... In all the wrong places.

Every year when those chalky heart candies pop up at cash registers, where most people see messages like I WUV U, I read, HEY! DON'T LET THIS VALENTINE'S DAY BE AS PATHETIC AS THE LAST. Now, I'm not a lovelorn soul bent on finding a man to meet, heat, and complete me. I'm no more obsessed with getting hitched than the next guy. Well, maybe slightly.

It's been six years since I've had a committed relationship, and my baby clock is ticking thunderously. It's just the right impetus to make resolutions like: I'm gamma put myself out them more. I'm gonna talk to Goatee Guy. I'm gonna give Smile Guy at the gym my phone number.

What better way to put myself out there than a circuit party? Actually, I can think of 14 better ways, but the ticket is free and my dear friend Adam really wants to go. If you've never been to a circuit party, just picture a thousand naked Ken dolls and a can of Crisco tossed into a cement mixer. I've heard of guys asking other guys to same-sex marry them at these things, so they're not entirely bereft of romance.

Fortified by flutes of champagne and several vodka-somethings, we make our way to the Mayan in downtown Los Angeles. According to Sprint PCS, midnight strikes right after coat check. A day closer to Valentine's and both still single.

On the dance floor the atmosphere is somewhere between Dawn of the Dead and Leni Riefenstahl but with really good music. Our shirts come off of their own accord, and there are probing hands everywhere. It's almost as much action as my swarthy skin gets at airport security.

After a few songs and a $6 Diet Coke, Adam goes to make a phone call (code for "cruising"), and I brave the sweaty masses on my own. I still haven't learned the L.A. rules of flirting, except that eye contact is generally replaced by ignoring. I haven't shaken my archaic Seattle tradition of locking eyes and exchanging smiles.

Finally I meet one gentleman--Clark or Mark or maybe Barney (I definitely hear an r sound). Eye contact, smile, and boom! we're dancing, then kissing, then ... who's that? A brawny man comes up behind him and gracefully pries him from me. Clark or Mark tells me this is his boyfriend, Bob or Rob. Bob or Rob gruffly shakes my hand and peels his partner off me again.

Mclark whines, "But he's cute!" Brob grunts emphatically, "Not gonna happen." Mclark stands up for me, which is flattering in a psychologically damaging sort of way. Then they begin to debate my physical pros and cons in their hypothetical threesome--two inches from my face. All as their bodies move to the beat.

"He's too young!" says Brob. (Is 32 the new twink? I think. Huzzah!)

"Well, I didn't like your friend!" says Mclark. (I bet there's a really good story behind that one.) "That was different."

"What's wrong with him? Do you think he's ugly?"

If I hear Brob's opinion, I'm bound to imagine it printed on chalk-candy hearts for years to come. I start to fade back into the crowd. Just in case he's still assessing the goods, I suck it in like never before and engage my abs as I disappear.

And that's when someone spits at me. Or is it bird poop? No, it's sticky fake snow splattaring onto the crowd. A disaster waiting to happen. Adam cell-phones me, ready to leave. A true friend, he read my mind. We've lasted a full 90 minutes.

We share a cab to our respective homes, debating which is more unhealthy: wanting someone who's exactly like you or wanting someone who's nothing like you. I'd like to say that Adam and I basked in each other's friendship and realized we'd never really be alone as long as we had each other, but that's just ignorant. Adam went home and hooked up with some hot Swede off the Internet. I got in bed and watched 6 1/2 minutes of a Matthew Rush video. At least I know Matthew will be right here in my DVD player come Valentine's Day.

Brocka wrote and directed Eating Out and Rick & Steve: The Happiest Gay Couple in All the World.