaces when it came to handling conflict. Same politics, same cliques, same pressure to keep quiet and make nice.
Phoenix, still young enough to believe in perfect solutions, looked confused. But isn't that exactly what queer spaces are supposed to be different from?
Should be, Erik said. But trauma doesn't automatically make people wise. Sometimes it just makes them more desperate to avoid additional trauma, even when that means enabling shitty behavior.
The conversation was interrupted by Della emerging from the kitchen with a platter of loaded potato skins that smelled like heaven wrapped in bacon and cheese. Her femme butch energy filled the room as she set the food down and assessed the emotional landscape with practiced eyes.
Y'all are excavating some serious archaeological trauma tonight, she observed, wiping her hands on her apron. But here's what I learned from watching my unsupportive mother destroy every relationship she ever had—sometimes the community you lose wasn't worth keeping.
Miguel beamed at his wife with that perfect blend of attraction and partnership that made their marriage a beacon of possibility in our chosen family. That's my brilliant woman, cutting straight to the heart of things.
Think about it, Della continued, settling onto a stool near the kitchen. Both y'all's situations, the community sided with the cheaters and liars. What kind of values does that represent?
The question hung in the air like smoke, heavy with implications. The music had shifted to Genesis's "In Too Deep," and Phil Collins's voice seemed to underscore the complexity of what we were discussing.
But it still hurt, Erik said quietly. Knowing you were right doesn't make the loneliness suck less.
True as fucking gospel, I agreed, feeling the bourbon warm my chest and loosen my tongue. Sometimes being right is the loneliest position in the world.
Grubby raised their scotch glass in a mock toast. To being right and alone.
Fuck that, Ezra interrupted, their blue hair practically bristling with indignation. Y'all aren't alone anymore. You found this place, found us. Maybe losing those communities wasn't losing something good—maybe it was clearing space for something better.
Phoenix nodded eagerly, their purple-and-silver hair catching the light. Like pruning a plant. Sometimes you have to cut away the dead parts so the healthy parts can grow.
River, practical as always despite the late-shift exhaustion, leaned forward. The question is, how do you build something better? How do you create community that doesn't repeat those patterns?
Miguel started cleaning glasses with the methodical precision of someone who'd heard this conversation in various forms countless times. You start with truth. No bullshit policies about 'keeping the peace.' If someone's being a shithead, you call them a shithead.
And you build accountability into the DNA of the space, Della added. Not just for the big stuff—cheating, lying—but for the small stuff too. How people talk to each other, how conflicts get handled, whether someone's pain matters more than someone else's comfort.
I looked around the room, taking in the faces of our chosen family. Phoenix, who'd found us after being beaten and abandoned. River, who'd loved them back to wholeness. Ezra, bouncing between partners but never doubting their worth. Erik and Grubby, carrying the scars of communities that had failed them. Keira, whose quiet strength had taught me that love could be both fierce and gentle.
The thing about this place, I said, feeling the bourbon and the emotion thick in my throat, is that Miguel and Della built it on the ruins of their own bullshit experiences. They didn't just create a bar—they created an operating system for how community should work.
We make mistakes here, Miguel said, his sultry but childlike voice carrying surprising wisdom. But we clean them up. We don't pretend they didn't happen, and we don't make the person who got hurt responsible for everyone else's comfort.
Erik looked around the room with something like wonder in his factory-hardened eyes. I never thought I'd find another community after The Underground. Figured I was destined to be one of those queer people who just... exists alone.
Same, Grubby agreed. After Sam and The Grind, I convinced myself that chosen family was just a pretty lie we tell ourselves to feel less pathetic.
But here's the plot twist in this tragic fucking romance novel, I said, raising my bourbon glass. You didn't find another community. You found your actual community. The difference is, this one was built by people who'd already survived the bullshit you're carrying.
Keira's subtle nod felt like approval flowing through my system, that quiet affirmation that made my feminine side preen with satisfaction.
Plus, Phoenix added with the wisdom that came from nearly losing everything, this community has seen me at my absolute worst—beaten, broken, terrified—and loved me anyway. That's not something you find in spaces built on maintaining comfortable illusions.
River reached over and squeezed Phoenix's hand, their relationship a living example of love that chose wholeness over convenience.
The evening continued with the kind of rambling, interconnected conversation that only happened in spaces like The Sanctuary—stories bleeding into stories, wounds being examined and dressed with the collective wisdom of people who'd survived their own versions of hell.
Erik shared more about the factory job that paid his bills but slowly poisoned his soul with toxic masculinity he had to pretend not to notice. Grubby talked about the loneliness of being intersex in a world that barely acknowledged their existence, let alone made space for their experiences.
But somewhere between the music and the bourbon and the collective warmth of our chosen family, the conversation shifted from excavating trauma to building something new. Plans started forming for movie nights and potluck dinners, for creating the kind of community traditions that would outlast individual relationships and personal drama.
The beautiful thing about starting over, Della observed, emerging from the kitchen with coffee for those who needed to drive home, is that you get to keep the lessons without keeping the people who refused to learn them.
As the evening wound down and people began the slow process of gathering jackets and saying goodbyes, I found myself thinking about the circular nature of community—how we all carried pieces of previous spaces with us, both the wounds and the wisdom.
Erik and Grubby had lost communities that claimed to value love but couldn't handle the messy reality of human emotion. But in losing those spaces, they'd found something more authentic—a basement bar where truth was currency and bullshit had no shelf life.
Miguel poured me one final bourbon as the room slowly emptied, the amber liquid catching the warm light like liquid courage.
Mom, he said quietly, you think they'll be okay? Erik and Grubby, I mean.
I looked around the transformed space—the crimson walls that had replaced water-stained concrete, the clean ceiling that had eliminated the bunker atmosphere, the professional lighting that revealed character instead of damage.
They're already okay, I said. They just needed a space where okay was enough.
The bourbon burned less this time, sliding down my throat like liquid understanding. Outside, the city continued its relentless pace, but down here in our basement sanctuary, we'd created something that moved to its own rhythm—a community built not on the fantasy of perfection, but on the much more radical foundation of accepting people exactly as they were.
As I climbed those concrete steps toward street level, I carried with me the weight and warmth of another night in The Sanctuary—a place where broken communities could be rebuilt, where individual stories could become collective wisdom, and where the simple act of being seen and accepted felt like the closest thing to revolution any of us had ever known.
"The most terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one's heart—hearts are made to be broken—but that it turns one's heart to stone." - Oscar Wilde
Wilde’s observation cuts through the evening's excavated pain with surgical precision. Erik and Grubby's stories illuminate not just the betrayal of unfaithful partners, but the deeper tragedy of communities that choose comfort over compassion. When chosen families prioritize maintaining the status quo over protecting their wounded members, hearts don't simply break—they calcify with the bitter understanding that safe spaces can become just as toxic as the world they're meant to refuge from. Yet in The Sanctuary's basement warmth, we witness the antidote to Wilde's warning: authentic community that refuses to let hearts turn to stone, instead offering the radical grace of being fully seen and completely accepted.
Another sterling soundtrack (Nights in White Satin.)