For a man to cry is difficult. For a man to cry in front of another man is nearly impossible. And yet, that's exactly what I did.

I don't know if it was the idea of having to stay in this slimy motel for my own safety or the idea that Ned held me in his arms so tenderly, but whatever it was-- I let go. I balled, sitting on the sagging bed as he held me beside him, his arm gently wrapped across my shoulder.

I had hit rock bottom and we both knew it. And in that darkness came something satisfying. As much emotional pain as I was in, in a strange way, I was glad it hurt so deeply. Because I knew I could go no lower.

Ned continued to hold me, his hand gently caressing my hair as I buried my face in my hands-- tears streaming into my hands and down my wrists. My body shook, the emotions letting go of so much.

The cops.
Fran.
Mocha Daze.
Hugo.
Lee.
Never dancing again.
Choreography.
Love.
Pain.
Ned.
Ned. This man continued to stroke my hair, moving his hands to my neck and gently massaging my twisted shoulders. I cried harder, the release continuing in the smarmy hotel room. Two men, allowing each other to see the weakness and fear. The intimacy was overwhelming.

I took his hand and squeezed it-- feeling my strength and resolve coming back. I was down, but I wasn't out.

He moved closer behind me and gave me a gentle embrace.

"It's okay," he said softly, letting go of me. But I didn't want him to move away. I didn't want us to stop, to let it pass and pretend it was only a moment of emotional weakness. It wasn't weak. It was how I felt. And I refused to trivialize it.

I took his hand and looked at him squarely in the eyes. He paused and I saw his hesitation. Wanting to be near me but wanting to give me my space-- to respect me.

But I wanted him close.

I moved forward and our lips touched.

Suddenly the power of being alive, of being there with him and not letting the shit destroy me-- fueled my passion even more. Our gentle kisses became harder, the stubble on our cheeks rubbing against each other.

Friction.

We moved our hands across each other, slowly, as we fell back into the bed.

I was alive. I was present.