When David and I touched down in Amsterdam, we were two things: jet-lagged and dangerously horny. And not like regular horny—like, post-finals, haven't had sex in months, possibly-feral horny. We were there for one reason: European girls. Accents. Fast hookups. Regretful mornings. The dream.
David was already swiping on Tinder before we even hit baggage claim.
“Dude,” I said, yawning. “At least wait ‘til customs stops staring at us like we’re drug mules.”
He grinned. “I’m preheating the oven, bro. By the time we check in, I wanna be balls-deep in someone named Saskia.”
Respect.
Our hotel was sleek as hell—black walls, sexy lighting, the kind of place that made you feel rich even though your debit card was one bad decision away from overdraft. The receptionist was insane. Like model-level hot. Like, if Instagram had a Dutch goddess filter, it would be her. Perfect bone structure, piercing eyes, business-casual blouse that screamed I’ll ruin your life and look good doing it.
Naturally, David turned into Mr. Flirt.
“So,” he said, leaning on the counter like he owned the place. “Is Amsterdam always this warm, or is it just you radiating heat?”
She looked up from her monitor, dead-eyed. “Wow. You’re the third guy to say that this week. Still terrible.”
I choked on my spit. She didn’t stop.
“You’ll be in room 207. Two single beds, I assume.”
David winked. “Unless you wanna join?”
“No, thank you,” she said without missing a beat. “I don’t date guys who look like they just discovered protein powder.”
I had to walk away. I was wheezing.
In the elevator, David rubbed his jaw. “She totally wanted me.”
“Bro. She wanted you to fall down a flight of stairs.”
“She smiled.”
“She sneered.”
“Same thing. It’s cultural.”
Our room was decent. Two beds, tiny balcony, bathroom with a glass shower that screamed Instagram thirst trap. David collapsed on one bed, spread eagle like he just finished a marathon.
“Alright,” he said. “Mission: Smash begins now. We shower, hit the clubs, find some foreign honeys, and pray we don’t catch anything that needs penicillin.”
I peeled off my shirt. “You shower first.”
“Nah, let’s go together. Like the old days.”
“Jesus. Okay.”
We’d been best friends since, like, fifth grade. Shared locker rooms. Skinny-dipped in lakes. There was zero shame left between us. Our friendship was basically built on fart jokes and balls-out wrestling matches. This was nothing.
Still, stripping off felt... I don’t know. Different. Like we weren’t two dumb kids anymore. I mean, I knew David was hot—like, girls threw themselves at him on the regular. But I’d never really noticed before how... jacked he’d gotten. His back had those muscle lines that looked drawn on. And his dick? Jesus. That thing had its own zip code.
Not that I was looking. Just... noting. Cataloging. In case he needed to know for, like, health insurance reasons or something.
He stepped into the shower, turned the water on full blast, and made a sound that was way too close to a porn-level moan.
“Goddamn,” he groaned. “This water’s giving me a nipple orgasm.”
I stepped in after him, immediately regretting everything. The steam hit like a horny cloud. Water ran down his shoulders, over his chest, across abs that looked like they’d been chiseled by horny Roman gods.
“Dude,” I said, trying not to look down, “maybe tone down the sex noises?”
“I’m just saying,” he said, slicking his hair back, “if this shower had a mouth, I’d propose.”
He handed me the soap and our hands brushed. Nothing big. Just skin on skin. But it was weird. Electric. Like static, except instead of shocking me, it sent this little jolt straight to my dick.
I laughed it off. Nervous. “You gonna start naming the shampoo bottles next?”
“I already did. That one’s Veronica. She’s been through a lot.”
I rubbed the soap on my chest, trying not to think about the fact that my best friend was now naked, wet, and standing close enough to feel his body heat. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and—fuck. His whole body was like a damn Marvel transformation scene. Water cascading down his thighs. His ass doing ungodly things. And his cock... okay, I looked. Briefly. For science.
“What?” he said, catching me. Shit.
“Nothing. Just... surprised you haven’t entered porn yet.”
He laughed, rinsing off. “They can’t afford me.”
We shifted at the same time and suddenly we were face to face, our chests almost touching. Just water between us. My brain went static. His eyes flicked to mine, just for a second.
“Yo,” I said quickly, heart pounding. “We done here? I’m starting to feel... emotional.”
He grinned. “Yeah. We’re squeaky clean. Inside and out.”
We toweled off in silence. I turned away fast, not wanting him to see the half-chub that had started uninvited. I was not turned on. Just... body confusion. It happens. Blood goes where it wants. My dick was a rebel. A traitor.
David walked around in his towel for way too long. He knew he looked good. Show-off. I threw on underwear, jeans, sprayed half a can of cologne, and tried to pull myself together.
He leaned into the mirror, fixing his hair. “You ready to ruin some lives tonight?”
I swallowed hard. “Hell yeah. Let’s go give someone an accent fetish.”
He grabbed his phone, grinning. “I matched with someone already. Name’s Fleur. She sent a peach emoji. That’s international for ass, right?”
“Either that or fruit salad. Just wear a condom either way.”
He threw his arm around my shoulder, like always. Warm. Familiar. But tonight, something about it felt... different. Not bad. Just charged.
We stepped out into the Amsterdam night, two overconfident American idiots on a mission to get laid.
And underneath all that swagger, I had this weird feeling in my chest. Or stomach. Or maybe lower. Like something had shifted. Like I was walking into something I didn’t quite understand yet.
Whatever it was, I wasn’t ready for it.
(to be continued...)
But I was definitely gonna find out.
