Harry woke up still hung over. His ass throbbed, telling him what he’d been up to before he even remembered the night before.

The rustle of fabric drew his eye to the man in his bedroom. He couldn’t make out the detail of his face, not because it was dark but because it was too bright. He squinted, shading his eyes with a hand.

He was surprised his date from the night before was still there in the light of day. That had to be a good sign, right?

“Hey,” he croaked, his voice a wreck. Then he remembered the guy’s cock, which apparently had been auditioning for the part of battering ram the night before. They’d fallen into bed after a mediocre date and too many drinks, Harry’s last-ditch effort to find a love connection with the personal trainer who enjoyed talking about his muscles as if they were the national pastime.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “You taking off?”

“Yup.”

The sound of a zipper seemed loud in the silence between them. Harry tried to think of something to say. He liked sex as much as the next guy, but not even he could say their night had been great. It had been rushed and unsatisfying on his end.

“Want to exchange numbers? We could go out again tonight,” Harry suggested.

They’d both been drunk. Maybe the sex could be better if they made more of an effort. And it would be nice to have a date for Valentine’s Day, even if Reed was a smidge self-centered. Harry always seemed to be single on the holiday, and it was getting to be depressing.

Reed looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “No, thanks.”

“No?”

Reed smirked. “No offense. You’re not a bad cocksucker, though you might want to work on your gag reflex. I haven’t had that much resistance since high school.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. His gag reflex was fine when some asshole wasn’t trying to force him to deep throat 8 inches without warning.

Reed walked out while Harry was struck speechless, which was fine. He’d been overly generous in trying to give Reed another chance. The man was not worth his time, obviously, but he was so tired of this same old routine.

Meet guy, screw guy, forget guy. Rinse, repeat.

At this rate, he might as well follow in most of his friends’ footsteps. Go to a club, find someone hot to grind on and have a quickie. At least he could skip the boring small talk.

Didn’t anyone want an actual relationship? What was so wrong with sleeping with the same person twice?

His phone started playing “Let me Love You,” a ringtone that never failed to annoy his friends. He liked to imagine a boyfriend would be on the other end of the line someday.

That day was not today.

Harry saw the name on the display and accepted the call. Darla was his cousin, but she was kind of his personal BFF too.

“Hey, girl. Calling early.”

“It’s noon.”

“Oh. I had a late night.”

“That’s right, you had a hot date. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Harry flopped back against his pillows with a huff. As if a guy would stay that long.

“Not unless you count wallowing.”

“Uh-oh. Why are we wallowing?”

Harry didn’t exactly want to share the details, but he did need to vent. “It’s like there are no nice guys anymore. Every guy I meet wants to get in my pants and then they’re done with me. It’s depressing.”

“That’s an image I could have lived without,” she said, “but if you’re wanting a change of pace, this could be good timing. I actually called to see if you had plans tonight.”

“It’s Valentine’s.”

“Sure is ...”

She waited him out until he sighed.

He knew a group of his friends would be hitting the clubs as usual. Valentine’s was just one more day they could get laid. He could go with them, skip the effort of dating and cut to the chase. None of his dates ever worked out to be much more than hook-ups anyway. But as he shifted in the bed, his body ached. Harry wasn’t in any condition for another random fuck, and he knew it.

“No plans,” he admitted, “except my pity party.”

“How about you come to a party with me instead? It’s not your usual crowd, but it’s an anti-Valentine’s Day party, so there won’t be a bunch of happy couples throwing love in our faces. It’ll be better than sitting at home, right?”

“What the hell is an anti-Valentine’s Day party?”

“Uh, well the guy throwing the party, Bret, is going to burn some of his ex-boyfriend’s stuff or something,” she said with a laugh. “Only single people were invited. It’s kind of the anti-romance place to be.”

“Sounds interesting.” And weird.

“So you’ll go? There’s going to be at least one gay guy there, and he’s cute.”

And there’s the carrot on the stick, but am I hungry enough to lunge for it? Probably.

“This isn’t you trying to set me up, is it? Because last time—”

“It’s not a set-up,” she interrupted, “and you need to forgive and forget about that last time. Everyone at work thought Kyle was gay!”

“Yet, I’m the one who had to break the news that your cousin he’d agreed to date wasn’t Mary, but Harry. It’s like my life is a sitcom.”

There was a muffled snort, and he knew she was laughing behind her hand. His life was a never-ending source of entertainment to Darla. It was less fun living it than watching it, apparently. Still, she’d always been supportive of his sexuality. Had been there, in fact, when he came out to his parents.

It had been a tension-filled night, but his parents had taken the news better than he expected, and he suspected that was in part because of Darla’s encouragement. He’d always be grateful for that, even if her teasing got annoying. Besides, he got his revenge whenever the opportunity presented itself, so they were pretty even.

“So? What’s it going to be?” she asked. “Anti-Valentine’s party with cute guy or sulking at home?”

“Well, when you put that way ... what time should I be there?”

Bret made a final pass of his apartment, checking that everything was in order for his party before guests began to arrive. He’d cleaned his little one-bedroom cottage to within an inch of its life in the past week. The wood floors glowed with a fresh coat of wax; his kitchen gleamed in all its disinfected glory; and you could safely eat off his toilet seat, not that he’d advise it.

He was more concerned now with the party essentials.

Heart Breaker alcoholic beverages? Check.

Heart-shaped cake with a crater-sized crack down the middle? Check.

Box of ex-boyfriend mementos ready for burning? Check.

All the other party crap, like snack food and soda and beer? Yeah, whatever.

Bret might hate Valentine’s Day, but no one could accuse him of poor party planning. He was ready to indoctrinate his single friends into joining his pledge to give a big fuck-you to romance on V-Day. Why should they feel bad they weren’t getting roses or dating some loser? Valentine’s Day was totally commercialized, practically a conspiracy to make money for flower shops and supermarkets selling greeting cards and chocolates.

By the time he heard a knock at the door, a small fire was already smoking in the fire pit in his backyard. Bret was more excited for that phase of the party than any other.

He couldn’t wait to watch Jake’s T-shirt go up in flames. He’d had that stupid thing in a box since Jake dumped him two years ago. Not to mention the stupid ties his more recent ex, Noah, bought him for his birthday. He didn’t even wear ties, but then Noah had probably had his head in the gutter when he bought them. A total waste of time when it came to Bret, which he soon learned judging by his “cold fucking fish” comments during his break-up monologue.

Jesus, but that guy liked to hear himself talk. Bret was better off without him. Without all of them. Hence, the anti-Valentine’s Day party.