A bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter seduced me into believing a shot might erase Garbi from my head. It didn't. I wanted to slip those silky shorts off his hips and gorge on him until my jaw ached and my head spun. His sensitivity to my grief had made him even more appealing.

I toyed with the spiky top of Denny's pineapple on the kitchen counter. Denny meant getting off, nothing more. I picked up the pineapple, inhaled its sweet fragrance, and leaned against the counter. I wanted Garbi.

Another shot did little to dull my desire. I searched for something to occupy my thoughts. An overflowing basket of clean laundry beckoned. Untangling a sock from a pair of briefs, I wondered what underwear Garbi wore. When only a couple items remained unfolded, inspiration struck. I yanked my favorite jeans from the basket and dashed upstairs.

Once in front of my computer, I did a quick search. Finding what I was looking for, I yelped with anticipation. A soccer tournament was being held at the nearby Patron's Field. The online announcement promised a "weekend of exciting fun," kicking off -- ha ha -- with a welcome party, hosted by Alden's Tavern. The party was tonight.

Garbi's team had to be there.

After turning off the computer, I stripped and ran a bath. I submerged myself and held my breath. When I came up for air, my head buzzed, and my lungs burned, but the ghost of Garbi lingered.

Maybe he isn't gay. He could be married ... uninterested ... unavailable. Every other "un" possible tried crushing my excitement.

"Fuck it." I got out of the tub.

By the time I got dressed and stepped outside, most of my anxiety had vanished.

The warm spring night inspired me to walk downtown to Alden's Tavern.

When I passed the only motel in town and caught sight of the familiar team bus, I went over. I crept around the vehicle and touched it.

Unable to resist the half-opened door, I slipped inside. Groans followed by movement and pleasured muttering spiked my horny curiosity. I maneuvered my way up the stairs and thanked the nearby streetlamps for hiding my half of the bus in shadow.

I saw two men. I recognized the one on top framed in the lamplight as the player reprimanded for pissing on the ground. His soccer shorts were by his ankles, and he thrust into someone on the seat. When a car passed and flashed its headlights, I panicked and scrambled off the bus. Not looking back, I hurried across the street to Alden's. A stiff drink was in order.

The atmosphere of the man-filled tavern was pungent with cologne, sweat, and booze. I wondered if more whiskey might intensify or diminish the buzz I was getting from the influx of male energy. The bar looked farther away due to the crowd, so I pit-stopped in the john. A sign saying "water closet" wasn't kidding. A urinal, a sink, and a stall with a saloon-style door were crammed into the tiny space. I bumped into Pietro, pissing at the urinal, his shorts below his bare ass. In the dingy light, I discerned his buttocks matched his legs -- thick, hairy, and muscled. He took up a good amount of space, and I had to slide behind him into the stall.

"Excuse me," I said.