Eric was coming home in a few days and the tuberose flowers' calming scent was already filling the house. I had put these flowers in practically every room, hoping to make Eric's transition from sex clinic to our bedroom as easy as possible, but the flowers had opened earlier than expected and now their hypnotic perfume added to my anxiety as to whether Eric and I would be able to handle his approaching arrival.

I knew the clinic had specific rules for him as he returned to the real world and his life partner: no masturbation, no fantasies, and sex ONLY with his committed partner. And even then ONLY when it came from love, not release.

The psycho babble was intimidating. I know the difference between sex and making love, but the difference between love and a release? Often times, I think sex for men is about releasing not only our compassion (and passion) for one another, but a basic need to just...for lack of a better word...get off.

My mind continued to meander through the ethics of love and sex when the doorbell rang. Looking through the peep hole, I saw Greg staring blankly at the ground beneath his feet.

I opened the door and we embraced. Holding him, I could feel the tension in his body.

He looked terrified.

I motioned him inside and he wandered into the house like a runaway teenager -- face regretful and rounded shoulders that exuded a terrible understanding of pain.

He looked through the house, until finally he asked, "Is Eric home?" I pondered telling him the truth and then I realized that yes, more and more friends would either discover or want to know what happened to Eric and why. I knew I couldn't lie because that would only validate the shame and fear. Besides, we had nothing to hide.

"Eric is down in San Diego...at a treatment center for sex addiction," I calmly stated. "He comes home in a couple of days."

Greg looked at me, silent, until-- finally, "How's he doing?" And I could see Greg's mind racing, realizing he's not the only one with issues-- that there ARE people in as much pain as he is.

"The treatment is working." As soon as the words left my lips, I realized I had said the wrong thing for someone like Greg to hear.

"A successful treatment?" His eyes lit up.

"Not..." I paused, "Not based in religion, Greg."

He understood what I meant. "Drew, I don't know what the hell I'm doing." he whined. "Do you think your life is wrong?

"God made me this way. How could that be wrong?"

He thought a moment, going over the idea in his mind that perhaps I could be right.

"I don't know anything anymore." he responded. He looked at me, his eyes welling with tears. "Do you think...I'm straight?"

I wanted to scream YOU'RE NOT EVER GOING TO BE STRAIGHT! And then I thought of my boss JD and how my assumption that he-- a straight man-- was gay had cost us our friendship. And while I believed that Greg was gay, that was only my belief.

"That's an answer only you know, Greg."

"I don't want to...touch her. I love her, I do, but when I feel Donna...I feel so little.

It reminded me of an old boyfriend where I equated our relationship together as putting a square peg into a round hole. It would fit-- but only by force. Living life isn't about slamming edges together to make them seamless.

I suggested therapy to Greg. It had helped Eric, perhaps it would help this confused friend of mine understand his full potential. That being gay was perhaps a part of him, but it didn't need to be ALL of him. He was Greg, not Gay Greg, a complex human being full of emotions, sexuality, and a life force that he could embrace-- and not run away from.