We all know how it happens. You're sitting around the campfire and notice Clem has something a'danglin' in his muttonchops. You slide over to get it, and just then you notice his blue-as-the-Montana-sky eyes, his rough, bee-stung lips, the way Wrangler jeans steadfastly refuse to flatter his manly form. "Whah," you say, "iz jez a bean, left over from -- from -- MWAH!" And before you can say, "Git along, little dogie," the two of you are on the ground naked, rolling past tumbleweeds.

This photo is heaven for us butch-loving gays. It's like Britney kissing Miley. It's better than any of that celeb porn we've seen recently, like "80 Wangs Up Paris" or "Kox, Kox & Kardashian: Two Lawyers and a Whore on the Loose."

Of course, these aren't real cowboys. On the right, that's the we-sure-thought-heterosexual Terry Richardson, photography's equivalent of American Apparel. On the left, that's fashion designer Tom Ford.

For some reason -- while discussing their collaboration on the upcoming French Vogue, I imagine -- they decided to kiss.

We look. And look. And eventually we say to ourselves, Terry, we forgive you for being a skeeze who's existence centers around photographing naked hipster chicks, and Tom, we forgive you for Chanel's plaid dickeys from Fall of 2003.

And we smile, content that such small parts of two nice-looking guys can awaken such large parts of us.