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A gay summer Holiday – Chapter 11
• A festival of strong will - part 1.
The excitement on the Island was palpable. Chris had extricated himself early from his friends after the gig outside The Keynote. He dragged the new music equipment and assorted bits and bobs up the dune. The heels of his pointy black cowboy boots dug in the steep sandy path up the lower barracks. There was still so much to do in preparation. Tomorrow was a busy day for him and the cabins.
Uncle Burt’s crew had already bricked up the retaining walls to extend the incline from the campground to the lower terrace, a move that softened the slope considerably. Gone were the slippery wooden stairs; in their place, the beginnings of a wheelchair-accessible ramp. The forms for the cabin roofs had been built, ready for the concrete pour. The new roofline would change the look of the place, but not nearly as much as the saw-tooth veranda overhangs.
To Chris, the newly angled roof structures, sitting over the lodgings, looked like a row of ball caps set at a jaunty angle. The old barrack roofs got a short slope down to the front of the ‘brim’ and a longer, asymmetrical, soft angle toward the back of the cabins. Both the back and the front had built-in rainwater gutters that would connect to the large underground collection tanks.
The old overhang had formed a single straight line parallel to the cabin fronts. But Chris gave the new brims over the patio a playful angle. The thick metal pipes he found at the reclamation yard would go under the points, marking the edge of each of the lodgings. And although the exterior still needed plastering and painting, Chris had already decided to give each cabin door and metal roof pole a playful color in line with the Islander flag.
• Diary, May 25th.
Tomorrow is the big day. I’ve never felt this nervous in my life. Sure, I’ve played with Wessel before — heck, I even made a spectacle of myself on the ferry — so why the nerves? This new guitar-and-electronic-drum-kit combo takes some getting used to, but I’ve made it work tonight. I really hope my auction idea pans out; these Islander Youths really deserve it. Let’s go out in a blaze of glory!
The construction is coming along nicely, too. Tomorrow, they’ll pour the first of the new roofs. Thank God for Uncle Burt and his crew; it would’ve taken me the entire holiday if it weren’t for them and the volunteers.
As Christopher put his new guitars away and cut openings in the collection boxes for the Islander Youth Fund, he stripped out the leather jeans and hung them outside to air out. Ready for the stage tomorrow. Stark naked, he closed the French doors behind him and pulled the curtains. Ready to sleep. But an urgent knock on the glass kept the young man from his bed. Thinking Jelmer or one of the guys had forgotten something, he opened the door.
Wyatt stood on the veranda, looking sheepishly to the ground.
“Oh, you’re off to bed early?! Can I come in? I wanted… Umm?… I wanted to apologize for —” he started to say, but stopped instantly.
The surfer dude blushed as he saw the nearly nine-inch tool stretch to its full potential. The man, still wearing his leather jeans, had no idea where to look. Chris — in his birthday suit — grabbed Wyatt by the hand and pulled the gorgeous blond hunk inside.
“Wyatt, we can talk… or we can do… Why don’t we make out a little?”
Christopher did not have to wait for an answer. Wyatt attacked at once. He grabbed the naked twink and pressed his bulge to Chris’s girthy dick. Chris had seen this coming and planted his mouth on the salty lips of Wyatt. The man smelled of beer, hay, and horses. He walked the two of them to the bed and made Wyatt topple backward onto the mattress.
Chris dropped between the leather pants’ legs and started to lick and worship the thick cloth. Ending up over the ten-inch heat, trying to break free of the tight restraints.
After a while, the waterfall of words hit Chris like a tidal wave.
“Ooh… Fuck… Yeah… Suck it… Damn, you take me deep. Arghh… Shit, Chris… Slow down… Oh, fuck.”
The nineteen-year-old smiled up at the leather-clad stallion and hopped on his lap. Letting his naked ass slide over the stiff dick in one go. Chris pumped, pounded, and bounced the bucking bronco with ferocious force until Wyatt jolted his hips upward to match Chris’s movements. The twink bent forward and whispered, “Damn, you’re so deep inside me. Breed me, Wy-rat, rape my ass. Take my fucking hole. Fill me up!”
The early morning sun was already bleeding over the horizon when Chris rolled onto his side, bright awake. He stared in awe at the blond God sprawled across his sheets. Wyatt was a titan — a versatile power top who had spent the night proving exactly why he was turning gay. Chris loved Jelmer, but if the muscular surfer, come lifeguard, wanted him, he could fall for this dude in an instant. Wyatt was the type of trophy-lover you would write home about.
Watching the steady rise of Wyatt’s chest, Chris smirked at the irony of his homophobic siblings back home still calling him the ‘runt of the litter.’ If they could see the ‘runt’ now, naked and victorious after taming a bucking stallion that would have sent them into a panicked retreat, they’d probably choke.
But with the concrete pour ahead and the high-stakes fundraiser looming, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day this Wednesday to dwell on family idiocy. Fueled by a jagged spike of adrenaline, he slipped out of bed with practiced silence to brew a pot of the strongest coffee available. Chris left the gorgeous longhaired hunk to sleep off the effects of their relentless, rough encounter while he prepared to lead the pack.
He set up a painting station, spending the quiet dawn hours cleaning, priming, and painting six of the metal supports that would prop up the veranda overhangs. He colored the insides of each doorframe in the same cheerful shade as the drains, feeling a rare sense of peace as the sun slowly climbed. The plastic rainwater drains were slipped into the heavy-duty pipes and set on sandstone plinths. With that first layer of color, Chris’s vision for the twenty-four barracks finally became clear: modern white exteriors accented with just a hint of playful color. It wasn’t too bright, just enough to give each cabin its own identity.
By seven AM, the atmosphere shifted as Uncle Burt’s concrete crew and a pack of volunteers arrived on site. Chris was already finished with his task, but one of the volunteers — Noah, the son of the local building inspector — was staring at the work with a face full of thunder. Noah wasn’t having any of it.
“What the holy frick?” Noah shouted indignantly as he observed the colorful additions. His voice echoed off the barracks. “Are you forcing the Island to bend to your ungodly homosexual behavior? Are you being paid to promote your… — remove those — those obscene rainbow colors at once!” Noah’s face was twisted in a mask of pure rage. “No, no one wants to see that! Pastor Simons warned us against your mainland views, you filthy abomination… My father will hear about this!”
Chris flushed a furious red. He couldn’t tell if the sun had suddenly turned up the heat or if he was blushing with a shame that burned deep in his throat. The first six posts were painted, but definitely not in pride colors, and certainly not in rainbow order either. He hadn’t expected this from a volunteer — someone he thought was a friend. All eyes were on him, and Chris hated being the center of attention for something like this. ‘Not here. Not now,’ he thought, feeling the sting of the public shaming.
“Okay — that’s quite enough of that!” Burt barked, stepping toward the Protestant twink. “Chris is a volunteer himself, and he’s the one in charge here.”
“Thank you for your help, folks,” Jelmer added, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped up beside Chris. He pointed resolutely toward the path leading back to town. “… But this is not the way we treat our friends, even if he was born and raised on the mainland. If you don’t like what he does in his spare time, behind closed doors, then there’s the exit! It’s not like he tried to screw you, now did he?!”
A handful of the Islander volunteers followed Noah as he stormed off, but the rest remained. The friends redoubled their efforts, moving to help with the concrete pour to drown out the lingering tension. Chris said nothing. His heart hammered against his ribs — a sickening rhythm of adrenaline and shame — as he gathered his paint supplies and retreated.
As perfect as the morning had started, it had soured in an instant. Christopher had a hairdresser’s appointment to keep and a signed guitar to deliver to the beach club. These tasks suddenly felt like a necessary escape from the heavy judgment lingering on the dunes. ‘Just get to the bicycle,’ he told himself, feeling the eyes of the remaining crew on his back. ‘Keep moving.’
As Chris stripped out his paint-splattered work shorts and put on his leather jeans and a sleeveless gray hoodie, he departed from his cabin.
Jessie had decorated the collection tins for the Youth Fund and handed them over. He grabbed the distraught twink by the neck and pressed his forehead firmly against Chris’s. “I’ve heard, Chris. Let it go. Noah tried to sour the mood all last night, too. Go do your thing. We’ll cover for you.”
Christopher barely managed to smile as he walked down the dune in a daze. He hardly noticed where he was going, his mind a fractured mess of architectural pride and the stinging memory of Noah’s threat. He moved like a ghost through the crowd, barely registering the people who reached out to greet their Islander hero. To them, he was still the ‘Star’ on the stage; to himself, he felt like the unwanted center of attention.
After a morning coffee at The Whaler with all the performing bands, Chris cycled into town. He felt slightly more cheerful as the renowned barber, Leo, greeted him.
Leo’s salon was a vision of high-end style. The barber was a larger-than-life, flamboyant personality. The twenty-seven-year-old, Indonesian-Moluccan, possessed a talent that had won him hairdressing trophies galore. However, he traded the mainland’s bright city lights for the sunlight and dunes.
As Chris walked in, still feeling the sting of the morning’s confrontation, Leo looked up from his station with a bright, knowing smile.
“‘Good’n,” he grinned in the typical Islander greeting, “… having a bad day? Sit down, relax. I’ll turn you into the rockstar you are, Chris.”
As Chris surrendered to the barber chair, he faced a reflection that no longer fit him. Summer was approaching — he needed to let the breeze have free rein. His lush, dark brown hair was a heavy, shoulder-length curtain, topped with a scraggly fringe that almost buried his eyebrows. On his chin and cheeks, the soft, unshaven down of his beard made him look unfinished. They talked about the day’s events as if they were long-term friends. Shaken, Christopher explained the homophobic encounter with the volunteer and the threats the man had made. Leo just listened as the adolescent agonized over things he had no control over.
Leo didn’t just cut; he performed a miracle. When the chair finally spun back around, Chris gasped at the high-voltage silhouette in the mirror. The heavy weight was gone, replaced by a defiant, spiky top with sunshine-yellow highlights in the fringe — locks that caught the light like white-gold. Leo had layered the sides but left the back just a little longer to graze his neck. The creation had a sharp, 1980s rockstar edge.
The soft, youthful down under his chin now looked like a minute, well-trimmed chin puff, modeled after Wyatt’s bolder goatee. The new look aged Christopher instantly. Gone was the eternal ‘runt’ as the fit, sun-kissed young man in the mirror smirked back at him. The fresh look almost brought Chris to tears as Leo showed his reflection from every angle.
As Chris reached for his wallet to pay the master for his work, Leo brushed his wallet aside. He pushed the burly twink into the back room instead, giving him exactly what he needed most. He pulled Chris into a crushing hug and an intense, searing kiss that left both men gasping for air.
The devout Catholic Leo panted when they broke apart, his eyes fierce. “This one is on the house, soan. Let no one dictate how you live or who you love. Just remember: when Jesus said, ‘Let all the children come to me,’ he didn’t include a dress code or a list of who you’re allowed to love. He meant all of us: Gay, Bi, and Straight. Be who you want to be, Christopher, not what the small-minded dictate. And God… you look good enough to f$@k!”
“Ha... take a number!” Christopher joked, the old spark of confidence finally returning to his eyes. He gave Leo one last tender kiss and stepped out of the shop, heading toward Aunt Frida’s for lunch with a rockstar’s swagger.
However, when Chris reached the construction site, Uncle Burt stretched out a weathered arm to stop Christopher in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the transformation.
“Amazing, soan! You cleaned up nicely. Just a heads-up, though — the air is getting thick. Your Grandma and Pastor Simons are over at Frida’s right now. I would not go there. And the freaking building inspector has already been along twice today. I’ve sent the volunteers home early to keep the peace.”
Chris felt a momentary tightening in his chest at the mention of the inspector, but he leaned into his new, spiky confidence.
“Thanks, sir. I’ll keep my head down. I can use the extra time to practice anyway.” He looked up at the barracks, the new angled rooflines cutting a sharp, modern silhouette against the cloudless blue sky. “Wow... the roofs look even better than I envisioned. Please thank your men for their hard work. Later this week, I’ll start on the path between the bunkers. I found some old red bricks to line the ramp. A paved path should please the inspector and the fire marshal.”
“It should,” Burt agreed, nodding toward the barracks. “More importantly, Ben is over the moon. He loved the subtle colors. Just label the other columns with the shades you envision, and I’ll have our painter prepare them. Have fun tonight, Chris! Don’t let idiots like that Noah fellow and his dad get you down. You’ve done nothing wrong!”
Chris gave his uncle a quick, grateful hug and floated up the dune toward his cabin. It almost felt wrong to admit it to himself, but the praise stung nearly as hard as the hatred; the constant oscillation between being a ‘filthy abomination’ and an ‘Islander hero’ at the same time felt exhausting. “You can’t win ’em all,” he muttered to the wind, his hand self-consciously brushing his new spiky hair. “And there certainly is no pleasing some people.”
• Dear Diary, I found another quiet moment to reflect.
I actually thought Noah and his friends were here to help this morning. Turns out, dear ‘Poltergeist Simons’ is busy turning the tide against me. Oh well. C’est la vie, je suppose. That’s the risk you take when you swim against the grain of social convention.
Not that I’m ever going back to dating women. I like what I’ve found here on the Island, and I’m sure I can find it at college, too — whatever ‘it’ is. I just hope Noah and his father, the building inspector, don’t cause any more trouble. I really don’t need homophobes in my life. And all of that over a colorful pipe. Would they rage against God’s rainbow, too? How stupid!
On the other hand, my new look is to die for — even if I do say so myself. I can’t wait to get dressed up and become the true center of attention again when I take the stage with Wessel tonight.
The hairdresser’s appointment had taken half the morning, but it was worth it. The sun stood high and bright as Christopher walked back to the commander’s barracks. Wyatt, Jessie, Jan-Timo, and Jelmer sat on the patio. Their jaws hit the floor when they saw the cocky look on Chris’s face. He had aged and filled out considerably. He still wasn’t the tallest Dutch dude of his generation, but he certainly wasn’t the ‘runt’ his mainland family had made him out to be.
“‘Good’n,” Wyatt called from a distance, as Jelmer tried to regain his composure. They looked like a council of Island kings, their voices low as they dissected the morning’s events. As Chris stepped onto the veranda, the conversation died instantly. The four of them stared, eyes wide, taking in the spiky rocker mane and the sun-yellow highlights. Despite the paint-splattered work clothes, Chris looked ready for the stage.
Jelmer could not believe his eyes. He jumped up, almost tripping over his own feet as he ran toward Christopher. He flung himself onto his best friend, running his fingers over the brutally short sides.
“Wow, Chris. That’s some look!” Jelmer said breathlessly. “Your own mother won’t recognize you, Cuz. Wyatt told me what happened last night.”
Christopher said nothing; he just smiled and hooked an arm around Jelmer.
“Damn, will you look at that!” Wyatt waved, his stunned gaze proprietary and hungry. Apparently, he’d already told Jelmer about their night together — not as a boast, but as a confession. And Jelly-Belly did not seem to mind.
“Hêh…” Wyatt breathed in the low Islander dialect. Taking Christopher from Jelmer, he pulled the short, muscular stud into a one-armed hug and planted a firm peck on the sexy twink’s cheek. Their eyes met for a second too long. In that instant, Chris knew enough.
“Guys, Jel and I need a moment. Why don’t you enjoy the afternoon in town? I need to talk to Jelmer in private.” Chris dragged Jelmer into the tiny kitchen, his heart racing.
“Shhh, I know,” Jelmer whispered. “You’re in love with Wyatt, and he wants you. And frankly, Chris, I can see why. You two are made for each other. I’m okay with it. And we can still be —”
But Christopher cut him off. “Thanks, man, but that wasn’t what I wanted to ask you, Jelmer. I need to wrap my head around the fund. It needs an Islander to run it, whether I stay or go to college. Can you help Wessel, the council, and me run it as treasurer?”
“Always, Chris,” Jelmer replied, his smile sad but resolute. “I’ll keep the books straight while you’re off changing the world.”
He pressed Chris against the kitchen counter and lifted him up. “I hope we can still hang out... do stuff…” Jelmer asked.
“Stuff like this?” Christopher asked as he hooked an arm around Jelly-Belly’s neck. “… We never had the make-up sex after the incident with Officer Tomas, did we? Why don’t you make me some whipped cream? I’m sure Wy-rat wouldn’t mind. The dirty horse breeder…” Chris joked before silencing Jelmer with a deep kiss.
The men watched through the kitchen window as Jelmer devoured his best friend right there on the counter. The cousins pumped and pounded, huffing and puffing as they solidified their friendship. This wasn’t a breakup; it was a transformation.
Jelmer buried himself in his childhood friend, starting slow, but the rhythm didn’t stay gentle for long. He drove faster and faster, slamming into Chris’s leather-clad ass with a desperate, heavy heat.
“Yeah, buddy! Fuck me... breed me!” Chris choked out, his head thrown back against the cupboards. “Channel your inner top and pound my hole, Jel. Fuck... you’re so deep inside me.”
“Shit... yeah... I bet you say that to all the boys,” Jelmer grunted, his grip tightening on Chris’s hips. “Did Officer Tom teach you that? How was he? They say he’s huge.”
“Why don’t you invite him over and find out?” Chris gasped, a wild grin breaking through the pleasure. “I bet you’d enjoy him, too. He lives right around the corner. And that Caribbean stud isn’t just huge, Jel — he’s enormous. He’ll fill that Jelly-Belly of yours to the brim! Just don’t tell him I sent you. Oh, fuck... Hell, yeah! Breed me... Arghh, I’m cumming!”
As make-up sex goes, it was a masterpiece of release. But beneath the sweat and the friction, Jelmer knew the truth: his friend had moved on. He had declared his love for him the day Chris arrived, but he’d kept his deeper intentions hidden. He wanted a mate, but he wasn’t ready for the weight of a real commitment. ‘Plenty of fish in the sea,’ Jelmer concluded.
Christopher loved his distant second cousin, but with his mind already halfway to the mainland and the next four years of college ahead, he could see exactly where the road ended. Outside, the audience stood transfixed and in awe. Watching porn was nothing compared to this live show — a raw festival of two strong-minded friends unfolding right before their eyes. This was pure friendship, they agreed.
• Continued in chapter 12 •
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© StrykerJ - March 2026
