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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 30
• Will you Marry me? - Part 1. — The Landmark Proposal.
Friday, Christopher was still floating on the absolute afterglow of the steamy night before. The threesome with Mark hadn’t driven a wedge into his relationship with Wyatt; if anything, it had forged an even stronger bond between them. And Saturday, of all days, during the Harbor View open house, he was going to cement it permanently in place. Honestly, Chris could not believe his luck — Tomorrow he was actually going to ask the love of his life to marry him.
Yet, a double-edged doubt still clawed at the back of his mind. For one, a terrifying thought lurked just beneath the excitement — Chris had only met Wyatt a few months ago. Was that truly long enough to take such a monumental step? And worse, staging the proposal in a glare of publicity so bright, so incredibly public, might not yield the exact result he was praying for.
He knew that Wyatt — or as the government officially knew him, Wytze Antone Theodorus Teller — was deeply in love with him, too. But even though Wyatt was used to the limelight with his cover band, this massive stunt might just be pushing things one step too far.
Luckily, there was still a little time before he had to take that giant leap for ‘de Boer-kind.’ As usual, Chris was up before cock-crow. He had an open house to prepare for, and an awful lot was riding on it. Tomorrow was the final push to get the stupid lies and taunts to stop once and for all. That’s why he had staged the event before the official inspections planned for next week; Chris felt he needed the Islanders on his side. Or, at the very least, he needed to get the truth — the whole ugly truth, and nothing but the nasty truth — into the hands of the public.
• Dear Diary: Friday – One day until the open house.
Quick entry. I don’t know when I’ll have time to do an update this coming weekend.
As I was moving my stuff out of Bunker 26 to my new house, I found a sight for sore eyes on the campground. Barney McKinzie is on the Island for a much-needed vacation! And the brutal, ebony legal eagle hadn’t even told me. I found him in a single-man tent next to a massive dirt bike. He wasn’t dressed in any leather this time — a little disappointing — but the summer is definitely starting to heat up.
My lawyer dragged me right into his tent, instantly pitching a massive tent of his own inside his Bermuda swim trunks. We simply couldn’t resist. I just had to worship those fourteen black inches again.
I nearly gagged when Big-Mc told me he’d found ‘me’ on Grindr. It sort of was my name and a simalar logo, alright — ‘Christ-B.’ But the profile featured a body I’d recognize in a completely blindfolded lineup. Barney took a few pictures of the hookup when he — as he put it — nearly raped that ugly, hairy bastard in a deserted bunker further up the Island. Noah Burk had been using my name on Grindr! Probably to lure in way more guys than ‘Burk’ ever could have with a real profile of his own. The foolish prick!
Fourteen manly inches was way too much for that uptight asshole. From what Barney told me, that hypocritical closet slut wanted to get stuffed raw with thick poz cum. But Barney isn’t positive; he has the clean medical paperwork to prove it. I really need to find myself a family doctor and get checked up, too.
According to Barney, right as they hooked up, Noah started spouting nasty racial slurs like a leaky fire hydrant, completely pissing off the ebony man. So, Big-Mc had to pull a stealth move in reverse — he secretly slipped on a rubber before absolutely splitting Noah wide open.
Ha, I knew it! Noah Burk is into men. Big, burly, black biker men. Well, that’s at least one thing that ‘da Burk’ and I have in common. The closets are full of cum-hungry bitches on this Island! Good thing Barnibald McKinzie is here, though. He gave me all the juicy dirt on Mister Simons and Noah’s father. As expected, Simons ain’t no real pastor after all! And he isn’t even registered under that last name. But there is no need to shoot all my load at once. That time will come.
Master-B has my back — in more ways than one. I am dying to introduce Wyatt to this massive pile driver. Our little oral encounter was short-lived, but man, he tastes so nice. After he gave me his morning load, he looked a heck of a lot more relaxed, at any rate. There will be plenty of time after the big event to get properly reacquainted with Big-Mc’s masterful side again. Still hoping for a proper introduction to some leather bondage. Wyatt can act as Master-B’s helper.
#WhishfulThinking.
The next day, around 5:48 AM on Saturday, Christopher stepped into his coveralls and dusty work boots. There were crowd barriers to place, signs to put up, and market stalls to erect before the vendors and Islander organizations arrived.
Late last night, after one final cut of the lawns, Chris had laid out the crane mats to create a dance floor and seating area at the eastern end of the lower terrace.
This early morning, Wessels’ sound crew was already unloading equipment on this gorgeous day — even the weather seemed to celebrate. They set up speakers around the long row of twenty-four bunkers for a loudspeaker system, and the crew erected a stage inside the extra-tall and wide, circular party tent Chris had ordered from the mainland.
Soon, vendors started to trickle up the dune and down the newly constructed maintenance path. Jelmer and Jessie had organized a group of cheerful volunteers who directed traffic and helped set up displays for the local organizations. Even the ‘Islander Youth Fund’ got a prime booth in one of the rented market stalls. Chris couldn’t believe his eyes at the incredible effort his two second-cousins had put into the setup.
The paramedic, Mark Evens, was given access to the large ‘commander’s bunker’ on the western side of the upper row to set it up as a fully equipped first-aid station, a mandatory requirement for the event permit.
Christopher kept the rest of the twenty-four lower bunkers, barracks, or cabins — or whatever you wanted to call the refurbished, half-buried concrete structures — strictly off-limits to the general public. However, he did open a few patio doors to let the curious Islanders peek inside.
The fire department rolled in with its oldest and most modern pump trucks, setting up a stall to recruit new volunteers. The Koiker brothers set up shop next to them, behind the large officer barracks on the eastern side of the upper row. Even Chris’s excavator, with its odd assortment of buckets and attachments, was completely shined up and put on display. Trucks from the beachguard brigade and the local air force base completed the heavy equipment presentation.
Chris’s sunset-yellow Ford F-550, Goldilocks, took pride of place in the bright summer sun. It overlooked the red clay-tile rooftops of West. The massive, six-rotor inspection drone sat right on the hood, and he stuck the magnetic ‘brushfire’ logo onto the large water tank. He’d even dressed up a mannequin in his crisp, new bushfire uniform he bought from Zable Fire Equipment. Chris was deeply impressed by how seamlessly his new wheels fit in with the rest of the first responders. Even the ambulance stationed at the foot of the dune felt like it was exactly where it was meant to be.
By nine o’clock that morning, the first of the curious Islanders from West sauntered from the newly resurfaced Back Road and up the accessibility path to take a look at the local market fair. It looked nothing like the junk they usually saw at West’s ‘bring-’em-by’ sales at the Protestant Church. Chris had clearly put so much more heart and thought into this event.
The local organizations and businesspeople showed off the absolute best the Island had to offer. Wyatt had even helped the Royal Dutch Lifeboat crew set up shop. They sold their merchandise and asked for donations. Vendors like Skip’s father sold their goods; he was busy selling traditional Islander cakes. Even the Keynote luthier, a jeweler, and a shop selling beach toys for kids were there. They were happily selling their wares to a bustling mix of curious Islanders and eager tourists alike. And Chris’s uncle George had brought half his kitchen brigade along to handle the heavy-duty catering for that day.
There was plenty to see and do on the steep dune. Chris had even arranged a display of military memorabilia from the bunker museum, dressing mannequins in German, English, and Canadian World War Two military uniforms. Sneakily, he had also dressed two male and female dummies in ‘modern German occupier’ skimpy beach clothes. Letting the two dressed-up dolls lie in bathing suits on lounge chairs with a beach towel in the German colors. It elicited a few questioning looks, but somehow it contrasted perfectly with the stark display of eighty-year-old historical memorabilia. The Germans had never really left the Dutch Island, after all.
Aside from the twittering birds and screeching seagulls, the bright, airy soundscape was completed by the cheerful music drifting from Wessels’ band. To Christopher’s immense relief, the place was absolutely packed. With the festival buzzing and the crowd growing, Chris realized he had to scramble back inside to get dressed for the main event — the raising of the official Islander flag on the forty-two-foot aluminum flagpole around ten.
Chris found Wyatt inside Bunker 26, which was nearly emptied out and set up as a temporary office for the event. The tall, blond, long-haired Stallion was getting ready, looking like an absolute fantasy in a fancy, mid-blue western denim cowboy shirt. It featured engraved metal tips on the collar and elaborate white-silver stitching down the front.
As if that bit of bling wasn’t enough, Wyatt had fastened a braided brown leather bolo tie around his neck, clasped closed over his chest with a heavy silver ornamental brooch. The sharp rhombus shape held a faceted oval black stone at its center, and the ends of the braided brown cords were capped with weighted silver tips that dangled over his swimmer’s chest.
The blond Stallion wore a crisp, brown felt Stetson hat and a wide brown leather belt with a bold buckle over a pair of brand-new black jeans. Even the cowboy boots he wore made Christopher drool — a pair of brown snakeskin Sendras with lethal-looking metal toe tips and a rugged chain harness wrapped around the heels.
It completed the image perfectly, a raw, striking sight Christopher had never seen from this Islander before. Chris looked at his man with an approving, dirty smirk. He walked over to his gear bag and fished out a three-inch brown leather wrist guard. As he helped strap it tightly around Wyatt’s forearm, the two couldn’t help but grin.
“Nice boots, man!” Chris gasped as Wyatt stepped in close, pressing their bodies together. “But keep it in your pants, Stallion. We don’t have time.”
“There is time enough for this,” Wyatt murmured softly, capturing Chris’s lips and driving his tongue deep into his mouth. “God, this is going to be so good. I can’t wait until tonight, though — I’m gonna screw your brains out. I had one of the guys pick up a few new toys on the mainland, and I want to try every single one out on you.”
“Aww, don’t spoil the surprise. Though I just might have a few tricks up my sleeve of my own,” Chris teased.
Intrigued, Wyatt watched as Christopher stripped out of his sweaty coveralls. He slid commando into a slim pair of black pleated dress pants. Pushing that aroused nine-inch tool down one pant leg. He stepped into glossy black leather sneakers with clean white soles — youthful, yet fancy enough to make a profound impression.
Next came the crisp white dress shirt — with the Harbor View campground logo on the breast pocket — engineered perfectly for the summer heat. Chris unbuttoned the cuffs and flipped the fabric, but as he began to struggle with the neatness of the folds, Wyatt stepped up.
The cowboy’s supple swimmer’s hands nimbly helped roll the sleeves past Chris’s forearms in tight, precise layers, securely fastening the thin fabric tabs under his upper biceps. The locked-in, button-tab sleeves instantly transformed the look, turning a stiff piece of formal wear into something rugged, breezy, and ready for action.
As the two snuck another quick kiss, Wyatt reached up and playfully undid the top three buttons of his man’s shirt. It revealed a little more skin than Chris would have normally liked for an official ceremony. Still, it beautifully showcased his deep inner pec line, where a black braided-leather Islander pendant now nestled.
Chris smirked and pulled two wide leather wrist guards and a ‘borrowed’ black leather muscle vest from his bag. He held the vest up questioningly, but Wyatt’s eyes lit up instantly.
“With! Definitely with,” Wyatt said, his voice raising an excited octave. “That’s exactly how they need to see you, Colt. Buff, yet sophisticated.”
Wyatt looked a little surprised as Christopher slid a small box into his pocket, but said nothing. In turn, Chris looked at the ceremonially folded Islander flag. Its sharp, triangular shape lay in contrast on a mysterious, oval-shaped, black velvet-covered box sitting right next to it.
'I guess he couldn’t find a pillow as we discussed,' Chris thought as his eyes raked over the strange combination, but he said nothing either. He just smiled at Wyatt as the two stepped out together into the balmy morning sun.
Both Chris and Wyatt then went their separate ways to mingle with the who’s-who of the Island and the massive crowds of tourists. Both men were instantly recognized. People shook Chris’s hands and clapped him on the shoulder as if every single person there was his best friend. All warmly congratulated the nineteen-year-old on a renovation job well done.
Everyone was there. Well, almost everyone. Chris hadn’t expected the core group of haters from the local church to show. However, at minimum, he had expected a small delegation from the local council — or at least Silvia, the Madam Mayor.
But they didn’t matter today. Christopher was just thrilled to see that the construction volunteers and his extended Islander family were out in full force. Heck, even Pastor Evens and Father Dirksoan graced the event with their presence.
Noah Burk and his mates were ‘present,’ too. Despite their recent explosive issues, Noah had actually volunteered on the job site back in May, which technically gave him ‘every right’ to be there for the celebration, according to Christopher.
Because of that, Jessie had reluctantly extended the invitation, though Jelmer had already ordered security to tail the prick’s every move. His white Christian posse was as loud and obnoxious as ever, though, surrounding Noah as if they were his personal bodyguards.
As the time to ‘raise the stakes’ approached, Christopher and Wyatt carefully positioned themselves on the upper terrace of the holiday lets. They were going to raise the flag and create a Landmark to rival the famous Lighthouse.
Chris stood on the western side and Wyatt on the east, carrying the five-colored Islander flag on the mysterious box as if this were more than just an Islander landmark in the making. Wessels’ sound man was signaled to cut the band and loudly announce the imminent arrival of the official Islander flag, asking the visitors to make way for the flag bearers.
As the opening chords of Chris’s original Islander song started to play, the dense crowd congregated around the foot of the accessibility ramp between bunkers one and two in the center of the lower terrace. Both men wore professional-grade head-mounted stereo mics, and the press caught every single step they took. The event had attracted considerable media attention in the week leading up to Saturday, and even the Dutch national news had sent a team of reporters to cover the historic proceedings.
Chris and Wyatt sang along proudly with the track that had made Christopher instantly famous across the Island. The thick crowd parted for them like Moses parting the Red Sea. They gave the two hunky, athletic guys the right of way as they sauntered toward each other to the center of the row. Chris shook hands with total strangers and fist-bumped Islanders and vendors.
Jelmer had instructed his own father and grandparents, Ben and Frida, exactly where to stand for the best view. Chris was completely shocked to see his father, John-Peter, standing right next to Wim and Sarah Koiker. As he strutted past, singing his heart out at the top of his lungs, Chris reached out and briefly brushed his old man’s hand. Gran Sofia instantly hooked an arm around her grandson and gave the boy a wet, audible smooch, playfully wiping her bright lipstick off his cheek with a grin.
Jessie had done the same for Maren and her girlfriend, and Otto and Johanna Teller, ensuring they could give the boys all the loud encouragement they deserved. At the exact same time as Sofia’s kiss for Chris, Wyatt got a proud, heavy clap on the shoulder from Otto that nearly made the tall, blond cowboy buckle under the impact.
Security had to actively push Noah Burk and his rowdy mates back to clear a path for the two men heading up the accessibility ramp toward the foot of the flagpole. As they passed, Chris gave his lawyer Barnibald McKinzie a knowing, solid fist bump that made Noah instantly blush with fury.
The proud ebony man was standing shoulder to shoulder with his half-brother, Inspector Tomas ‘McKinzie’ Tompson. Seeing the two estranged brothers side by side gave Christopher chills unrelated to the life-changing tasks ahead. He sneakily expected the two masterful ebony queer men to get fully reacquainted later that day.
Noah shouted, “Boring!… Get on with it!… I haven’t got all day!” His voice was ringing out loud enough for the professional stereo microphones to pick up perfectly. His eyes widened in shock as the loudspeakers echoed his words over the roofs of the main town. His crew bounced back. And Christopher saw a few fists already balled.
Side by side, the two men of the hour climbed the final stretch of the path to the foot of the gleaming metal flagpole as the last chords of the Island tribute died out. It was followed by the largest, most roaring round of applause Chris had ever received for any rendition of his song — a massive wave of sound laced with a heavy, expectant air.
As Wyatt held out the flag, Chris rolled down the weighted line. He hooked each of the five colored bands to the cable. As the men slowly hoisted the colorful, oversized, lightweight ripstop sailcloth to the top, they recited the traditional Islander Flag rhyme together.
“Red for the roofs,” spoke Chris solemnly,
“… and blue for the sky,” finished Wyatt calmly.
“Yellow for the dunes…” continued de Boer,
“…where the beach grass grows high,” echoed Teller.
Watching the flag gradually rise.
“Green for the meadows,” said Chris as the flag caught the fresh coastal wind,
“… and white for the sand,” sighed Wyatt proudly.
“… Those are the colors of our Islander land …”
Said the two, together with all the watching Islanders, as if in solemn prayer.
The massive, unified chorus sent chills right up the dune. The moment would have been absolutely perfect, were it not for the pathetic taunts of Noah Burk.
“Yeah, yeah. Yawn!… Next, he’ll be raising one of those queer pride flags. Mark my words!” Noah jeered.
Chris just smirked as he securely tied off the hoist line, switching on the flagpole’s anti-collision light. He signaled to Wyatt to switch off his headset microphone for a brief moment; he wanted to warn his man that he was about to do something incredibly bold. Wyatt glanced anxiously down the hill at Noah Burk and his friends, but Chris gently redirected his attention back.
“I have an important question to ask you, Wyatt. We can do it right here in public, or later on in private. The public version might just shut those homophobes up for good.”
“Public it is, Colt,” Wyatt murmured, his eyes locking onto Chris with fierce devotion. “But before you do… I’ve got an Islander-made present for you, too.”
As the two men switched their microphones back on, Wyatt held out the mysterious oval velvet box. What Christopher found inside, as he carefully lifted the lid, made his spine tingle. It was a hatbox with a small, handmade Gambler-style cowboy hat — a sleek, matte-black, full-grain cowhide piece with a distinctive pinch-front. Around the base of the crown sat a beautifully braided, glossy-black leather hatband. It wrapped snugly around the small cowboy hat. The leather-corded braid was fastened to a three-stranded silver love-knot brooch on the left side.
The hat wasn’t as tall or as wide as Wyatt’s imposing brown felt Stetson, but it was perfectly scaled to complement Chris’s sharp, athletic frame and youthful demeanor.
As the large crowd watched in a breathless, awe-struck silence, Wyatt stepped close, lovingly straightening the hat onto Christopher’s head and gently brushing his thumbs past Chris’s temples to adjust the pitch.
A collective, tender sigh seemed to ripple through the hundreds of watching Islanders. Seeing the tall, rugged cowboy claim his man so openly and with such fierce devotion completely neutralized Noah’s toxic jeering, leaving only the pure, undeniable weight of their love hanging in the balmy summer air.
Chris blocked the view from down the dune with his new hat as their lips briefly met behind it. Moments later, he proudly adjusted it to a jaunty angle and fished out the small box that had been burning a hole in his pocket. After showing Wyatt the ring box, Christopher de Boer dropped down to one knee, looking expectantly up at his man.
Right on cue, Noah Burk shouted, “Really?… Did we come here to witness this shit?… Get a room, faggots!”
Chris had fully expected this, but the rest of the Islanders looked ready to string Burk up by his nuts. Hanging him right underneath the new Islander landmark.
“Wytze Antony Theodorus Teller — Wyatt. I’ve already asked your father for your hand. Will you marry me?”
Gasping, and an explosive applause, instantly erupted from the crowd below. It was a good thing the boys were wearing their headset mics, or the cheering would have completely drowned out Wyatt’s answer.
“Robert… Christopher Patrick de Boer —” Wyatt left a long, emotional pause, letting the moment hang in the air before he whispered, “… Yes! Yes, I will! I was wondering when you were finally going to ask me. I am so ready… Oh, Christopher. Yes, I want to marry you!”
Christopher watched his man take the engagement ring out of the box and slide it on his finger. It fit remarkably well and looked even better. His breath hitched so hard he looked like he might faint. Wyatt pulled his new fiancé up and wrapped him in a fierce hug that nearly crushed the absolute love of his life.
Smiling through the tight embrace, Chris fumbled behind their backs to switch off both Wyatt’s microphone transmitter and his own. The rest of this moment needed just a little more privacy than the thousand onlookers down the hill were giving them.
Both men looked briefly at the happy crowd. Noah Burk’s discriminatory shouts were drowned out by the loud, cheerful calls from the rest of the Islanders and tourists alike. They had come for the raising of the landmark flag, but this display of devotion outdid their wildest dreams.
Wyatt’s wide Stetson tilted to one side, blocking most of the crowd’s view again, and Chris followed suit in the opposite direction. They kissed, not giving a damn who might see their embrace or who might be offended by it.
This proud moment was theirs, and theirs alone, even though they could still hear photo cameras clicking away like a ticking time bomb. If this proposal didn’t make the national evening news, nothing would. July was Pride Month after all.
“Happy?” asked Wyatt quietly, as they looked into each other’s souls.
“Very! — But now the real work starts,” answered Chris, hardly moving his lips.
“What do you mean?” asked his fiancé quietly, tilting his head like the Tellers’ Labrador.
“You’ll see. Just play along. I need to confront the elephant in the room. Just keep your mic switched off.”
Christopher had a nervous tremor in his voice, though his eyes remained steady as a rock.
Everything that followed felt a thousand times funnier than Chris had ever expected. Noah Burk had walked right into de Boer’s trap, and Christopher wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip away. Not even now that Noah’s friends had left him standing there, entirely alone.
• Continued in part 31 •
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© StrykerJ - July/August 2026
