Tourists
I woke up to the feeling of a heavy arm draped over my waist and a morning wood situation that could have cut glass. My face was mashed against David’s chest, his t-shirt soft and warm from sleep, and for one blissful second I let myself pretend this was normal. Then my brain rebooted and screamed the highlight reel from last night: the wrestling, the tickling, the slow, stupidly romantic kiss, and the way we’d fallen asleep tangled together like a couple of honeymooners who’d lost a bet.
David stirred first. He made a low grunt, shifted his hips, and I felt his hard dick press against my thigh through his boxers. My own traitor boner twitched in response like it was saying hello to an old friend.
He cracked one eye open, looked down at me, and immediately grinned that cocky, half-asleep grin.
“Morning, cuddle bug.”
I wanted to die. Instead I shoved his chest weakly. “Get off me, you human space heater.”
He laughed but didn’t move right away. His arm stayed wrapped around me, thumb lazily stroking my lower back like it belonged there. “Relax, man. We just made out a little. Again. It’s not like we got married in Vegas.”
I sat up fast, which only made things worse because now I had a perfect view of him sprawled out, hair messy, boxers tented, looking way too good for someone who’d been drinking until 2 a.m. “You remember it clearly too, huh?”
“Hard to forget when your best friend kisses like he’s been practicing in secret.” He stretched, arms above his head, which made his shirt ride up and show a strip of tan stomach. “But seriously, this just proves how fucking horny this trip has made us. No girls for days. Blue balls level expert. Our dicks are basically filing for unemployment. Last night was just… maintenance.”
“Maintenance,” I repeated flatly. My heart did a pathetic little flip at how casually he said it, like we hadn’t spent the night breathing each other in. I was over here quietly realizing I was in love with him and he was treating it like we’d shared a pizza. Classic David. Master of emotional denial. I was basically a walking rom-com side character who fell for the straight best friend. Pathetic. Award-winning levels of self-sabotage.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, scratching his stomach. “Exactly. So I’ve been thinking. We need a new plan. A better plan. Screw chasing random girls who keep ghosting us with fake numbers. Tonight we go full efficiency mode.”
I raised an eyebrow, already suspicious. “Efficiency mode?”
“Red Light District, baby.” His eyes lit up like he’d just invented fire. “Professional hookers. No games, no small talk, no pretending we’re charming. We pay, we fuck, we reset. Boom. Back to being normal horny bros by morning. Sightseeing during the day, getting our dicks wet at night. It’s genius. We’re basically turning the vacation into a well-oiled machine.”
I stared at him. My stomach did an uneasy flip. The idea of watching David pay some woman to ride him while I did the same in the next room made me want to throw up and punch a wall at the same time. But saying no would make me look suspicious. Or worse, like I was catching feelings. Which I absolutely was. I was so deep in the feelings pool I was doing laps.
“Uh… you sure that’s the move?” I asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. My voice came out a little too high, like a thirteen-year-old asking if porn counted as sex ed.
“Dude, it’s perfect,” he insisted, pacing now in his boxers, dick swinging like it was agreeing with him. “We’ve been striking out with civilians. Time to bring in the pros. Efficient. No strings. We get laid, the weird tension disappears, and we can stop waking up spooning like an old married couple. Win-win.”
I swallowed hard. Every part of me wanted to say no, to tell him I’d rather spend the night watching him sleep than watch him fuck someone else. But instead I nodded like an idiot. “Yeah. Okay. Fine. Efficient. I like efficient.”
He clapped his hands once, pumped. “That’s my boy. Daytime bro activities to shake off the awkward, then Red Light reset tonight. We start with renting bikes and hitting the gym. Normal shit. Sweat it out. Be dudes.”
“Normal shit,” I echoed, forcing a laugh. “Great. Nothing says ‘I’m totally straight’ like riding bikes with your bro while trying not to stare at his ass.”
David didn’t catch the sarcasm. He was already grabbing clothes and heading toward the bathroom. “Exactly. Shower first. You smell like club regret and bad decisions.”
We ended up showering together again because apparently boundaries were for quitters. The glass stall felt even smaller than last time. Steam filled the air fast. David stood under the spray, water running down his chest and abs in rivulets, and I tried really hard not to look. Failed immediately.
He was wearing nothing but confidence and a half-chub that kept bobbing as he moved. I kept my eyes on the tile mostly, but every time I glanced over, my brain helpfully supplied commentary: Yep, still ridiculously hot. Still the guy you’re stupidly in love with. Still going to pay a stranger to touch him tonight while you pretend it’s fine. Congrats, Anthony. You’re winning at life.
We toweled off and got dressed. David pulled on a pair of loose gray shorts that did absolutely nothing to hide the outline of his dick. Every step made it flop noticeably, heavy and obvious against the thin fabric. On top he wore a fitted black t-shirt that clung to his chest and abs like it had been painted on. The sleeves hugged his biceps. The hem rode up when he reached for his shoes, flashing that tempting V of muscle disappearing into his waistband.
I couldn’t stop stealing glances. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. Here I was, mid-twenties, supposed to be chasing European tail, and instead I was mentally cataloging the way his shorts shifted when he walked, the way the fabric outlined the thick shape of his cock, the way his abs flexed under that tight shirt every time he moved. My own dick was half-interested again just from watching him exist. I adjusted myself discreetly and told my brain to shut the hell up.
“Ready to be normal bros?” David asked, grabbing the room key and flashing me that easy grin.
“Born ready,” I lied, following him out the door. My heart felt like it was doing an awkward interpretive dance in my chest. Part of me wanted to drag him back to bed and kiss him until he forgot about hookers and reset plans. The other part wanted to hide in the bathroom and scream into a towel.
Instead I just walked beside him down the hallway, shoulder occasionally brushing his, trying to ignore how good he looked and how badly I wanted this whole day to be about us instead of some desperate attempt to fuck the gay thoughts out of our systems.
We grabbed breakfast at the hotel café before heading out for the bikes. The place was packed with tourists, the air thick with coffee and fresh pastries. David loaded his plate like he was fueling up for war while I stuck to toast and some fruit, mostly so I had something to do with my hands that wasn’t fidgeting.
We claimed a small table by the window. Sunlight streamed in, way too bright for how my head felt. David sprawled in his chair across from me, legs stretched out under the table in those loose gray shorts. His fitted black t-shirt clung to his chest and abs, and I tried really hard to focus on buttering my toast. My eyes kept drifting anyway, landing on the small faded scar on his thigh where the shorts had ridden up. That old firework injury from when we were sixteen. It was nothing, just a quiet little mark, but it pulled at something stupid in my chest.
David caught me looking. He always did.
“You like what you’re seeing?” he asked, voice low and teasing. He smirked and casually rubbed the side of his foot against my ankle under the table, slow and playful.
Heat shot up my neck. I yanked my foot back and nearly knocked my coffee over. “I wasn’t looking. Jesus. I just saw the scar and remembered how dumb we were that night with the fireworks. That’s all.”
He laughed quietly, taking a big bite of his croissant. “We’re still dumb. Back then we were banging fireworks. Now we’re banging each other. Same energy, different explosions.”
It was a passing comment, tossed out like it was nothing. He didn’t linger on it. Instead he leaned back and changed the subject fast, wiping crumbs from his mouth. “Anyway, forget that. Today we do the tourist thing right. Rent bikes, ride around, see the canals and shit. Hit the gym later if we feel like it. Normal bro stuff. Sweat it out. Then tonight we go full reset mode in the Red Light District. Pros. No drama, no fake numbers, just get laid and fix whatever weirdness is still floating around. Efficiency, man. We’ll actually enjoy the rest of the trip after that.”
I nodded, forcing down a bite of toast even though my stomach felt tight. The casual way he said it, like last night’s kiss and cuddling was just another dumb explosion to laugh off, made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the scar. I was sitting here quietly falling apart over old memories while he planned hookers like it was the smartest idea ever. Pathetic. My love for him was turning every normal moment into emotional quicksand, and I was the idiot sinking in it with a smile.
“Yeah, sounds good,” I managed. “Bikes first. Canals. Normal shit.”
David grinned and reached across the table, slapping my shoulder lightly before letting his hand drop. “That’s my boy. We got this.”
We finished eating with easy talk about random tourist spots and how the Dutch bikes looked like they could survive an apocalypse. David kept it light, steering everything back toward girls and the big reset plan, cracking jokes about finally getting some “professional help” tonight so we could stop embarrassing ourselves in clubs.
When we stood up to leave, he stayed close, shoulder bumping mine as we weaved through the crowded café. Outside in the bright Amsterdam morning, he clapped a hand on my back again, guiding me toward the bike rental stand like it was the most natural thing. “Today’s gonna be solid, man. Real tourist vibes, then tonight we actually score. You’ll see.”
I smiled weakly and nodded. “Totally solid.”
Inside my head the comedy routine wouldn’t shut up. Look at me. Best friend in the world, old scar on his leg, and all I want is to kiss the stupid thing and tell him the only reset I need is one where he keeps rubbing his foot against mine instead of paying strangers. Hilarious. Side-splitting. And completely my current disaster of a life.
David kept the casual contact going as we walked, light slaps on the back, easy leans, all the normal bro stuff that suddenly felt heavier than it had any right to. I walked beside him, heart doing its awkward comedy routine, wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive bikes, gyms, and the Red Light District without blurting out how badly I just wanted him to stay close like this and forget the rest.
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