Christmas in July
Three weeks slip by before I realize it. The days blur together in their rhythm, flags at dawn, merit badges humming through the mornings, site inspections, the long afternoons of camp routine. Nights are quieter, though not always. After the Fourth, August and I settled into a rhythm of our own. Two, maybe three times a week, when the timing was safe, when Brady or Eddie weren’t hovering before bed, we’d end up back together under my sleeping bag. Careful now. No more close calls.
The first week closed with me standing at the bus turnaround, clipboard in hand, watching Troop 579 haul their gear into the underbelly of their coach. Among them was Asher, Cat’s Meow in its sack under his arm, boarding without a glance back. Just another scout with his gear going home, I told myself. Still, it reminded me of Evan loading his gear into my dad’s truck after our campouts at Fire Mountain.
The day before, on my way back to Banting, I found a pair of red lifeguard shorts hanging from a nail outside our door, dripping from the line where someone had left them to dry. Probably Eddie’s: bold white lettering across the leg, waistband stretched from hours on the water.
I hesitated, glancing up and down the row to make sure no one was around, then pulled them off the nail and carried them inside. For a while, they hung from the foot of my bed, bright against the dark wood, still damp, the athletic fabric cool against my fingers and smelling faintly of salt and sunscreen. August didn’t ask where they came from, and I didn’t offer. I convinced myself I was only keeping them safe until morning, so they wouldn’t disappear into the night.
By dawn, guilt got the better of me. I slipped them back onto the nail before anyone else stirred, as they’d never been touched.
The second and third weeks ran smoothly. No drama, no real problems. Just the steady pulse of camp life. And now here we are: July 25th, another ‘holiday’, though of a different sort. At Parsons, it’s tradition: Christmas in July.
I’m dragged out of sleep not by Brady this time, but by the sharp edge of raised voices right outside our door.
“…absolutely not appropriate in the staff quarters, Natalie!”
I sit up groggily, rubbing my eyes. August stirs across from me, mumbling into his pillow, but I’m already reaching for my uniform shirt. The voices carry again.
“I was just trying to make it festive!” Natalie’s tone is defensive, pitched high, the kind of whine she pulls out when she thinks she’s being unfairly scolded.
“Festive?” Darren’s voice is clipped, all authority. “You hung mistletoe in the hallway. Some of the staff here are minors; you can’t do that.”
That wakes me fully. I swing my legs over the side of the cot and open the door. The morning air hits cool and damp, cedar and salt from the canal riding in with it. Just outside, Darren is standing stiffly in front of Natalie, who’s got her arms folded across her chest, lips pursed in open rebellion. Above her, taped crookedly to the doorframe of the staff quarters, dangles a sprig of plastic mistletoe.
“It’s a joke, Darren, don’t be such a dad,” Natalie adds.
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. Christmas in July at Camp Parsons. Of course, Natalie would be the one to start it off with mistletoe.
Darren finally shakes his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose like Natalie’s already burned through his patience for the day. “Take it down. Now.”
He turns to leave but pauses at our door, leaning in just enough to catch August’s eye. “There’s a package for you in the office, August. Pick it up when you get a break.” Then he’s gone, boots thudding against the worn doorstep.
Natalie watches him go, then pivots, catching me in the doorway. I haven’t even fully changed, still standing there in the shiny blue Champion C9 basketball shorts I’d slept in, the ones that hang way past my knees, that both August and I have worn.
Her lips twitch as her eyes land on me. “Nice shorts, Ben.”
I glance down, heat crawling up my neck. She chuckles, plucks the mistletoe off the tape, and saunters away, twirling it between her fingers like she’s already plotting where to hang it next. I’m still standing in the doorway half-dressed, when a blur of motion barrels past.
“Benji!” Eddie’s voice cuts sharply through the morning quiet. He and Brady streak down the staff row in nothing but swimsuits, water shoes slapping on the floor. Eddie skids to a stop, pivots back, and grabs my arm before I can retreat inside.
“Come on, Polar Bear Swim! Christmas in July tradition!”
I glance down at myself: uniform shirt unbuttoned, freeballing in the blue Champion shorts, still hanging low on my hips. Half-staff, half-sleep. “I’ve got to change, I can’t…”
“You won’t be late for flags,” Eddie insists, already tugging me outside like I don’t get a vote. “The whole camp’s watching. It’s practically mandatory.”
Brady jogs backwards a few steps, grinning, his hair already wet from who knows what. “Don’t be a Grinch, Ben. You’re coming.”
I stumble after them, untied boots dragging the dirt, my shirt flapping open as we spill down the gravel path toward the waterfront. August’s voice calls faintly from behind me, something in Dutch, probably laughing at the sight of me being dragged half-dressed to the canal.
The air is sharp and damp, still carrying the chill of night. Ahead, staff are gathering on the pier, some already stripping down to boxers or trunks, others egging each other on. The water lies dark and glassy in the gray light, waiting.
Brady whoops, sprinting the last few yards, while Eddie yells back over his shoulder, “Merry Christmas in July!” before launching himself off the dock with a cannonball that explodes against the quiet water.
The pier is chaos, staff shouting, splashing, half the waterfront already a frothing mess of cannonballs and belly flops. I hang back at the edge, arms folded across my half-buttoned shirt, my Champion shorts clinging heavy in the damp air.
“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “Not happening. I’ve got inspections, I’ve got…”
“Benji!” Eddie’s voice booms from the water, dripping wet hair plastered to his forehead. He slaps the surface like he’s summoning me. “Don’t be lame. It’s tradition.”
“I’ll watch,” I call back.
That’s when I feel a sudden weight on one arm. August. He’s grinning, clad in only his orange Nike boxer briefs, freckles brighter in the morning light.
“It’s okay, isn’t it?” he says, too casually, as he clamps onto my elbow.
“No, no, no!” I writhe.
Then Steve appears on my other side, equally shirtless, already laughing. “New Commissioner thinks he’s too good for the Polar Bear Swim? We can fix that.”
“Wait…no…”
But it’s too late. Between the two of them, I’m lifted off my feet, kicking my boots off. The staff on the dock erupts into cheers, clapping and stomping, as August and Steve carry me right to the edge.
“On three,” Steve shouts.
“No, on two,” August corrects, already swinging.
I barely get out a strangled, “Don’t!” before they heave me sideways off the pier.
The water hits like a fist, ice-cold and shocking, swallowing the breath from my lungs. My shorts billow heavy around me as I thrash up, sputtering, gasping for air. The roar of laughter greets me from the dock, staff pounding fists on the railing, Eddie howling like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
I wipe my eyes, shoving my hair out of my face, teeth chattering as the cold cuts through me. August leans over the railing above, smirking down, his accent thick as he calls, “Prettige Kerstdagen! Benji!”
The dock erupts again, though I doubt anyone knows what he actually said. It doesn’t matter. It’s his victory cry, my humiliation, and, somehow, the joke’s ours alone.
I drag myself onto the rocky beach, shivering violently. Every gasp of air feels like ice in my lungs. My soaked Champion shorts cling to my legs, heavy and embarrassingly about to fall off. I can feel the eyes of the entire waterfront staff on me, their laughter still echoing over the water as I try to retie the drawstring to hold them up.
“Here,” a voice says, not unkindly. Eddie shoves a sopping-wet towel into my hands. It’s cold and gritty with sand, but it’s something. “Santa will be in the dining hall in 15 minutes. You’ll thaw out.”
I just nod, teeth chattering too hard to speak, and try to wring the freezing canal water out of my shirt. August appears beside me, barely winded, a wide, unrepentant grin still plastered on his face.
“You look like a wet rabbit,” he observes cheerfully.
I shoot him a look that I hope conveys the promise of future revenge, but it probably just makes me look like a miserable, shivering child. He just laughs, clapping me on my soaking back before heading up the shore.
The walk to the dining hall is a slow, squelching procession of damp staff. By the time we get there, the smell of pine needles and pancakes cuts through the morning air. And then I see it.
Tucked right inside the main entrance, almost reaching the roof, is a massive Christmas tree. It’s draped in strings of popcorn and cranberries, and dotted with clumsily made ornaments that look like they were crafted in a Tenderfoot handicrafts class. The whole place smells like a weird combination of a forest and a greasy griddle.
And standing next to it, in a full, cheap Santa suit complete with a fluffy white beard that can’t hide his familiar smirk, is Darren.
“Ho ho ho!” he booms, his voice echoing through the hall. He’s holding a large burlap sack. “Merry Christmas, Scouts! Line up for your gift from Santa!”
A line of wide-eyed, excited Tenderfoots and Second Class scouts is already snaking through the mess hall. As each one approaches, Darren reaches into the sack and pulls out a small, round patch.
“Here you go, son,” he says to a kid who can’t be more than eleven. “A little piece of Christmas in July.”
The scout takes it, his face a mask of reverence. I shuffle closer, curious. It’s a round patch. On it, there’s a cartoonish Santa Claus, sunglasses on, riding a waterski. Emblazoned around the edges are the words: CHRISTMAS IN JULY - CAMP PARSONS 2022.
I can’t contain it. A laugh barks out of me, sharp and unexpected. It’s the most ridiculous, wonderful, camp thing I’ve ever seen.
Darren’s eyes, Santa’s eyes, find me in the crowd. They crinkle at the corners above the beard. He holds up a patch and gives me a slow, deliberate wink.
“Commissioner Ben!” he calls out, his Santa voice dropping into its more familiar, commanding tone for just a second. “Get some dry clothes on before you catch your death. Then report back. Santa’s elves have a lot of work to do today.”
The line of scouts parts around me as I stand there, dripping onto the floor, a wet towel around my neck, staring at my Program Director dressed as Santa Claus. The surrealism of it all, the mistletoe, the polar bear swim, and now this, hits me all at once.
Christmas in July is officially underway.
I retreat to Banting, peeling off the soaked, freezing clothes. The air in the cabin feels warm and still after the chaos of the waterfront. I pull on dry socks, my staff polo, and a pair of uniform shorts, hanging my uniform shirt up near the window where the weak morning sun might hopefully dry it by lunch. The whole thing feels surreal.
The morning passes in a bizarrely normal way, considering the day. Flags go up without a hitch. The mess hall, now cleared of its Santa line, functions as it always does, just with a giant Christmas tree watching over the chaos of scouts shoveling down pancakes.
I do my rounds, clipboard in hand. The program areas are buzzing with the usual morning energy, but there’s a festive undercurrent. A few troops have made attempts at decoration on their site; one has a “snowman” built from stacked firewood with a traffic cone for a hat.
The only real outside reminder of the holiday is Ander. I spot him behind Steve’s house, conducting a site inspection with his usual stoic efficiency. But he’s doing it while wearing a violently red, green, and white knit sweater with a lopsided reindeer on the front. It’s so aggressively ugly it’s almost magnificent. He doesn’t acknowledge its absurdity, just points to a poorly staked tent with the same serious expression he always has, the reindeer’s nose seeming to judge the scout’s lashing skills.
It’s the most Ander thing I’ve ever seen.
I finish my loops and end up near the Trading Post, the late morning sun finally starting to burn through the marine layer. The door to the Administration office nearby swings open, and August emerges, holding a flat, cardboard box about the size of a large book. His package, Darren wanted him to pick up.
He doesn’t open it immediately. He just stands there for a moment, looking down at the return address, his thumb tracing the lines of postage stamps that are unmistakably Dutch. The easy grin from the pier is gone, replaced by a thoughtful, almost hesitant expression.
He hasn’t seen me yet. For a moment, he’s not the confident Dutch staffer or the guy who just threw me in a canal; he’s just a guy far from home, holding a piece of it in his hands.
He finally looks up, his eyes scanning the area, and they land on me. The distant look vanishes, replaced by a quick, slightly forced smile. He holds the box up.
“Post from my parents,” he says, his voice lighter than it was this morning. He walks over, tapping the side of the box. “Probably full of drops and speculaas. Enough to share, if you’re not on the naughty list.”
He’s offering me a piece of his home, deflecting with the promise of candy. I can tell he doesn’t really want to talk about whatever else might be in that box, the thing that made his face go quiet and still.
“What’s speculaas?” I ask, playing along.
“Spiced cookies. You’ll like them,” he says, tucking the box under his arm. “Better than your American Oreos.”
He’s back to teasing, the moment of vulnerability safely tucked away like the package under his arm. The rhythm of us reasserts itself.
“Just for that, I might not share my extra Christmas patch with you,” I shoot back.
August laughs, a real one this time. “Santa already gave me one,” he says, pulling the patch from his pocket and flashing the waterskiing Santa. “I think I won Christmas, yes?”
Before I can answer, the staff from the trading post exit their door and turn around their sign to say “Closed for Lunch”. August and I follow, but he stops at Banting to drop off his box, not having opened it.
Lunch passes in its usual blur: scouts crammed shoulder to shoulder, waiters hustling trays, Darren back to sweating in his Santa suit as if the beard is part of him now. The Christmas tree looms at the front of the hall, ornaments already sagging, while a half-dozen scouts hum “Jingle Bells” like it’s the only song they remember.
The afternoon settles into a strange balance of routine and holiday. Program areas keep running, canoes cutting through the canal, arrows thudding into hay bales, but here and there, staff lean into the theme. A troop at Handicraft strings pine cones into a “garland.” At Nature, someone sticks a Santa hat on the mounted deer head. Even Ander makes another round in his reindeer sweater, clipboard in hand, as if it’s the most natural uniform in the world.
By the time we need to get ready for dinner, the whole camp feels charged, scouts buzzing with anticipation like the day itself might hand out presents.
Back at Banting before dinner, the package waits on August’s bunk, the cardboard edges soft from travel. He tears it open with a pocketknife while I sit on my cot, towel-dried and uniform shirt still a little damp around the edges.
Inside is exactly what he promised, Dutch licorice, spiced cookies in red-and-gold wrappers, even a small tin of stroopwafels that smells like burnt sugar and butter the second he cracks the lid. I can’t help but watch, my stomach growling.
“This is amazing,” I say, grabbing one of the speculaas before he can protest. “Way better than white chocolate chip cookies in the mess hall.”
He laughs, pleased. “I told you.”
He digs further, shifting crumpled paper, then looks up at me with that sideways smirk he gets when he’s about to cross a line. “Oh, and there’s this.”
From the bottom, he pulls out a folded pair of nylon shorts, the fabric slick and royal blue, trimmed with black on the side. Stitched in white along the sides is a logo I don’t recognize at first: two silhouettes, back-to-back, sitting naked.
He holds them out like an offering. “These were mine. I wore them when I played footie as a teenager. I thought maybe you… would want them.”
My throat tightens. I reach out, the fabric whisper-soft and worn between my fingers, lighter than air. The shorts gleam in the dim light, bold in a way scout uniforms never do.
“I don’t even know the brand,” I admit quietly, though my face is burning. “But they’re… amazing.”
He shrugs, casual, but his eyes stay fixed on me. “They’re Kappa shorts, I thought you might like them as much as your Nikes, try them on sometime.”
I want to. Right now. The thought of sliding into them, of wearing something so personal that belongs to him, sends a thrill through me that’s hard to hide under my uniform shorts.
But the other staff outside singing ‘Silent Night’ on their way to the mess hall snaps me back. Christmas in July dinner waits.
I fold them carefully, too carefully, and set them on my pillow like they’re fragile. “After dinner,” I say, trying to sound offhand.
August just grins, already buttoning his uniform shirt.
The mess hall is still decked out like it’s December, though the air outside still clings humid with salt and cedar. Paper snowflakes dangle unevenly from strings, and one of the waiters has draped a red-and-green tablecloth like a cape while he ferries trays. Dinner is turkey, instant stuffing, and gravy ladled from industrial pitchers. Someone managed to wrangle cranberry sauce into the mix, the canned ridges still visible on the slices.
I slide in at our staff table. August sits across from me, already forking mashed potatoes like he’s fueling for a match. He doesn’t look out of place, not even with the fake holly taped lopsided over the window behind him. He just eats, steady and unbothered.
Across the room, Darren makes a toast about camp spirit, his Santa beard hanging limp against his chin now, and the scouts cheer loud enough to rattle the rafters. For a moment, it almost feels real, like we’re all buying into the illusion.
When dessert finally lands: pumpkin pie, heavy on nutmeg, I slip out. The noise is too much, and my skin still feels half-warm from August’s gift earlier, the nylon shorts folded safely on my pillow.
After dinner, the evening program runs its course, carols at the campfire, scouts hamming it up in skits about elves and reindeer, Steve leading the whole circle in “We wish you a Merry Christmas” like it’s Vespers. By the time we peel off back to staff row, the air is cool, stars cut sharp over the canal, and our pillows await our weary heads after a long day.
In our room, it’s just the two of us. August stretches out on his cot, still in his uniform shorts, the open box from his parents on the chair between us. The Kappa shorts sit folded on my pillow like they’ve been waiting for me all night.
A naughty idea comes to my mind. “Put them on,” I say.
August blinks. “What?”
“I want to see how they look on you. You said you wore them for footie. Humor me.”
He studies me for a second, then shrugs, standing. He peels off his uniform shorts with his underwear and steps into the nylon, tugging the waistband up with a quick snap. The fabric clings smoothly, the royal blue bright against his pale skin, the white logo catching the glow from our one light bulb
“Do I look like I still play footie?” he asks, spreading his arms like he’s on display.
I swallow hard. My face is hot, and my knees are hitting the floor before I think twice. My hands rest against his thighs, then slide up, pressing lightly against him through the thin nylon. He’s warm, nothing under them, and for a second, it feels like gravity’s pulling me all the way in.
“Ben,” he says, softer now, his hand finding the back of my neck. For a second, he doesn’t stop me. Then he does. His fingers tighten, holding me still. “Not right now, everyone’s still up.”
I freeze, breath caught, but he crouches down until we’re level. His eyes are steady, not angry, just firm. “You wear them tonight,” he says quietly. “I’ll take the Nikes. Fair trade, ok?”
I nod, too fast, pulling back. He strips them off, tosses them to me, and slips into my blue vintage Nike shorts like it’s settled.
I change quickly, sliding into the Kappas. They’re lighter than air, slippery, and bold against my skin. I glance at him, trying to look unbothered, but he’s already stretched out on his cot, one arm behind his head, looking entirely at ease.
“I’m hitting the kybo before we crash,” I mumble, tugging my staff jacket over the shorts.
He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Don’t get lost.”
Outside, the night is still, cool, and quiet. Gravel crunches under my boots, the trees whispering in the breeze rolling up from the canal. The nylon clings smoothly and foreign against my legs with every step, a constant reminder of August, of what we almost started in our room.
The kybo is empty, its concrete floor damp and smelling faintly of bleach and cedar. I linger only long enough to pee and splash water on my face, hoping the cold will ease the heat still buzzing under my skin.
On the way back, I cut across the row, passing the glow of the still-lit dining hall. The rest of the staff row is dark, most doors closed, muffled laughter drifting faintly from the rooms.
That’s when I see her.
Natalie steps out from the shadows between one of the cabins, hoodie pulled tight, mistletoe twirling between her fingers like she’s been waiting. Her eyes flick down once, sharp and deliberate, to the blue shorts I’m wearing.
“Nice shorts,” she says. Flat, pointed. Then, before I can reply: “You know what, Ben? I’m done guessing with you.”
She takes a step closer, her words quick now, tumbling out. “Every time I try to talk to you, you blow me off. “At last week’s campfire, I sat next to you, and you acted like the bench was on fire. In the dining hall, you’d rather stare at your clipboard than say hi. Today? One dumb piece of plastic mistletoe and you bolt like I have COVID.”
My throat goes dry. I want to retreat, to duck back into my room and let the door slam between us, but her eyes lock me in place.
She leans in, close enough that I can smell the smoke from the campfire still clinging to her hoodie. “So just tell me. Why do you keep pretending I don’t exist?”
The truth pulses hot in my chest, August’s hand on my neck still vivid in my mind. But what comes out is cold, automatic, a shield.
“I have a girlfriend,” I lie.
It lands between us like a stone. Her face goes still, the mistletoe frozen in her hand.
“A girlfriend? That’s cute. What’s her name? Miss Swift, Miss Ellish? Whatever, Ben. Keep your secrets. Just don’t act surprised when nobody buys it.”
She steps back, throws the mistletoe on the ground, then mutters something about “Always falling for them. Just like Brady.” Her boots scuff the gravel as she disappears into the dark.
All I can do is stand there frozen, the night pressing in, the nylon whispering against my legs with every breath like it knows exactly what I’ve just done.
After I know she’s gone, I crouch down and pick up the mistletoe where she dropped it. The plastic sprig is bent, tape still clinging to one end. For a second, I just hold it, the cold gravel pressing into my palm, then I toss it into the nearest trash barrel. It lands with a hollow thud.
Gone for now.
But the echo of her voice sticks. The way she said “Miss Swift. Miss Ellish.” Like a joke, like she’d finally named the thing I’ve been working so hard to keep off the surface.
Back in our room, the air feels thicker, warmer. August is on his cot, one arm behind his head, his hair sticking up from where he’s run his hands through it. His box from home is still open, half the cookies already gone. He looks at me, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“You were gone long,” he says warmly.
I mumble something about the kybo, shrugging off my jacket. The Kappa shorts slide smoothly against my legs as I sit on my bunk, the nylon whispering with every movement. I can feel August’s eyes on me, the weight of them making my skin prickle.
“You like them?” he asks, nodding at the shorts.
“Yeah,” I manage. My voice comes out coarser than I realize.
He grins, a little crooked. “We all wore them, my whole team. At practice. At tournaments. Sometimes for more than footie.”
The silence in the room isn't empty; it's full of the words he just said, hanging in the air between our cots. For more than footie. My mouth is dry. The nylon of the shorts feels impossibly thin, a second skin that belongs to him, to a past I can only imagine.
"What did you do with your team in them?" I ask. The question is barely a whisper, but it cuts through the quiet like a shout.
August doesn't answer right away. He just watches me, his eyes dark in the low light, that faint, knowing smile still playing on his lips. He pushes himself up on one elbow. The movement is slow, deliberate. The blue Nike shorts I gave him ride up his thigh.
"Come here," he says. It's not a suggestion.
I don't hesitate. I cross the two steps between our cots and stand by his bunk. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the slick fabric over my hip, tracing the white Kappa logos. His touch is electric.
"Tell me," I breathe.
He looks up at me, his grin turning wicked. "We would wear them around after a win. No underwear. The fabric.. It makes you crazy."
His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pulling me gently forward until my knees bump the edge of his cot, standing over him.
"Sometimes," he continues, his voice a low growl, "we'd go back to someone's house. Still in our kits. Still sweating from the game. And we wouldn't take them off. Not for a long time."
My heart is hammering against my ribs. I can picture it: a blur of blue bodies, the smell of grass and sweat, the slide of nylon on skin. The image is so vivid it steals my breath.
"Show me," I say. The words are out before I can think, raw and wanting.
August’s eyes flash. In one fluid motion, he sits up, his body aligning with mine. He doesn't break eye contact as his hands come to my waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of the Kappa shorts. He pulls me down onto the cot with him, until I'm straddling his lap, my knees sinking into the thin mattress on either side of his hips.
The position is intimate, overwhelming. I can feel the heat of him through the two layers of thin shorts, my Nikes on him, his Kappas on me. He leans forward, his face inches from mine.
"Is this what you wanted, Benji?" he murmurs, his Dutch accent thick.
I can only nod, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders for balance. He smells like campfire and the speculaas cookies from his box, a mix of home and here.
He closes the last inch between us and kisses me. It’s not like the careful, hidden kisses we’ve shared before. This is hungry, possessive. His tongue slides against mine, and a low groan vibrates in his chest. I kiss him back just as fiercely, my fingers tangling in his hair.
One of his hands slides down from my back, over the curve of my ass, gripping me through the slick nylon, pulling me harder against him. A jolt of pure heat shoots through me. I gasp into his mouth, my hips rocking forward involuntarily, grinding down against the hard ridge of him. The friction is incredible, the two layers of shorts creating a silken, maddening slide.
He breaks the kiss, his breath coming in ragged puffs against my cheek. "See?" he whispers, his voice rough. "This is what we did."
He rolls his hips up, a slow, deliberate motion that makes my eyes roll back in my head. A choked moan escapes me. I drop my forehead to his shoulder, my whole body trembling with the effort to stay quiet, to not buck against him like a wild animal.
He holds me there, our bodies moving together in a slow, building rhythm of friction and heat. The only sounds are our ragged breathing and the soft, slick whisper of nylon against nylon. It feels illicit, dangerous, so much more intense than being skin-to-skin. It’s a game. It’s a secret. It’s everything he promised.
His hand slips between us, palming me through the shorts, and I cry out, biting down on the fabric of his shirt to stifle the sound. I’m achingly hard, the blue fabric strained tight, damp now with pre-cum.
"August," I gasp, my voice breaking.
He shushes me gently, crawling back up my body until his face is level with mine again. His eyes are dark with desire. He kisses me, deep and slow, as our hips keep moving, a steady, relentless frottage that feels like it’s burning a hole through the fabric, through me.
I’m lost in it. In the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of his strong body under mine, the alien slide of the Kappa shorts. This is what he did with his teammates. This dizzy, breathless, shared heat. And now he’s sharing it with me.
I clutch at him, my fingers digging into his back, as the coil inside me winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The world narrows to the space of this cot, to the rhythm of our bodies, to the whispered promise of what happened in these shorts.
The pressure builds to a breaking point, a white-hot coil in the pit of my stomach. My breath hitches, a ragged, desperate sound in the quiet room. I’m seconds away from coming in his old football shorts, from completely losing it.
“Wait,” I gasp, pulling my mouth from his. “August, stop. I don’t… I don’t want to cum yet.”
He stills immediately, his hands going gentle on my hips. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in hot, shallow puffs. He doesn’t ask why. He just waits.
The idea forms in the haze of my arousal, bold and terrifying. It’s something I’d only done once before with Sean, my Elongomat in OA, because he was uncut too. But with August, here, now, it feels like the only thing that makes sense.
“Do you…” I start, my voice unsteady. “Do you want to try something? Something I only did with one guy before?”
August pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face. The hunger is still there, but it’s tempered with curiosity, with trust. He gives a slow, single nod. “Yes. Show me.”
I shift off his lap, my legs shaky. The air feels cool on my heated skin. I kneel on the bed between his knees. He watches me, propped up on his elbows, his chest rising and falling steadily.
My fingers tremble as I hook my thumbs under the hem of the Kappa shorts. The nylon rides high on my thighs, slick and cool. I ease my erection out through the leg opening, the head already flushed and wet. August watches, eyes dark and fixed. "This is what we call docking," I whisper, the word thick in my throat. "Pull yours out, too. Same way."
He doesn't hesitate, shoving the blue Nike fabric aside until his cock springs free, foreskin loose and glistening. I reach for him, my breath catching as I slide his hooded skin back just enough to expose the swollen crown. Then, with a steadying inhale, I press our tips together, hot and pulsing. My thumb works his foreskin forward, sheathing both heads inside that tight, stretched hood. A shared gasp tears from us as I begin to rub: slow circles grinding the trapped, sensitive flesh into one molten point.
The sensation is dizzying, a tight, slick friction that is entirely new and yet feels ancient, instinctual. My thumb and forefinger form a ring at the base of his foreskin, holding us locked together in that intimate sheath. Our pre-cum mixes creating a slick, hot seal. I move my hips in a tiny, circular motion, and he mirrors me, a low, guttural groan rumbling in his chest.
"Godverdomme," he breathes, his head falling back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. His hands come up to grip my forearms, his fingers digging into my skin, not to push me away but to anchor himself to the feeling.
It’s impossibly intimate. More than a kiss, more than anything we’ve done. We are literally joined, a single, throbbing point of shared pleasure. I can feel every tiny twitch and pulse of him, and I know he can feel mine. The world outside, Natalie’s accusation, the Christmas tree, the cold canal, vanishes. There is only this cot, this darkness, and the two of us fused together.
My hips move in a tiny, desperate circle, and the rub of our trapped, sensitive flesh is a spark on a fuel-soaked pile. The smell of him, the taste of our shared breath, the sound of his broken Dutch curses: it all narrows to that single, fused point. It is too much. The overwhelming intimacy, the sheer taboo of it, the feeling of his pulse hammering against mine... I feel him shatter first, his cry muffled against his palm, and the hot, sudden flood of his release inside that tight sheath was the final, irresistible trigger for my own.
We stay like that for a long moment, joined and breathing heavily, the only sound our ragged gasps slowly returning to normal. The air in the cabin is thick with the smell of us, of sex and sweat and the faint, lingering spice of speculaas.
Slowly, carefully, I pull back. The separation is a small, shocking loss. I use the hem of my shirt to clean us both; the act is tender and practical. He watches me through heavy-lidded eyes, a look of dazed, sated wonder on his face.
I slip the Kappa shorts back into place, the fabric now damp and clinging in a new way, a secret testament to what just happened. August does the same with the Nikes, then lies back, pulling the thin camp blanket up over his waist.
I sink down onto my own cot, facing him. My body feels numb, humming with a deep, resonant peace. The lie I told Natalie feels a million miles away, a feeble defense against a truth that is now written into my very skin, into the fabric of these unfamiliar shorts.
August reaches a hand across the gap between our cots. I take it, lacing our fingers together. His palm is warm, his grip firm.
"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head, searching for the English word. "Perfect."
I squeeze his hand. "Yeah," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "It was."
"Slaap lekker, Benji," he mutters, already half asleep.
"Goodnight, August," I whisper back.
I lie awake a little longer, listening to the sound of his breathing even out. The nylon of the shorts is cool against my skin, a constant, thrilling reminder. Outside, Camp Parsons is silent, wrapped in a Pacific Northwest July night that, for another hour, is still our Christmas. And for the first time, the secret doesn't feel like a weight. It feels like a gift, one that belongs only to us.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
