I recently said goodbye to my friends Sean and Ken, a gay couple who lived in my apartment building I became fast friends with.

Sean, a fair-haired, blue-eyed cutie with big ears and a naughty smile worked in my office and asked me to coffee one day last November.

And I did what I always do when I meet a man my age without a ring on his left ring finger and a quick wit.

I hit on him.

In the Starbucks.

A week later after I had ample time to regain my pride (in truth, there’s never enough time) he introduced me to Ken, his better half.

And while I was certain from the onset Sean and I were related in another life, I wasn’t as immediately sure that Ken and I would hit it off.

Ken was the opposite of Sean

Dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, and reserved.

For every demoralizing insult Sean could so effectively level me with, Ken was shy and introspective and cautious and sweet.

It wasn’t until I presented Ken with the most random of Xmas gifts, a screaming sling-shot monkey (I buy them in bulk), and he accepted it with a look that was equal parts humor and suspicion that I knew we’d mesh.

I was absolutely giddy I had two friends who lived in my building.

Even if they were “cat people.”

It was like the dorms all over again.

They borrowed my dinner plates.

And forks.

And knives.

And aluminum foil.

And paper towels.

And vacuum cleaner.

And I, being the financial fuck-up in the relationship, always knew they’d lend me enough to get by until my next paycheck.

We shared walks home from the office and more than our fair share of cheap wine.

We did happy hours.

They became regular fixtures at brunches I organized

And I got invited to their Sunday dinners.

My friends became theirs and theirs became mine, and after a while I realized, these were exactly the kind of men I had been looking for.

(With that one gigantic exception)

I knew I would never be able to convince these boys that tits were terrific.

Or that vaginal sex was where it was at.

But I quickly learned, it didn’t matter.

I got to hang out with two hot guys, reap all the male attention I so desperately require, but without any of the complications of having to please either of their penises.

And they had all the kitchen accoutrement they needed without ever having to brave the aisles of Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

A match made in heaven as far as I was concerned.

Sean was the one who I could always count on to put my ego into check.

And Ken was the one who I could always count on to prop it back into place when need be.

Their relationship like any had its dichotomies.

Sean is originally from Texas, intensely laid back, and has an answer for everything.

Ken is a New Englander, high-strung, and modest.

Sean is an attorney.

Ken is a nurse.

Sean is the one who spills food on his clothes.

Ken is the one who cleans the toothpaste out of the sink.

Sean is the one who told me I looked like Bea Arthur’s couch when I wore a less-than-flattering silk blouse to the office one day.

Ken is the one who tells me I’m cuter than the boys who make me cry and always compliments me on my hair.

Sean hates being touched.

Ken is always ready for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

And while no partnership is perfect, theirs is one I grew to admire greatly.

When they talked about moving out of our apartment building, I was ready to follow.

I thought they were going to leave Cleveland Park and move to the hipper U Street area.

You can imagine my surprise when Sean brought up a job opportunity in Beaumont, Texas.

Beaumont?

What the fuck is in Beaumont?

Not much.

Except a law firm specializing in hurricane insurance.

And an opportunity for Sean to use his degree and double his salary.

Both seemed less than thrilled to relocate to what can only be described as a backwater bumblefuck.

But eventually they decided to make the move.

Sean left first.

Ken stayed behind for a few weeks to pack and tie up loose ends.

Two Fridays ago I took the afternoon off of work to help them with the final push.

There aren’t many men I’d clean an algae-infested fish tank for.

Especially if coitus isn’t involved.

But for Ken and Sean, I obliged.

I said goodbye to my two friends in the late afternoon.

I spent much of that night drinking Grey Goose with my girlfriend Jen and thinking of the journey that lie ahead for them.

I got a plethora of road trip text messages.

A review of a Waffle House in Alabama.

A critique of the swamp-like temperatures in Mississippi.

And finally a last text to tell me they had arrived safely in the longhorn state.

It’s not until now I get a bit misty-eyed.

Thank goodness.

God knows Sean would have a field day with my tears.

Ken would be there with a wad of toilet paper and a reassuring glance.

It’s hard living in a city that fills its borders with transients.

I’ve said farewell to an inordinate amount of friends in the last three and a half years I’ve lived here.

And it never gets easier.

I try to convince myself that it’s simply one more tack on a map of places around the country I can fly to for long weekend visits.

But it still sucks.

Especially when the goodbyes come two for the price of one.

I’m convinced I learned considerably more from my third floor gay boyfriends in the last nine months than they learned from their hot mess of a heterosexual neighbor on the seventh floor.

Like just because you’re an urban gay man doesn’t mean you have good taste (someday I will write an ode to the purple abstract monstrosity which hung on their living room wall, but not now, the wounds are still too fresh)

That boys will be boys no matter what their sexual predisposition.

Gay men with cats vacuum a lot.

Gay men from Boston love the Red Sox as much as straight men from Boston.

I can spend a night getting drunk with two men and not end up in a compromising tri-lateral position. (Who knew?)

At one point or another, someone wears the pants in the relationship.

And the one who doesn’t gets a mustang convertible for agreeing to move to Beaumont.

More importantly, I learned a lot about what makes a relationship work.

Sacrifice.

Patience.

Humor.

Similar taste in Italian deli and video games.

Wearing the same size (fuck, for double the wardrobe even I may swing estrogen-east).

Passion.

Love.

And knowing each others’ preferred pizza toppings.

With all the obstacles this couple must face on a daily basis

In a world still enduringly devoid of tolerance and empathy

They somehow find a way past it.

Through it.

Around it.

And beyond it.

For every partnership that ends in turmoil and divorce.

Theirs endures.

I couldn’t survive three years with a ring on my finger.

Funny how they’ve made it ten without even being afforded the privilege.

The last day they were here, I watched as Ken grew anxious over the stresses of moving.

He said something under his breath and retreated to the kitchen.

I watched Sean follow him.

And in a fleeting moment that neither of them will ever remember but I am unlikely to forget, I watched as Sean put his hand on Ken’s shoulder and quietly reassured him.

Ken smiled at him.

Nodded his head.

And went back to cleaning the cat poop out of the litter box.

“When the rain is blowing on your face, and the whole world is on your case, I could offer you a warm embrace, to make you feel my love.” -Bob Dylan