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A gay summer Holiday – Chapter 25
• The beginning of the end of a working holiday.
There wasn’t much more to do. The last set of red-brick stairs had gone in. And as he reached the top — level with the lower terrace, Christopher’s gaze turned to the job he looked forward to the most — the brick compass rose around the base of the flagpole mount, the next level up. His ‘masterpiece.’ Well, there were hundreds of little things after that, and Chris knew the devil was in the details.
Thinking of the devil, he just had to smirk to himself. He wondered if the stripper, in his sexy fireman’s uniform, had reported to ‘the devil’s acolytes’ already. Pastor Simons would probably not have arranged the flawed encounter himself; he was too careful for that.
Somehow, Drake’s whimpers from the night before had turned Chris on. And hearing the man sneak out had set the nineteen-year-old twunk free. As his guesses had proven true — up till now — Chris wagered that he might, with a bit of luck, have uncovered enough evidence to put a stop to this nonsense.
“I hope this taught ‘the preacher’ that his brand of homophobic hate lectures has no place on this sandbar — sending his minions to do his dirty work, the fool! And for what? How the Church let that man preach here is beyond me. These Islanders deserve better…” Chris muttered to himself, his hands caked in dried mortar.
This ancient sand dune had seen men wash up that did not follow its people, trying to change them with mainland lies and deceit. To become an ‘Islander,’ as Chris had dreamed about all his life, you just needed to make yourself useful. And looking at his handiwork so far, he was on the right track.
The leaky, dilapidated World War Two bunkers, turned holiday lets, had a new lease on life. Adding a bit of color to the gray exteriors had called the ‘bulls’ out from the woodwork, making the critics crap on the work he was doing. But with the fresh green grass peeking out of the Islander-made topsoil, things were looking up. Heck, it wouldn’t surprise Christopher if these two sets of linked structures lasted another fifty or eighty years now.
• Dear Diary: July 5th – Monday after the sneaky Sunday before.
I let Wyatt sleep in late. God, he’s even more beautiful when he’s asleep. Around ten, he took my electric trail bike and came back with ‘Goldilocks’ and a grin. Yesterday the Teller women had given the beast of a car a thorough wash.
Apparently, yesterday’s day trip had done the seven-year-old breeding stallion, Thunder, some good, too. He was back at it this morning; he’d broken into the mare paddock next door and… kept on riding. Ha. The Vet and Maren will have their hands full this time next year.
The encounter with Snake taught me a lot about the Church’s local leader. And to think I used to belong to that band of misfits myself. Well, that ended quickly after I learned to ask awkward questions at a young age. Mom never forced me to attend Church or Sunday school after that. Every fucking Sunday, I got bored listening to the same old lectures; in my mind, I looked forward to making some music or playing with my Legos at home rather than freezing my ass off in church. Heck, the only thing I really learned at Sunday school was the fact that it was nice to get your dick sucked.
Looking back, I sort of wish it were me. But I just hid out of sight and watched them at it. Dirty old Elder Peters and his ‘choirboys.’ Accidentally seeing them at it might have turned me gay in the end. Ha, I think I should thank Pastor Simons… LOL.
Chris cleaned his tools and brushed off the mortar joints on the last set of stairs, moving up the dune to the top level. He laid out a circle of bricks for the compass rose’s size when footfalls behind him announced a visitor. It was the guy from last night. It was Drake — or what was left of him. The man looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward, his eyes bloodshot and his posture broken. Christopher almost didn’t recognize him while he was fully clothed.
Chris put down the bricks and stood up to face the guy they called Snake. Well, the ‘trouser snake’ had felt nice to the touch, but that’s where last night’s fun ended.
“Good’n,” Christopher said calmly in his taught Islander dialect, as if nothing odd had happened between them, “… I have not expected to see you back here this soon. You do know this is a closed building site and you’re not supposed to be here, right?”
“Chris… please —” Drake started, his voice cracking as he stopped halfway up the accessibility path between the bunkers. He fell to his knees, tears welling up in a performance that would have won an Oscar on the mainland.
“I’m so sorry about last night. I can’t stop thinking about it. I… I think — I’m lost. I need you to show me. Teach me how to be… shit, this is hard… but I like to screw you. Show me what it is to be g *cough* — like you.”
Christopher looked at the compass circle he had laid out and took a breath that barely hid a scoff. If the man could not say the word ‘gay’, he didn’t feel Drake was being honest. He stepped outside the circle, facing Drake Willson. As the stripper stood a little lower on the accessibility ramp between the two sets of bunkers, Snake had to look up at him.
“Well, well, well. That’s quite the 720° turnaround. I didn’t hit you that hard, did I? You really want to try having sex with a man? Really?”
Chris shook his head and continued, “… You’re a good actor, Snail. I guess you have to be to perform as a stripper. Really. The watery eyes? Nice touch, man. But I already have a boyfriend, and more importantly, I have installed high-definition security cameras on my bunker cabin. I’ve recorded every word you spoke this morning.”
Caught, Drake froze, the ‘repentant’ mask slipping. Chris wiped his dusty hands on a rag. When he looked back at Snake, the man looked like a snail trying to hide in a twisted shell of lies — not the kind you make up on the fly, but the ones that are drilled into you from the pulpit.
“Look, buddy. You should not have underestimated me. I know more than the old-boys group surrounding Pastor Simons. And well, you should not have called them right outside my cabin. The cameras recorded every word of that phone call. You confessed to them that you wanted me to touch you so you could scream ‘rape’ and bury me in police reports on the mainland. Did you come up with that flawed plan all by yourself? Nice try.”
Chris stepped closer, his towering, buff presence looming over the silently weeping man below him. “The funny thing is, you actually liked it, Drake Willson. You didn’t tell your taskmasters that bit of skullduggery, did you? Here’s some advice: Find a friend willing to give male-on-male with you a try, or buy an anal sex toy. But don’t come back here. If I see your face on this dune again, that video of you — dressed like a rubber gimp — leaking like a one-eyed trouser snake in my sex sling goes straight to the Church’s online forums. Imagine what that’ll do to your family’s reputation.”
To hammer it home, he added, “… And the stupid thing is, Snail, if you weren’t so blatantly obvious, I might have actually fucked the crap out of you. You are my type, buddy. Just try it yourself. I mean it. If you don’t like it, you can always go back to feeling up birthday girls. However, you’ve got to stop listening to the lies. This has nothing to do with me being gay. Simons could not care less. This is about him seeking power and control over his flock.”
The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and Drake’s eyes flared open, tears flicking off his lashes. He didn’t need a second warning. The stripper turned tail, running down the hill with a sob that sounded more like a wounded animal than a fire alarm.
Drake ‘Trouwser Snake’ Willson passed a weathered Islander man heading up the path the other way — Wim Koiker. The elder roadbuilder looked surprised as the tattooed hunk blubbered past him, but he kept his eyes fixed on Christopher.
He was the middle of three brothers who ran most construction sites on the Island: Theo was the builder, Wim managed a roadwork and hardscaping business, and their younger brother handled landscaping and forestry. Each ran their own company, a triumvirate of Islander industry.
“Hêh, Chris, got a mo?” the Islander called up the hill. To Chris, it looked as if the man had lead in his shoes. Sarah’s husband, Wim Koiker, clearly did not want to be here. But the missus had made him talk to Chris and apologize for ‘removing’ the equipment Chris had borrowed from Theo Koiker, and his Uncle Burt, at the beginning of his working holiday — a move Wim had made thinking it would appease the handful of Islanders threatening to withhold jobs from his business.
“Sarah made me come to apolo—,” Wim said by way of greeting, stopping a respectful distance from the brightwork. He could see the layout lines around the flagpole mount in the shape of a compass rose. However, Chris put up a hand to stop Wim in his tracks.
“It’s okay, Mr. Koiker. As I told your wife, I understand the pressure you were put under. No apologies needed. Simons has his thumb on everyone’s neck. You may need to talk with your brother, Theo, and my Uncle Burt, though. And get their equipment back ASAP — with a full tank of gas, as my Uncle likes to joke.” Chris smirked and winked at Wim, then clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder and guided him back toward the lower terrace.
“You’ve done a great job here, Mr. de Boer. I’ve been following your progress from our bedroom window. You really did well. I think I might steal your idea for the homemade dry-mix concrete paths. That worked out well,” Wim admitted.
“That’s exactly why I wanted to talk to you, sir,” Chris replied.
“Call me Wim, Chris. Now, how are you going to finish these roads and those terraces?” he asked, pointing to the roughed-out permeable concrete spaces between the red-brick-lined paths.
“I have no idea. Well, I have one. But that only works on flat ground: mix a thick slurry, fill it to the top of the bricks, and top it off with more crushed seashells. But that won’t work on the slopes. And… It’s too rough for the terraces,” Chris explained.
Koiker sank to his knees, clanking and groaning, and brushed an appraising hand over the rough subflooring and the liquid-rubber-protected red bricks.
“You know what, Chris? I can order a round gravel stone and resin mixture to glue them down. It’s a bit like plastering a wall, only with bigger aggregate. Same amount of effort, though. And if you really like the seashell look, you can press them in the resin as well. But you’re right — crushed shells on the terraces would slash bare feet.” Wim looked up at a smiling Christopher.
“Now, there’s an idea!” Chris smiled thoughtfully, “… I’ll have to see what the budget allows first, though. I’ll talk with Jelmer about it. Maybe get some Islander youth volunteers back to help spread the resin mass. Could we hire some of your guys to teach them how?” Chris asked, relief washing over his face.
He thanked the builder for the suggestion and — as Chris had done for his wife before — he gave Wim Koiker the full tour of the rebuilt bunkers.
Before they took the zig-zag path down the hill, they paused to admire the yellow-brick retaining walls. As they stepped onto the parking spaces at the foot of the dune, Chris said, “Look, I know it might look like it, but I have no intention of becoming your competitor. I purchased that excavator solely to build this steep path. It’s an investment for my future. And I’ve bought myself Bathway 78; it needs a lot of work, too. Maybe we can work together. Or else I’ll use it to help clean ditches; it’s the perfect size for that.”
Wim gave Chris a bro-hug that lingered, turning it into something more profound.
“I’ve spoken with Sarah. She explained everything. Welcome to the family, kid. Not everyone on this god-forsaken Island is against you.”
“Ha, Uncle Wim… God hasn’t forsaken our Island. He loves a good holiday spot. He only needs to send a different Pastor along to guide his flock.”
Releaved, Chris winked and gave the older roadbuilder a tiny, affectionate peck on the cheek.
As he watched Wim cross Back Road, head down the alley, and disappear into their backyard, Chris smiled to himself, “… Good, my plan worked. Running out in the rain to remove the so-called ‘Fire-Lock’ was a good move.”
Chris closed the fire access door with a sigh and replaced the old padlock with a lock of his own. The green construction fence would come down soon; he could feel the project nearing its peak. The base of the flagpole mount and the resin floor leading up the dune were the next priorities on his list.
As he walked toward his cabin on the upper terrace, his mind lingered on the compass rose. “I should get some aluminum, or maybe bronze, for the points,” he mused. “It’ll last a lifetime — much better than cutting bricks into fragile wedges.”
Christopher remembered the scrap pile at the boatyard; it was likely that the old yacht he’d been stripping had exactly what he needed.
After a quick lunch, Chris hopped into his truck and headed into town. He needed to see if he could salvage four wedges from a bronze propeller, but he’d need a heavy bandsaw for a cut that thick.
He sauntered into the local boat supply shop, his eyes already scanning the aisles for high-grade resins and low-voltage lighting to bathe the dune at night — something subtle, enough to highlight the paths without keeping the neighbors awake.
But instead of a stranger behind the counter, he found a very familiar face.
“Shit, are you stalking me?” Drake Willson hissed, his voice tight with a mixture of horror and exhausted nerves.
“Nope. Calm your sexy tits, Snake,” Chris replied, his tone flat and unimpressed. “I need tools for a job, some lighting, and a look at your resin stock. What are you carrying?”
Reluctantly, Drake guided Chris toward the back. The air in the stockroom changed immediately, thick with the heavy, industrial perfume of diesel, hemprope, and WD-40. Beyond the warehouse — which was easily twice the size of the retail storefront — lay a well-equipped fabrication shop. It was exactly what Christopher needed.
He grabbed a heavy hand-tamper, weighing the solid iron tool in his hand while his eyes raked over a CNC router table. It was currently set up for wooden boat signage, but Chris knew aluminum wouldn’t be much of a challenge for it. “The campground could use some better signage anyway,” he noted to himself.
The walls of the fab shop were plastered with the usual suspects: scantily clad women and pinups like ‘Miss April’ smiling down at the grease-stained floor. However, Chris’s practiced eyes drifted to a secluded corner where the scenery changed. Tucked away were images of a different sort — full-color spreads of leather, chrome, and men engaged in the kind of ‘erect’ activities you’d never hear mentioned in Sunday school.
Christopher noticed Drake watching him. He didn’t look away; instead, he began to tamp the floor with a rhythmic, heavy thud, letting the shaft of the iron tool slide through his well-practiced hands. He caught Drake’s eye, gave a slow, predatory grin, and began to stroke the handle of the tamper with deliberate intent.
He watched with satisfaction as the ‘Fireman’s pole’ began to grow restless, the man’s breath hitching as the industrial silence of the shop suddenly felt very, very small.
As Chris put the tamper down and stepped between the work boots of the coverall-clad man, he tilted his head on a hunch. Snake took the bait, like a fish catching the worm on a hook. He leaned forward and kissed the twunk. There was real desire in his eyes now.
As the air between them heated up, clothes began to loosen. Before Snake knew it, he was on his knees servicing the young builder. Chris didn’t have to do anything. He was gobbled up by the eager twenty-five-year-old, ‘straight’ stripper.
After a while, Christopher pushed the novice off his pole and sat down on a stool in the corner where the male erotica decorated the walls. The floor was stained with different kinds of spots here. And it smelled oddly familiar.
“Give me a lap dance. Get me hard. And, sit — on — it!” Chris hissed. Snake didn’t miss a heartbeat. He gave the boy a lap dance as his coveralls dropped around his ankles.
Fully nude, Drake Willson shimmied down, engulfing the hard tool with relish. As the buttocks hit the nuts, Chris ground into action, pumping up as the snake slid down. He had to clamp a hand over Willson’s mouth to stop him from screaming, not in horror, but in utter pleasure. As Christopher reached around to stroke the stripper, Drake lost it.
Streams of spunk flew across the shop floor. Chris pushed the two of them up, grabbed the slippery hips of the closet case, bent him over, and slammed a nut up his butt. As they stood there, anchored on the CNC router table, Chris whispered, “Now, was that good for you, Snail? Your trouser snake seemed to enjoy it.”
“Fuck, that’s — that was — dude, I can get used to this. But we have to clean up. The rest will be back soon!”
“Yeah, clean my dick!” said Chris as he pulled out with a plop and a groan, smacking the sweaty, cum-covered buttocks of Drake Willson.
“What!? No!”
“Get to your fucking knees and finish the job, Snail!… Taste your ass, bitch… Clean me up like a good little rubber stripper. I prefer any of the Village People over a rubber gimp, but you’ll do for now. I know a good leather shop on the mainland if you’re interested, though. And I might have to talk with your boss.”
“Oh, please don’t. I’ll do anything, but don’t talk to him. I mean it. Anything!”
“Ha ha — not about this. You’re very fuckable, indeed. No, I want to ask if I could use the CNC router to create some signs for the campgrounds. And if you want more practice sucking cock, try the toilet block near Dune Crossing at kilometer marker 13. It gets busy after six. Well, maybe the confession pew you’re used to has a horny priest or two. Just don’t swallow every lie they feed you. You do you, Snake.”
The stripper dropped to the floor. And without losing a beat, he licked, gobbled, and slobbered the nine-inch tool clean. As Drake finished the job, Chris pulled him up and cleaned the spilled cum from the man’s face.
“See? That was not so bad after all,” he said, with a last kiss, as they heard the shop’s doorbell chime.
The boat shop owner provided exactly the tools Chris needed to slice the heavy bronze propeller into wedges — four large tips for the cardinal compass rose directions and four smaller ones for the intermediate marks. And as for Drake Willson? Well, the boy had gotten the message loud and clear.
Pastor Simons had only ever told him half the story. The preacher had coerced Drake’s father, the local Fire Chief, into turning his son loose on the dune like a hungry dog, but the whole ordeal had backfired. And Chief Willson wasn’t the only one he subverted for his devious plans. Simons must have half of City Hall ‘converted’ by now. At least if you count the antics of Dick and his son, Noah Burk. Those lies had forged them into unlikely, powerful allies. Slowly but surely, the tide on the Island was finally turning.
After another week’s hard graft, Chris was nearly done building. He opened his Diary at the breakfast table and wrote:
• Diary: Monday July 12th – Almost done.
YAY, I’ve got the final inspections booked. Chitty Hall put on one last hissy fit, claiming they couldn’t do it during the peak holiday season. July or August would be an awkward time. Still, the mainland inspectors overruled the building department’s last-ditch efforts to block me.
Dick Burk has been sidetracked. Don’t know if the new guys are any better, but we’ll find out in less than two weeks. Gosh, this has been a lot of work and very little holiday. And I couldn’t have done it without the volunteers. I’ve been working on and off on the Ferries since last Thursday. Got some guitar practice in, too. Something to soothe the nerves. Keeping myself busy.
The compass rose was soon bricked up, and the resin was ordered. It turned out the marine-grade stock the boat shop carried was half the price of the mainland alternatives, meaning only the golden aggregate needed to be shipped in. As for the signage Chris had envisioned, he didn’t waste a scrap. He cut up the old aluminum hull and used the CNC router to clear away the background, leaving the bold letters standing proud in high relief.
With a coat of dark brown marine paint and a steady hand with sandpaper, he buffed the raised surfaces until the bright aluminum text popped against the dark, recessed background — creating signs that looked like they belonged in a high-end tourist town.
As the first batches of mixed golden resin were blended and poured, Drake was there alongside a fresh crew of volunteers. They spread the smooth, round stone and crushed shells between the red bricks as they sang along with Chris. They applied the coarse seashells on top and tamped them into the base layer, finally bringing the builder’s vision to life.
A few days after the main path into town was cured and solid, the green security fences finally came down. The dune breathed again with the light rhythm of foot traffic. However, Chris was careful to keep the lower-terrace bunkers barricaded from curious onlookers. It was time to shift gears. Literally.
Christopher had found a mainland firm to give his F-550 the specialized upgrades he had no time to tackle himself. He wanted the hydraulic lift kit removed and a new fixed bed installed that wrapped over the cab; the old dump-bed wasn’t all that useful, after all. The company usually built fire trucks, but they were equipped for a beast like his. Chris reviewed their drawings and quotes. All he needed to do was drop the truck off and pick it up at the end of the week.
The timing was perfect. Chris was finally done building. On the dune, the bunkers shone in the summer sun, their colorful additions taking pride of place. The bright white roofs were the only ‘eyesore’ left — a stark reminder of the work remaining beneath the surface. It was time to turn the focus.
The peak holiday season was hitting the Island harder than usual. The ferry company added vessels to meet demand, and even the local tourist board begged for his help. Between those shifts and his evening classes, the boy was booked solid. He lived for high-pressure weeks; they kept his mind off ‘guys’ and the looming stress of the final inspections — or at least, that was the plan before his body began to fight back.
• Continued in part 26 •
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© StrykerJ - June 2026
