I like to have sex in the light-- to see Eric's glimmering skin, his contoured and muscled body, his black hair curled across the white cotton sheets as our mouths connect, eyes open. Sharing the love, the passion of two men committed in a life together.

But lately Eric's eyes are closed, the lights are off, and we seem to only make love in the middle of the night when both of us are half-asleep, our defenses down, and the touch is shrouded in the safety of semi-consciousness. Not that it's bad, but there is an element of something I've never felt before-- fear. I understand he's struggling with his sexual dysfunction and addiction as he attempts to balance the need for love with the desire for sex.

Eric needs comfort, to discover the new boundaries of not only our relationship but our bedroom walls. And what better way to return him to our romantic possibilities than through a four course dinner.

We began with garlic steamed artichokes, followed by fresh baked sourdough bread with escargot in a rosemary butter sauce, followed by the main course of roasted ducklings in candied ginger with country rice and vegetables, and I ended with one of Eric's favorites: white chocolate mousse with raspberries.

As I cuddled next to him in front of the fireplace with some peppermint tea, I could tell he was either ignoring me or was completely mesmerized by the dancing embers of the continuing flames.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"Great," he mumbled, rubbing my hand too quickly. His touch was quick, as if petting an animal, his gaze returning to the fire.

I leaned forward and kissed his neck. He smiled, kissed me on the lips, and then returned to the fireplace, prodding the logs with an iron poker.

"Are you sure?" I pondered.

Uncomfortable silence filled the living room as the fire continued to crackle. I rubbed his neck and he pulled away, just staring forward.

"I'm here for you." I stated.

"I know, Drew. Believe me, I know."

I could hear the disdain in his voice, his coldness covering me in a blanket of frost as the shimmering fire continued.

"Was it dinner?" I asked.

He nodded no, his eyes welling with tears. I reached for him again, my hand moving to the slope of his neck but he pulled away.

"Don't," he confessed, begrudgingly. "It's not going to be the same Drew. No more big dinners, no more of this." He motioned to the fireplace, and then to the rest of the room.

"What do you want Eric?"

He remained quiet, wiping his eyes, and in his face I could see the confusion and torment. "You..." he muttered, "You expect it to be the same."

"No, I don't."

"The dinners, the flowers, the touching. It's different Andrew, and we have to accept that."

"What do you want? Tell me and I'll do it."

"What about you, Drew? What about asking me to make YOU happy?"

I realized he was right. I had returned to the things we knew, to traditions that now could serve no purpose of healing. They were only memories to us and had no future of any consequence.

"I don't know what to do." I confessed.

"I don't either, baby." Eric whispered, wiping the tears from my eyes.

And in that moment, he looked at me. He wasn't scared, his eyes weren't darting away, searching for the darkness-- he was with me. He was present.

But did that mean we'd be able to stay together? That we'd be able to learn how to walk again with each other and not be afraid? I didn't know.

Suddenly, I was terrified by the thought perhaps we'd be better friends than lovers. That the ship was indeed sinking, and it would be better to get off before it went down completely.