The basement reeks of old beer and new tension tonight, Genesis bleeding "Land of Confusion" through speakers like prophecy wrapped in synthesizer. My ribs ache where John's fists found purchase three months ago, phantom pain flaring when I breathe too deep—titanium holding bones together, scar tissue mapping violence across flesh that already carried forty-seven fractures from trying to beat the woman out of myself decades prior.
Miguel slides bourbon across scarred wood, amber liquid catching basement lights like captured fire. This one's from a distillery outside Lexington, his voice carries that sultry-childlike quality making pronouncements about alcohol sound like benedictions. Small batch, aged in barrels that held sherry first. Smell it—caramel and tobacco leaf, hint of dark cherry underneath. They only make two hundred bottles a year.
I inhale, let the scent burn sinuses clean. Caramel sweetness cuts through basement must, tobacco earthiness anchoring it, cherry note dancing underneath like secret waiting to be discovered. First sip spreads heat through chest, smooth as silk wrapped around razor blades—gentle until you press too hard, then it cuts.
Keira's reading in corner booth, occasionally glancing up to track conversations like meteorologist monitoring storm systems. Della's kitchen sounds provide percussion—sizzle of blackened chicken, clang of cast iron, her voice carrying through service window: Fuckin' beautiful, this spice blend. Your goddamn mouths don't deserve this artistry, you philistine shits.
Brandon occupies center table, notebook closed for once, gin and tonic sweating rings into wood grain. Gus sits beside him, young face showing small-town nervousness still present after six months urban living. Erik's work clothes carry factory smell—metal shavings, machine oil, masculine performance he's forced to witness daily. Bubba's mountain presence fills window booth, Remy's cigarette smoke curling around them both. Marcus spins wedding ring like rosary beads, bisexual visibility making him ghost in own existence.
Miguel and Ezra complete the circle, trans man bartender and non-binary tornado creating spectrum of masculinity that defies binary bullshit.
"Invisible Touch" transitions to The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again," Townshend's guitar screaming about revolutions that just replace old bosses with new ones. Appropriate, given the conversation brewing like storm system gathering pressure.
So this asshole today, Erik starts, voice carrying factory floor exhaustion, dude literally interrupted me mid-sentence to explain my own fucking job back to me. I've been running this machine for three years, and this dipshit started two weeks ago. But he's cis, so obviously he knows better.
Marcus's laugh sounds hollow. Try being bi in straight spaces. They assume you're gay but closeted. Try being bi in gay spaces—they assume you're straight but experimenting. Either way, nobody believes you exist. But yeah, I still get assumed competent in meetings where women get talked over constantly.
Gus hunches over beer, fingers peeling label into confetti. I don't... I mean, back home, being gay meant you weren't really a man, you know? They made that real fucking clear. So hearing about male privilege feels weird when I spent eighteen years being told I was less than.
That's the mindfuck, Brandon says, gesturing with gin and tonic, ice cubes rattling like dice. We experience homophobia, sure. Society treats us like shit for loving men. But we still move through the world in male bodies, and that matters. Women cross the street when they see us at night. They don't do that for other women.
Bubba's deep voice rumbles through basement like tectonic shift. Been gay and Black since before Stonewall. White gay men act surprised when I mention racism in the community, like they can't hold both truths—that we're marginalized for sexuality while still carrying racial and gender privilege. Shit's exhausting.
Remy exhales smoke, half-French wisdom flowing thick. Mon Dieu, the number of times I've watched gay men talk over lesbians in our own spaces. We're all queer, yeah? But somehow the men's voices carry more weight, get more attention. Even in bars that supposed to be for all of us.
The conversation settles like sediment, uncomfortable truths accumulating at the bottom of the glass.
Miguel wipes bar with methodical precision. When I transitioned, the world started listening differently. Same brain, same ideas, but suddenly people interrupted me less. Meeting dynamics shifted. It's subtle as fuck, insidious as hell, and absolutely real.
Ezra's blue hair catches light as they lean forward. I'm non-binary, but I present pretty masculine most days. The difference in how people treat me versus when I present femme? It's night and fucking day. Store employees follow me around when I look femme. When I look masc, they assume I'm just browsing legitimately.
Erik's face shows something raw, vulnerable beneath factory floor toughness. I pass really well now. That's... it's complicated, right? I fought like hell to be recognized as a man, and now I'm recognized as a man with all the privilege that carries. I overhear the shit cis guys say about women when they think they're just talking to 'one of the boys.' It makes me sick, but calling it out means potentially outing myself, risking the safety I've built.
So you stay silent, Wendy says quietly, bourbon warm in my chest. You hear them reduce women to fuckability metrics, listen to them discuss wives like disappointing appliances, watch them take credit for women's ideas in meetings. And you say nothing because saying something means explaining why you give a shit, which means revealing what you are, which means losing the safety that passing provides.
Erik's eyes meet mine across the basement. Yeah. That's exactly it. And I feel like shit about it every single day.
Gus looks between us, confusion evident. But... I mean, trans guys are guys, right? That's what we're supposed to say? So why is having male privilege bad if it means people see you correctly?
It's not bad, I say, letting bourbon burn truth through throat. It's just reality. Erik being recognized as a man means experiencing privilege men have. That doesn't make his manhood less real—it makes privilege more visible. The point isn't feeling guilty. The point is recognizing the weight we carry, the space we take, the ways systems benefit us even when other systems fuck us over.
Queen's "Somebody to Love" bleeds through speakers, Mercury's voice soaring through questions about love and loneliness. My chest tightens—Gizmo and I used to sing this in the car, her voice hitting notes that made angels jealous, both of us belting lyrics during Saturday morning grocery runs when world felt simpler, when she still called me dad without that particular grief coloring the word.
I drain bourbon, push glass toward Miguel for refill without asking.
Brandon's watching me with writer's eyes that see too much. You had it once. Male privilege. Before transition.
Yeah. Word drops like stone into still water, ripples spreading outward. Moved through world differently when people read me as man. Didn't realize how differently until I transitioned and lost it. Now women won't make eye contact in parking lots. Men talk over me in meetings like I'm not there. My technical expertise gets questioned constantly—same knowledge I had before, but now it requires twice the proof and half the assumptions of competence.
Marcus stops spinning his wedding ring. That's what Sara doesn't understand. She thinks male privilege means life is easy. It's not easy—it's just different. She gets followed in stores, harassed on streets, dismissed in professional settings. I don't. That doesn't mean my life doesn't have challenges. It means my challenges don't include that particular bullshit.
The hardest part, Erik says slowly, is that I wanted this. I fought for people to see me as a man. Now they do, and with that comes automatically being taken more seriously, being assumed capable, being given benefit of doubt that women—including trans women—don't get. It feels like... I don't know. Like the validation I needed came with a price tag I didn't fully understand.
Remy's cigarette burns between fingers, smoke curling upward. My mama, she raised me to respect women. But even she treated her sons different than her daughters. My sisters did the dishes while us boys played. Small shit, but it adds up. We learn early that being male means certain freedoms, certain expectations lowered, certain behaviors excused.
Bubba nods slowly. White gay men especially need to hear this. Y'all experience homophobia, sure. But you still got white privilege, still got male privilege. Black gay men, we're fighting on three fronts—racism, homophobia, and watching white gays act like we're invisible unless you need us to make your Pride parade look diverse.
The basement feels smaller suddenly, air thick with uncomfortable truths refusing to dissipate.
Gus's voice comes quiet, almost ashamed. So what do we do? Like, I didn't ask to be male. I just... exist this way.
You pay attention, I tell him, Miguel's bourbon flowing through veins like liquid awareness. You notice when you're taking up space. You notice when your voice is the loudest. You notice when women in the room have spoken less than men, when trans women get talked over, when your ideas get credited while women's identical ideas got dismissed ten minutes earlier. You notice, and then you fucking do something about it.
Like what? His young face shows genuine confusion, small-town upbringing never modeling this awareness.
Step back, Ezra says, piercings catching light like armor pieces. Literally. You're in a conversation and you realize you've been talking a lot? Stop. Ask what others think. You notice someone got interrupted? Circle back to them. 'Hey, you were saying something before—what was it?' It's not complicated. It's just paying attention to patterns we've been socialized not to notice.
Brandon scribbles notes—professional habit even during personal conversations. The writing community's especially bad about this. Male writers, even gay ones, get taken more seriously than women writers. Their books get reviewed more, promoted harder, assumed to be 'literary' while women's identical work gets dismissed as 'domestic' or 'emotional.' I benefit from that. I've gotten opportunities women writers deserved more.
So what do you do with that knowledge? Miguel asks, pouring himself water, staying sober to tend bar.
Use it, Brandon says simply. I recommend women writers. I defer to them in panels. I shut the fuck up and listen when they talk about their experiences. I don't center myself in conversations about misogyny. And I acknowledge that my success partly comes from systems that prefer male voices, even when those voices are saying the same things women have been saying for decades.
The Who gives way to Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb," Gilmour's guitar crying through speakers about disconnection and anesthesia. Another song Gizmo and I shared, her teenage voice wrapping around Waters' lyrics about childhood memories and adult pain, neither of us knowing how prophetic it would become—her trying to numb herself to having trans parent, me trying to numb myself to losing her.
Della emerges from kitchen carrying plates of blackened chicken over rice, setting them on bar with aggressive care. You boys done navel-gazing about your privilege? Because I've been listening to this shit while cooking, and here's the truth none of you want to hear: male privilege doesn't disappear just because you recognize it. Erik, you're still gonna get assumed competent at that factory. Marcus, you're still gonna get taken seriously in meetings. Brandon, publishers are still gonna give you advances they'd never offer women. Recognition without action is just performance.
Her words land like hammer blows, precise and devastating.
She's right, Keira says from corner, first words she's spoken all night. You can sit here all evening discussing how privilege works, deconstructing systems, acknowledging benefits. But tomorrow, you'll still move through the world with male bodies, and the world will treat you accordingly. The question is: what do you do with that recognition?
Silence settles heavy, broken only by Della's kitchen sounds and Floyd's guitar weeping through speakers.
Chris isn't here tonight—his Christian certainty would've derailed this conversation into debates about God's design and biblical manhood. His absence feels pointed, reminder that some men never want to examine the systems benefiting them, prefer divine justification over uncomfortable self-reflection.
Miguel refills my glass without asking, bourbon glowing amber under basement lights. The hardest conversations are the ones we need most. This shit's uncomfortable because it requires looking at ways we benefit from others' oppression. Even when we're oppressed ourselves.
Intersectionality, Marcus says, word sounding like prayer or curse. I'm a bi man, so I experience homophobia and bi erasure. But I'm also a white man in professional setting, so I experience racial and gender privilege. Both things are true simultaneously. Pretending otherwise helps nobody.
Gus peels the last of his label, beer bottle naked and vulnerable in his hands. Back home, they called me faggot. Beat me up for being gay. Told me I'd burn in hell. Coming here, finding community, it saved my life. But that doesn't mean I don't have privilege in other areas. Being white means cops don't assume I'm dangerous. Being male means my anger gets taken seriously instead of dismissed as hysteria. Being young means people assume I'm adaptable, not stuck in my ways. I can be both—victim and beneficiary.
That's the nuance, I say, bourbon warming through chest. We exist at intersections. Some identities marginalize us, others privilege us. The work is acknowledging both honestly, using privilege to amplify voices that get silenced, stepping back so others can step forward.
Brandon closes notebook decisively. Tomorrow, I have a panel about queer literature. Two women authors, two male authors including me. I'm going to actively watch how much time each of us takes, how often women get interrupted, whose ideas get attributed to whom. And I'm going to adjust my behavior accordingly—not performatively, but structurally. Create space by taking less.
Erik nods slowly. I can call out toxic shit at the factory without outing myself. When guys start objectifying women, I can say 'hey, that's fucked up' without explaining why I find it fucked up. Being seen as 'one of the guys' gives me access to spaces where I can push back.
Just don't expect cookies for basic decency, Della calls from kitchen. Y'all want praise for not being actively terrible? Fuck that noise.
Remy laughs, smoke curling around his face. She's got a point, cher. We don't get credit for recognizing privilege—that's baseline. The work comes after recognition, in daily choices about how we move through the world.
Bubba's deep voice carries weight of decades. In the seventies and eighties, being Black and gay meant the civil rights movement often rejected you, the gay rights movement often ignored you. Had to fight for recognition in both communities while neither community fought for you fully. That taught me early that liberation can't be conditional, can't be 'we'll fight for you once we've won our own battles.' Either we're fighting for everybody's freedom, or we're just fighting for our own comfort.
The truth of that settles through basement like sediment in wine—takes time to clarify, but eventually the real substance becomes visible.
Genesis's "That's All" bleeds through speakers, Collins' voice cutting through with resignation and acceptance both. Music as emotional processing, rhythm as heartbeat, basement as sanctuary where difficult conversations happen because nowhere else allows space for them.
Miguel leans against the bar, arms crossed. When I transitioned, I gained male privilege gradually. Strangers started deferring to me. My opinions carried more weight in group discussions. Women started seeming nervous around me in ways they never had before. It hurt—realizing that my gender recognition came with women's discomfort, that being seen correctly meant being seen as potential threat. But denying it helps nobody.
How do you live with that? Gus asks, genuine confusion evident. Like, you fought to be seen as a man, and now being seen as a man means... what? Feeling guilty all the time?
Not guilt, Miguel says carefully. Responsibility. I have privilege now that I didn't before transition. That privilege comes with responsibility to use it well—to amplify women's voices, to step back when appropriate, to recognize that my male experience differs from cis men's but shares certain systematic benefits. Guilt is useless. Action matters.
My glass is empty again, bourbon warmth spreading through chest and limbs. The conversation circles and spirals, difficult truths examined from angles that reveal new facets, new complications.
I lost it, I say finally, words breaking through bourbon haze. Male privilege. Had it for forty-six years without recognizing it fully. Transitioned, and suddenly the world treated me differently. Men don't listen anymore—not really. They perform listening while waiting to speak. Women are wary until they recognize shared oppression. Technical expertise requires constant proof. Anger gets dismissed as hysteria. Walking alone at night feels different now, dangerous in ways it never felt before.
Erik's eyes hold understanding. And I gained it. What you lost, I found. Not the same exactly, but similar enough. The world takes me seriously now in ways it didn't before. My anger is justified, my technical knowledge assumed, my presence in male spaces expected rather than questioned.
The bitter fucking irony, I continue, letting bourbon loose the words I've been holding. I spent forty-six years performing masculinity I didn't feel, existing in male body that never fit, and the world rewarded that performance with privilege I didn't want. Transitioned to authentic self, and lost access to systems I'd navigated unconsciously for decades. The woman I always was gets treated worse than the man I never was. That's the trade—authenticity for systematic disadvantage.
The silence stretches, broken by Della's kitchen sounds and music bleeding through speakers.
Would you go back? Gus asks quietly. If you could have the privilege again, would you?
Fuck no. Words come without hesitation. Living inauthentically was slowly killing me. The privilege wasn't worth the price—existing as something I wasn't, dying incrementally from the suffocation of performance. I'd rather live authentically with systematic disadvantage than exist comfortably in lie. But that doesn't mean the disadvantage isn't real, isn't worthy of examination, isn't something men need to recognize and address.
Keira's voice carries from corner, clear and certain. The point isn't guilt or performance. The point is recognizing that privilege exists, understanding how it operates, and actively working to dismantle systems that grant it. Men in this room experience marginalization for sexuality, for gender identity, for race. But you also carry privileges that women—including trans women—don't. Both truths exist simultaneously.
Brandon raises his gin and tonic slightly. To uncomfortable conversations that actually matter.
To recognizing our shit, Remy adds, cigarette smoke curling upward.
To doing the fucking work, Della calls from kitchen.
No toast, just acknowledgment. The conversation doesn't resolve neatly—difficult truths resist easy conclusions. But something shifts in the basement air, understanding settling through bourbon haze and cigarette smoke, recognition that sanctuary includes holding each other accountable, that chosen family means examining ways we've internalized systems we're fighting against.
The male patrons sit with discomfort, letting it exist rather than rushing to absolve it. That's the work—staying present with uncomfortable truths, recognizing privilege without centering themselves as victims of their own awareness, understanding that liberation requires dismantling systems even when those systems benefit you.
Miguel collects empty glasses, efficient grace of someone who's witnessed thousands of difficult conversations across scarred wood. Keira returns to her book, presence steady like lighthouse in fog. Della's kitchen sounds provide percussion for transformation—clatter of pans, sizzle of food, aggressive care manifesting as sustenance.
I drain the last of bourbon, amber liquid burning clean through throat. The weight we carry, the space we take—both realities demanding attention, both truths refusing comfortable resolution. Male privilege exists even in queer spaces, even among marginalized men, even when we'd prefer to believe our oppression negates our participation in others' marginalization.
Tomorrow, Erik will return to factory floor, navigating toxic masculinity while carrying knowledge of his complicity and choice. Brandon will moderate his panel, actively creating space for women's voices. Marcus will notice in meetings when he's centered himself in conversations that should amplify others. Gus will start paying attention to patterns he's been socialized to ignore.
Tonight, they sat with discomfort. That's the beginning.
My ribs ache where John's fists found purchase, phantom pain flaring as I stand. Titanium holding bones together, scar tissue mapping violence, body remembering what mind tries to forget. The male privilege I once carried couldn't protect me from my brother's violence—proof that privilege doesn't prevent all suffering, just particular kinds. But it does exist, does shape experiences, does demand recognition even when—especially when—that recognition is uncomfortable.
The basement holds our truths like sanctuary holds survivors—imperfectly, with love, refusing to offer comfort that comes from avoiding difficult conversations.
"The master's tools will never dismantle the master's house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change." — Audre Lorde
Lorde's words cut through bourbon fog with particular clarity. The male patrons tonight recognized their privilege—that recognition is necessary but insufficient. Using male privilege to amplify marginalized voices is still using master's tools. The real work involves dismantling systems granting that privilege, recognizing that temporary strategic advantage doesn't constitute liberation, understanding that genuine change requires destroying the house entirely rather than just getting better rooms within it. These men can use privilege consciously while working toward world where that privilege doesn't exist, where gender doesn't determine whose voice carries weight, whose expertise is assumed, whose anger is justified. Until then, they must hold both truths—beneficiary and opponent, privileged and marginalized, using master's tools while dreaming of world that needs no tools for domination because domination itself has ended. The tension between those positions is where the work lives, where transformation becomes possible, where chosen family holds each other accountable not despite love but because of it.
Next time at the Sanctuary -
Wendy, Miranda, and Mary discuss parenting while queer, how motherhood is weaponized against them, fighting for legitimacy as parents while world questions their fitness, protecting children from bigotry while teaching them to be brave.