Finally, at last, Eric and I made love. It wasn't getting off, it wasn't a release-hell, it wasn't even sex. It was love-where a gentle kiss meant as much as a stroke, and our open eyes saw our naked and exposed bodies, from head to toe, with all our physical and emotional faults, in plain view of our wandering hands.

We aren't buff bronzed gay icons, we aren't drop dead gorgeous, and we aren't circuit pretty boys with a large wallet and an even larger chest. We are men, Eric and I, struggling to stay together-to keep our commitment to one another as best friends and not toss it away into the gay male relationship scrap heap that seems to be talked about in our community like an inevitability.

It all started when we received a birthday party invitation from a friend of ours and on the invitation, with a picture of a handsome shirtless man, it stated "Time to play." I looked at it and suddenly felt a wave of anger rising inside of me. Why was this man on the invitation? He's not our friend, he's not related to any of us in any way.

And yet, he is. He's a gay community dream man-- a perfect stud who represents what we all want to be, or want to sleep with. Who says the gay community is sex obsessed? We are! Which I don't have a problem with on one level, but how can we ever build a family of love and support when we continue to look for an emotional connection through sex with someone hotter, someone cuter, someone bigger, someone sexier?

"What do you think then?" asked Eric, going through the rest of the mail. "That it should be a picture of a married couple fixing pasta together?"

"Sure. Why the fuck not? How 'bout a married couple fixing pasta together in their underwear? Make it sexy, but show there are people like us."

"Like us?" asked Eric.

"We're not some International Male Catalogue boybots, but we still turn heads. Besides, we've got so much more than that anyway."

Eric was silent until finally he asked, "What do we have?"

I stared him down and raised my hands to the four walls around us. "This Eric! And this." I pointed to each of us.

He nodded no, muttering quietly "I'm ugly Drew," all his self-hate rising to the surface.

I stepped forward and embraced him, untucking the shirt from around his waist as I pulled it over his head. I then removed my shirt, our bare chests touching.

"What are you doing?" He asked, shocked.

"You're not ugly, Eric. You're beautiful. We both are. And what we've got-right here-in front of us, is so much more than their picture, their fantasy."

Our mouths connected, locking in a passionate kiss that radiated from the bottom of my soul, elevated by his strong hands cradling my face as we stared each other down.

"I love you." Eric whispered.

"And I love you."

It wasn't sexual, it was emotional-- as we slowly undressed each other in the middle of the living room-- in OUR living room, in OUR home, with each other.

Suddenly, nothing seemed to matter. All the bullshit of everything we had been through, all the decisions, all of the close calls, all of the pain-melted away in the constant reminder of why Eric and I have stayed together.

Love.

Perhaps a dirty word amongst gay men, but something none of us can live without.

Eric and I eventually moved to the couch, covered in sweat as we continued making love for several hours. Slowing down, speeding up, caressing, laughing, crying, massaging- until finally we stirred and moved to the kitchen like some naughty teenagers, eating ice cream and microwaving some popcorn.

As I looked through the rest of the mail, I found a letter from Steve. I opened it, discovering he wanted Eric and I to join him and other friends at Mocha Daze for what he promised would be a "special" evening. The invitation didn't have a buff man on it but it still made me uncomfortable. Something slightly threatening about it. What the hell did Steve want now?