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This story is strictly fictional and contains male-on-male (gay 🏳🌈 ) sexual content, both implied and explicit. 🔞 Reader discretion is advised. The names, ages, circumstances, parties, and locations mentioned in this narrative are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual individuals is purely coincidental. This story is a product of the author’s imagination. The author does not endorse any products or entities mentioned herein.
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A gay summer Holiday – Chapter 23
• Building the Stairway to Heaven.
That Thursday morning, Chris rolled out of bed early. Without waking up his boyfriend, he got dressed and headed toward the gym. The owner greeted the tousled-haired, unshaven, and unwashed twunk with a grin. “Mor’n, stranger. Back again? You’re early, Chris.” The twenty-eight-year-old gym shark grinned as he unlocked the Islander sports school doors for the boy.
“Yeah, it’s been a while. I know. Been to the mainland to get things sorted. And I only have time on Tuesdays and Fridays for the next few weeks,” Christopher smirked back.
“Then you’re wasting your time on that old four-day split, kid. If you’re only hitting the iron twice a week, we need to switch to heavy compound movements — a ‘Push-Pull’ hybrid. We’re talking deadlifts, cleans, and weighted dips. You’ve still got those sexy lines, but I want to see more functional density.”
And almost as an aside, Karl added half-huskily, “… If I weren’t straight, I’d do you, too. God, you’re sexy, Chris. I do like a smelly man.”
Karl smirked, his gaze drifting over the tattooed lion on Chris’s chest. The low-cut muscle shirt had revealed the artwork.
“New addition? Nice tat, man. Very butch. Anyway, I want you thick enough to pull that excavator out of a ditch with your bare hands,” suggested Karl, the gym owner, as he flicked on the lights and powered up the equipment.
Christopher placed a hand on the twenty-eight-year-old bodybuilder’s chest and shoved him back against the mirror wall near the dumbbell racks.
“If you need a hand — and it looks like you do — I’d be happy to help you out, Karl. Just don’t tell your woman I sucked you dry. Quick inspection in the showers?” Chris asked seductively.
He raked his eyes over the gym owner’s massive frame, his gaze coming to rest on the heavy weight straining against the man’s gym shorts. Karl was as hard as a rock.
“Dude, I’d love to! Anna’s been on her ‘period’ for a few weeks now,” Karl sighed.
“Well,” Chris said pensively, “If you have time for a massage, I can give you a ‘happy end’. Wyatt is rather rough in bed. My muscles have all seized up.”
“Deal! We’ve got time before the first Islanders wander in. Let’s tenderize that piggy!”
As massive as the powerlifter was, the meat he was packing wasn’t quite the oversized weapon Chris had anticipated, but it was thick and hungry. It pulsed to life as the head disappeared between the well-practiced lips of the muscle twunk.
This musician loved to ‘blow the horn’ and rattle those plump ‘maracas’. He had Karl screaming for release as the boy performed weighted squats, Chris poking his own sticky hole with a short, rounded steel handlebar covered in a thick, ‘gay-safe’ rubber.
Three minutes later, Karl clamped his hands over Chris’s head as he felt nimble fingers penetrate his hairy ‘man-hole’. He drove his pent-up load straight down de Boer’s throat, snoorting like a bull in heat. Christopher draped the winded athlete over the massage table — “For Wyatt, King, and the Fatherland!” — and drove his tongue up Karl’s ass, eating the bodybuilder out with a relentless, hungry focus.
They switched places, and Karl gave the boy a workout of a different caliber. He inhaled the man’s muskiest spots as Chris’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, the big man poking and prodding the younger man’s tight muscles in the early morning sunlight. They took a quick, scorching shower and finally set to work on the actual iron, grins plastered on their faces. It had been a short-lived encounter, but no less intense.
• Holy Iron, Batman: Saturday the 26th of June – At the gym.
Damn, what a workout. I didn’t know the gym owner had that much more to give. If I’d known I could get a ‘free massage’ like that from a bull like him... That was a workout and a half, with a protein shake to boot. Well, Karl made sure I’d be coming back for more, even if it’s ‘just’ for the weights next time. Heck, this Island — what a life. Sex behind every fuck’n tree. I’d better keep this quiet, though. He’s ‘happily’ married, but it’s always nice to lend a hand when a man is in need.
When Christopher walked back to the worksite, he found his path blocked by the Fire Chief’s car.
“Hêh, Chris. Good’n, soan.” Chief Willson’s handlebar mustache stood aquiver as he spoke in an Islander dialect. The thick bristles twitched with every syllable.
“Mor’n, Chief. How’s the fire hose hanging?” Chris joked. He was still feeling a distinct, giddy buzz from all the sex he’d devoured since returning to the Island; the workout with Karl had left him loose and dangerous.
With the direct Dutch approach the young man had come to expect, the Chief dropped a bombshell. “You need to install a fire-lock in the buildsite fence, so we have access.”
“Sure — if by ‘we’ you mean only the fire department. I built that fortress specifically to keep certain other people out,” Chris countered, his voice leveling out.
“Ah… yes. I’ll have Snake drop off the fire-lock at the campground offices. But you’re right — those ‘certain people’ are the ones who filed the access claim. Don’t worry, though; Burk has been placed on administrative leave. It’s a coded padlock. Without the sequence, he can’t open it.” Chris had no idea who Snake was, but he was glad he wasn’t in trouble.
“Ha… wanna bet?” Chris scoffed. “They’ve done weirder things. They blocked off Bathway 78, the old Miller place, just because I was the one who bought it. Your trucks can’t enter there either. I’ve filed a report with the police and the municipality, but last I looked, it was still marked as ‘condemned’ and dangerous.”
The Chief curled his lip, his eyes squinting as he processed the news. “Leave it with me, de Boer. By the way… we could sure use that yellow beast and your drone. Heck, if you’re willing to take the training, I think the Department could use you, too.”
“Just give me a call when you need me or my equipment, Chief Willson. I’d love to help out, sir,” Chris replied, a smirk playing on his lips. Joining the Fire Department meant more than just community service; it meant having a ‘legal’ reason to be right in the middle of the Island’s action.
Using his new eight-ton excavator, Chris spent the week wrestling the dune into submission. He carved a switchback path into a raw zig-zag slope, stripping away the haphazard steps to lay a clean, central flight down the dune’s spine. With the rhythmic thud of wooden piles biting deep into the earth and the rigid set of his concrete forms, he finally broke the shifting sand’s will, pinning the unruly hill into a structured, man-made worksite.
One day, over a quick lunch, he drafted a four-page flyer to get ahead of the local gossip. It was a tactical strike designed to tell the neighbors exactly what was going on before the rumor mill could grind him down. With bogus complaints doubling by the hour, he needed to control the narrative. Chris ran the text by Jelmer, Jessie, and Uncle Ben for a sanity check, then fired off a stack for the front desk, the local paper, and the residents whose backyards faced the construction on Back Road. Knowledge was power, and Chris was tired of playing defense.
As he hand-delivered the newsletters to the residents one street down, Chris noticed the moss-green built-site fence had been defaced with graffiti — lewd, discriminatory slurs like ‘Fags must Die’ and other bile of that nature. Although they used different spray paint colors, the writing style suggested a single perpetrator.
Chris just shrugged, his expression unreadable.
“Humpff… All people die sometime — don’t they teach that in Sunday school?” Chris thought to himself, “…But let’s be a good boy. Document the mess and make them repent.”
He didn’t just shrug it off; he went on a passive-aggressive offensive. He asked several sympathetic residents with gardens facing Back Road for permission to install night-vision security cameras. Chris was curious enough to see exactly which of his enemies were ‘brave enough’ to skulk around in the dark.
By the afternoon, Chris had painted the wall back to its original state and cleaned up the K-rails, giving the grimy concrete a fresh, white-washed look. He installed red-and-white reflectors on the plywood and hung prominent signs warning of the active CCTV cameras. Every act of vandalism and every step of his restoration was documented and filed with the police.
The local Road Department followed suit, installing official warning barriers and roadwork signs to head off the wave of bogus complaints flooding their offices, as well. Chris gave the crew a professional tour of the site, and by the time they pulled away, he had their full blessing to push forward. As they left, they both noticed a group of ‘church folk’ doing their rounds on Back Road, watching the build site like hawks.
Christopher ignored them, focusing instead on fastening a thick rubber flap over the cutout for the new fire-lock. While he worked, one of the neighboring residents approached him with a suggestion: to extend the fence upward with woven debris netting. It would suppress the construction dust and take the edge off the roar of the eight-ton excavator.
Hearing the idea, Chris didn’t just say thanks — he acted. He ran to the local florist and bought the biggest, most vibrant bouquet in the shop. He returned and presented them to the neighbor’s wife, snapping a quick, smiling photo of the three of them for the local paper.
That evening, he drafted a short article titled “Island Neighbors: Local Wisdom Shapes Back Road Project,” highlighting the helpfulness of the community. Chris wasn’t just kissing up; he was genuinely grateful for every ounce of cooperation. Besides, in a town where gossip was the primary currency, he knew that a well-placed press release was worth more than a thousand unfounded, hateful comments.
A few days back, as Chris was handing out the newsletters, Mrs. Sarah Koiker-Miller had slammed the door in his face. However, after the local paper printed his carefully drafted article, she approached Chris, days later, with a completely different vibe. She had watched him jog from the gym toward the fire access door and called out, “Hey, Christopher, can we talk?”
As she stepped into the alley that connected the Harbor View campgrounds to the rest of West, she practically collapsed, sobbing against his sweaty, shirtless chest.
“Look, Chris — I’m sorry. But my husband is under a lot of pressure from our Church. People are angry, threatening to withhold roadwork contracts,” she confessed.
It clicked. Someone had removed the borrowed motorized wheelbarrows and the mini-digger from the job site. Chris had a shrewd idea of who might have orchestrated that now. Not that it mattered much to his bottom line anymore, though; he had already filed the police report and the insurance claim.
She was married to the brother of the local builder — the man who handled the majority of the Island’s roadworks. As Christopher contemplated his response, she exclaimed, “You must hate me, too, son —” She faltered, the word ‘son’ hanging heavy in the salt air.
“Missus Miller, I’ve spoken with my father, and I suppose with your grandparents. I bought their house. I know what happened all those years ago, and I would have acted the same. You were young and in love, but not ready to start a family with a married man. I get it, Sarah. I just didn’t want to bother you. And no, of course I don’t blame you. Not at all. I only knocked on your door to hand you a newsletter about the work I’m doing for the campgrounds.”
Sarah Koiker-Miller had to let the weight of those words sink in. Chris took his biological mother by the arm and led her up the dune toward his cabin. He brewed her a strong coffee, and they sat in the sun, simply contemplating the twisted mess of life. After a thick slice of Islander pond koek, Sarah got a full tour of the refurbished bunkers.
Before she left, as friends do, Chris asked, “Is it okay if I fasten a signpost to your garden wall? Just to help the new tourists find their way into town once the path is finished?”
“I don’t mind. As long as it isn’t taller than the wall, Robert… umm, I mean, Christopher.”
Christopher’s world felt whole. Chris might have lost a mother to a new family years ago, but he had gained a powerful friend today. When he assured her he had no intention of becoming the Koiker brothers’ competition, Sarah promised to send Wim with a formal apology.
“Ma’am, I don’t need words. I could really use his expertise in finishing these paths, though,” Chris countered with a wink.
Sarah pressed her face into his muscular shoulder again and quietly cried. She had finally found peace in the arms of the boy she had once walked away from.
• Dear Diary: Friday, July 2nd – Talked with Sarah Miller.
The world is a weird place. Sarah Miller finally talked to me after slamming the door in my face a week ago. I understand now. This goddamned Island is as tightly strung as ‘Cupid’s harp.’ Turns out I had no reason to avoid her; the talk came as a massive relief to both of us. I must remember to tell Dad the whole story. I think he’s been reluctant to visit the Island for fear of bumping into her, too. At least the news article worked in my favor. No more graffiti, no more hateful comments behind my back — for now. It’s probably just a ‘lull’ in the attacks, though.
On a side note: I finally get why my brothers and sister are all so much taller than I am. I’m not the ‘runt of the litter’ after all; I just got Miller DNA. I got those genetics from Sarah. She’s a tiny woman, but she’s clearly got that same Islander fire. We have the same eyes and that prominent square chin line that says ‘try me.’ Ha. Well, Dad clearly knew how to pick ’em. I might not have the height of the mainlanders, but I’ve got that sturdy Islander foundation.
Not sure where to go from here. I guess I just get on with life. Yeah. No need to dwell on the past; life is best lived in the here and now. The retaining walls are finished — those yellow sandstone bricks nicely cover the ugly concrete. The switchback path is in, and I’ve started backfilling and shaping the dune. Next week, one more set of steps to finish the ‘stairway to heaven,’ then the finishing touches. God, this is probably the best part of fixing up these bunkers. Ha — and it wasn’t even part of the original plan. All thanks to Inspector Burk. One or two more weeks should do it, then the final inspections. I didn’t make it before my self-imposed deadline, but this Island isn’t getting rid of me. That’s for sure.
Chris wasn’t able to get a lick of work done after that encounter with his biological mother on Friday morning. He just sat at the kitchen table, his gaze drilling a hole through a bottle of gin. Finally, he reached for the pieces of the ‘Marrakesh guitar’ that his father had bought him all those years ago.
Christopher began to carefully disassemble the left-handed Martin D-18 Deluxe. As he tapped the tonewood top, a grim smile tugged at his lips. Even the slightest touch on the Mahogany Dreadnought still produced a warm, ringing resonance — despite the jagged, extra sound hole that ‘someone’ had kicked through the face of it.
He packed the pieces back into the solid hardshell case and practically ran down the hill.
“Hêh, Chris,” called the luthier from The Keynote a few minutes later. “What can I do for you, kiddo?”
Chris set the broken guitar on the counter and flicked open the ancient case latches. “This one needs a Christopher drum upgrade, too. My ‘dearest brothers’ burned down the last guitar we built. They tried to… well, you can see what they did to this one.”
Chris laid out his vision with a frenetic intensity. The longer they talked about the project, the wider the luthier’s grin grew. Together, they picked out the smallest frame drum Chris had ever seen; it was the perfect size to bridge the carnage in the beautiful Sitka Spruce top. The bashed sides would be reinforced with a series of woodblocks that Chris could drum and tap like a percussionist in a fever dream.
To electrify the beast, they decided on a high-output electric pickup and a series of hidden contact microphones to amplify the specific spots he drummed. The luthier even suggested a dedicated input for a headset mic. Heck, Chris felt himself getting hard when the man suggested adding a wood rasp and a trigger capo. It would be good in all settings, with or without amplification. It got a custom 16-foot loom with multiple plugs to keep the signals discrete.
With the plan set in motion, Chris was happier than he had been in weeks. His mind was freed, and he could see a ‘wealth of opportunities’ looming up on the horizon. All he needed now was his man to share the news with. Chris didn’t have to work that weekend, though there were plenty of ‘dirty’ things he could get up to if the mood struck him.
Later on Saturday, Chris found himself laying down the first sedum mats and planting the thorny seedlings Aunt Frida had been propagating since last year. The barren dune was turning green under his hands as he quietly contemplated the day. It had been a ‘really good one’. The luthier had excitedly accepted the custom job, and the physical labor was finally beginning to show in the landscape.
As he headed up to the cabin for a drink, he texted Wyatt about his day — the talk with Sarah Miller and the encounter with Karl at the gym. He shared every gritty detail with his man, right down to the taste of the ‘straight’ gym owner’s cum.
“Women can be weird,” Wyatt texted back, unfazed by the extracurriculars of his lover.
When Chris asked what was on the agenda for Sunday, his man’s reply was instant: “You could drop by early on Sunday morning and ride me.”
“I’d rather you teach me to ride Thunder,” Chris shot back.
“Deal. See you then if you must. See if I care whom you ride.”
Chris knew Wyatt was joking, but he’d show the man exactly what he was made of if he showed up ready for the saddle. He texted a thumbs-up and got one in return.
He poured a large glass of gin and 7-Up before calling his father.
“Heya, Robert, me boy!” John-Peter slurred into the receiver.
“Ha. Are you drunk, Dad?”
“Not as much as I want to be, but the day is still young. There’s no one to stop me like before. Have one on me, boy! Life’s too short not to have fun.”
“Beat you to it, old man. But it’s just a gin and 7-Up for me. Down the hatch!” Chris took a large gulp, the ice clinking against the glass. “Anyway… I talked with an old fling of yours.”
“What? I’ve told you not to bother Sarah!”
“She approached me, actually. She read my post in ‘The Islanders’. One thing led to another, and we got to talking. Sarah is happily married now — they have kids of their own.”
All Chris caught was a grunt from the other end of the line.
“Yeah. I’ve seen that news article too. Very passive-aggressive. You wrote that?”
“Yup. Still dealing with a few homophobes over here. Sarah never told you to stay away from the Island, Dad. Heck, she wants to meet up. Go for a coffee. Settle the score. So hop on the ferry. Catch up with your old buddies — Captain Dave and Uncle Matt would love that, too. Shit, you could get a ferry job, even if it’s just part-time like me. You’re too young to go into retirement, Dad.”
“I suppose —” John-Peter muttered, letting the suggestion penetrate the alcoholic haze.
“It would allow you to catch up with Burt, Petra, and your Mom. She isn’t getting any younger. And well… I’d love to introduce you to my boyfriend and his father. Wyatt and Otto Teller. I can show you the progress I’ve made on the cabins, as well.”
“Ha! Stop twisting my left nut, boy. That thing is what got you on this earth in the first place — Robert Christopher Patrick de Boer. It’ll have to wait, though. The court date with your mom, my dearest brother, and those other two is coming up. I’ll text you the results. Talk soon, Chris.”
“Okay. Bye, Dad.”
After a lazy Saturday, Sunday rolled around, and Chris drove his yellow Ford F-550 to the east side of the Island. He found Otto and Wyatt staring into the dog kennel in the early morning fog. Daisy, the golden lab, had given birth to thirteen healthy pups. Ten blond, two with white-socked paws and mottled brown coats, and the runt — inky black.
Otto spotted Christopher first. He raised a hand, calling the boy over. Chris hooked an arm around Wyatt, pulled him close, and kissed him deeply. “Looks like you had an addition to the family. Busy night?”
“Nope,” Otto said happily. “Mare took care of the litter. Glad we’ve got a vet in the family.”
“Normally she’s shoulder-deep in a mare’s —” Wyatt faltered at the sharp look his father gave him.
“Don’t worry, Dad. I know she’s just as gay as this arsehole. I don’t mind. I like Maren. And Daisy, too. Don’t I, girl?” Chris knelt beside the kennel, watching the swarming pups. They were all fighting for a free teat, but Daisy’s eyes were on Chris. She picked up the black runt and carried him over, dropping ‘Duke’ right between Chris’s splayed legs. She gave Christopher a hearty lick and rested her weary head in the crook of his arm.
“Damn, now I’ve seen everything!” Otto Teller groaned in amazement, “... Normally, humans pick the dog. Not the other way around. Duke is yours if you want him in a few months, Chris.”
“I’d like that, Dad,” Chris spoke without thinking. He let the pup suckle his pinky while he stroked Daisy’s ears. Otto just grinned; he understood exactly what Chris was hinting at.
Wyatt hadn’t noticed the subtext. He was worried about his lifeguard duty and hadn’t expected Chris to actually show up for a ride that day. But Chris was prepared. He would borrow one of Wyatt’s lifeguard shirts and red shorts, pull on a pair of Otto’s old riding boots, and mount Thunder. They could ride side-by-side along the waterline, all the way from East to West. The suggestion made Wyatt’s heart flutter.
The blond stud couldn’t stop grinning. Lifeguards on horseback — almost as hot as riding Christopher bareback. It took them nearly all Sunday to track across the Island, stopping at every tower to rest the horses and grab a drink. They made a few rescues and helped a couple of missing kids, but Chris’s mind was elsewhere.
As the sun began to dip, Chris reached out and caught Wyatt’s hand. As their eyes met and their fingers intertwined, he knew what had to be done. He was going to marry this beautiful hunk of a man beside him. Sooner rather than later.
• Continued in part 24 •
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© StrykerJ - June 2026
