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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 8
• Drama allround.
The ‘satisfied sleep’ Chris had promised himself didn’t last past midnight. By two AM, he was still staring at the dusty concrete of the cabin ceiling, his body exhausted but his brain wired like a live circuit. He felt less like a man and more like a stadium — a silent spectator watching a bloody soccer riot break out between his Conscience, his Soul, and his Mind.
“You’re a dawg, Chris!” his Conscience hissed, taking the lead in the argument. “Jelmer looked you in the eye and told you he loved you. He gave you his heart, and you rewarded him by letting a Cop use yours as a landing strip in a public toilet. You cheated. Plain and simple!”
But his Soul wasn’t having it. It stepped up to the mic with a cold, hard pragmatism that tasted like a mouthful of seawater. “Love? On this Island? Don’t be delusional. This relationship won’t last past the summer. Chris is headed to technical college in September — he’s becoming an engineer, not a fisherman. There’s no room for a man like Chris on this sand trap. Why would he starve himself now for a future that’s already dead?”
Then there was his Mind — the loudest, nastiest player in the bunch. It didn’t care about loyalty or the future; it just wanted more. “Shut up, both of you. School comes first. Career comes second. Everything else is just a distraction. So let Chris fuck around while the weather’s warm. Taste every bit of man-meat this Island has to offer, and figure out if he prefers it with a girl or a guy.”
Both Conscience and Soul turned on his Mind. Their voices merged into a roar that made Christopher’s brain throb. They reminded him that his Mind hadn’t been forged by his own choices, but hammered into shape by three mean older brothers and a sister. They had spent years calling him ‘the runt.’ They’d mocked him for not chasing skirts, their suspicions about his ‘preference’ dripping from every insult like venom.
Chris shifted in the dark, the leather of his jeans creaking against the sheets. The physical reminder of Officer Tom — the dull throb in his butt and the lingering scent of musk — was a heavy weight. He was nineteen, confused, and not as much in love with Jelmer as ‘Jelly-Belly’ was with him.
Chris didn’t even know why Jelmer had declared his love for him. Living together for just a few days had already shown that his lover was having second thoughts. “Yup, conflicted as fuck,” he thought. He turned onto his side and killed the alarm clock. It had been set for an early morning workout, but Christopher felt he couldn’t face Jelmer in the gym just yet.
At ten AM, Christopher awoke with a start. Jelmer had jumped onto his camp bed, stark naked, his grinning face inches from Chris’s own. The plump, hairless weight of his nuts swung lower and lower until they were pressing against Chris’s lips. Jelmer was tea-bagging him awake.
“Did you sleep well, fucker? Get up, it’s ten already. You missed breakfast at Granddad’s,” he laughed, completely oblivious to the internal riot Chris had endured all night.
More out of habit than anything else, Chris let his tongue do the talking. He slobbered over the smooth sack, his throat tightening as he was face-fucked into full wakefulness. At the same time, Jelmer excitedly babbled the ‘news of the day.’
Apparently, Pastor Simons of the local Protestant Church had barged in during breakfast. Ben and Frida had been sitting with Jelmer and his brother Jessie in the kitchen when the Reverend and two Elders practically broke down the door. They had heard rumors that Christopher and Jelmer were in a gay relationship, and that didn’t sit right with these holy men. Little did they know that Great Uncle Ben, Frida, and Uncle Charles had already given the boys their blessing.
Charles — Jelmer’s and Jessie’s father — was a deep-sea container ship sailor who had already texted his son with congratulations. He was gone for most of the year and let Frida and Ben decide what was best for the family.
“Ben got really angry with Pastor Simons,” Jelmer explained, his cock twitching in Chris’s mouth. “He officially broke with the church right then and there. Gran was a bit upset, but she came around when Jessie told them he was in a relationship with Peter, too. I guess love won — game, set, and match.”
“Aww, that’s cool, Jel. Well, I have a story to tell you, too,” Chris said calmly, pulling away from Jelmer’s crotch to catch his breath. “I was stopped by Officer Thomas yesterday after you apparently ran him off the road.”
Chris watched Jelmer’s face closely. “Did you know Tom is gay, too? Anyway... long story short. His twelve-inch black cock fucked me at the glory holes at kilometer marker thirteen last night —” Chris went silent, waiting anxiously for the explosion.
He expected a reprimand for going behind Jelmer’s back, or perhaps a lecture on safety. However, the reaction he got was far worse. Jelmer’s face turned a violent shade of red.
“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! Stop lying to me! — You always make stuff up! That can’t be true... Really, you need to stop bragging, Christopher!” Jelmer screamed, his voice cracking with rage.
Chris was stunned. His lover didn’t just think he was a cheater; he thought he was a delusional liar. When Chris tried to insist it was the literal truth, Jelmer only got more heated. “Okay... IN THAT CASE, I’D BETTER LEAVE! I don’t mind you fucking around... But do not lie to me, ASSHOLE! I won’t be friends with a LIAR!”
Jelmer stormed into the living room to snatch up his clothes. The glass in the cabin’s kitchen door rattled violently as he slammed it behind him, not even bothering to say goodbye to his ‘bewildered ex.’
Chris sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the shriek of the seagulls outside. Was this the end of their short-lived relationship? Jelmer had said he didn’t mind the sex with others — the issue was the disbelief. Or was the accusation of lying just a convenient escape route for the man who wasn’t ready for the reality of Chris’s appetite? “Who knows,” he thought, “… It might just be the aftermath of Pastor Simons’ failed intervention that had finally gotten to him.”
The ambitious plans for the bunker cabins — the blueprints, the rainwater tanks, the legacy he’d been so proud of — felt like a cruel joke now. A wave of genuine nausea rolled through Chris’s gut, so sharp he had to grip the edge of the kitchenette counter just to stay upright.
Everything felt sordid. Tom’s lingering love and his massive schlong, the violent rattle of the door Jelmer had slammed, and the suffocating weight of his own dirty secrets. He couldn’t face Ben’s disappointed frown or Frida’s motherly concern, let alone look Jessie or Jelmer in the eye. He was ‘the queer runt’ again, a messy kid who had broken his favorite toy and didn’t know how to fix the pieces.
He moved like a man possessed, shoving his clothes into his bags with trembling hands. Chris didn’t bother folding anything; he just wanted to be gone before the Island’s walls finished closing in. ‘Hide. Flee. Never come back,’ his mind chanted in a frantic rhythm. He hauled the heavy bags over his shoulder and grabbed the keys to the bicycle he’d borrowed from Uncle Burt.
Fleeing the cabin, he avoided the main roads, steering the bike onto the seashell paths and goat tracks that skirted the main town. He pedaled until his lungs burned, his eyes darting around like a fugitive’s, terrified he’d see Jelmer’s silhouette or hear Jessie calling his name. Tears streamed down his face, blurring the world around him. Chris was heading for Grandmother Sofia’s place, the only sanctuary left where the air didn’t taste like betrayal.
Near Deadman’s Lake, Chris had to stop and wipe his nose. He sat down on a tree stump, his chest heaving as he watched some goat kids playing in a field nearby. He felt like he was up a creek without a paddle, and he had absolutely no idea what to do next.
• Fucking Diary: May - something-or-other, who cares.
Damn, what a situation I’ve landed myself in. I thought I was doing right by Jel… I can’t even write his fucking name. I was a fool. If I hadn’t told him about Thomas, none of this would have happened. But the worst part? I was actually proud of the conquest. I like ’em big. I like the weight of him. His skin color isn’t the problem — it’s the fact that I’m more excited by a Caribbean muscle god in a public toilet than the man who says he loves me and then calls me a FUCKIN’ LIAR.
Breaking up is hard. Look at those goats — not a care in the world. People say, “Life must go on.” But how the fuck do I do that when HE called me a liar for telling the truth? I want out. I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for this relationship shit. Not with a guy. Maybe not with anyone.
He shoved the notebook back into his bag, the honesty of his own words making him feel even more exposed. He needed a place where he didn’t have to explain himself.
Chris found his sanctuary at his grandmother’s place. They sat chatting for a good hour, the familiar scent of her home acting like a balm on his frayed nerves.
Christopher eventually asked if he could stay in the guest room for a couple of days, and Sofia didn’t need to be a psychic to see that something was terribly wrong. He laid out the wreckage of his morning, and she listened with a quiet, steady presence before helping him unpack his things in the guest room.
“Take a nap, soan…” she said in her warm Islander dialect, pulling the heartbroken boy into a tight hug. “… I will call you when lunch is served, Chris. And I will have a talk with ‘our beloved’ Pastor myself.”
“Don’t bother, Beppe,” Christopher muttered into her shoulder, his voice cracking. “… I’m not hungry anyway. And please, don’t tell anyone I’m here. I really need to be left alone for a couple of days!” he begged, the weight of the world finally pulling at his eyelids. His grandma chuckled as Christopher called her ‘Beppe.’ She knew he was home; the Frisian Islander dialect had caught up with her ‘soan’ — her grandson.
By Sunday morning, the Island was in a state of high-alert panic. Search parties combed the tall beach grass, and the local police were scrambling to find their new favorite son. No one had seen Chris board a ferry, he wasn’t at the bunker complex, and he hadn’t checked into any of the hotels. The tension turned macabre by noon when a dive team began dredging the notorious sandpit at Deadman’s Lake for a body.
At Sofia’s, Uncle Burt burst through the back door, breathless.
“The whole damn Island thinks he’s dead,” he told his mother. Sofia didn’t even look up from her knitting. She told him Chris was in the guest room, but if he breathed a word of it to the searchers, he’d be sleeping in the bike shed out back.
Meanwhile, Jelmer was at the police station, his eyes bloodshot and hands trembling as he tried to give a statement. Tommy watched from the hallway, his chest tightening. The Sergeant signaled for Jelmer to follow him outside. They sat on a sun-drenched bench behind the station, the tall, muscular frame of the ebony Officer looming large over the distraught boy.
“Tell me, Jelmer… what really happened yesterday?” Tom asked softly, his Caribbean lilt lowered to a confidential hum.
“He… Chris was bragging, as usual,” Jelmer choked out, finally spilling his guts. “He told me he… well… that he’d sucked you off. I told him he was a filthy liar, and I left the asshole. I HATE LIARS! I thought he was just trying to make me feel small.”
Tom looked out at the dunes, his expression guarded but honest.
“Have you considered that he was actually telling the honest truth? Jelmer… we did play together at the marker thirteen glory holes. Every word he told you was real. And… Umm… I gave him the ride of his life. I fucked him silly, Jelmer, Sorry!”
Jelmer’s jaw dropped in stunned surprise. This explained everything. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. “He wasn’t lying?”
“No. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this, Jelmer. And I’m sorry I took your boy for a round. He seemed eager to —” Tommy said, his hand dropping onto Jelmer’s shoulder. To his surprise, the tension completely drained out of Jelmer, replaced by a manic, hysterical laugh.
“HA… Ha… ha, That explains a lot. He likes his men big and rough. Thank God… thank you, Tom!” Jelmer exclaimed, wiping his eyes. “You can play with him all you want! I just thought… I was so certain he was mocking me… Oh hell, how could I have been so stupid?”
Tom gave him a knowing wink, the corners of his mouth twitching. “It’s okay. Now, do you have any idea where to find him? Because the makeup sex is going to be legendary.”
Back at the lunch table, Sofia dropped the hammer. Telling Christopher, “The whole Island is looking for your corpse, Chris. They’re dredging the lake.”
“Let ‘em look,” Chris snapped, stabbing at his potatoes. “I’m not ready to stop feeling sorry for myself. I’m taking the ferry home tomorrow. This whole place makes me sick.”
“You’ll do no such thing, soan!” Sofia barked, her Islander pride flaring, “… Our family finishes what we start. You don’t have to sleep with Jelmer, but you owe it to Ben to finish those cabins. Now, stop being a coward. Call the police station and tell them you’re alive.”
Chris paled under her gaze. He realized the ‘runt’ act wouldn’t work here. “Fine. Call the station in the next town over,” Chris muttered. “But ask for Officer Thomas. Only him.”
When Tom picked up the line, the relief in his voice was palpable. He sounded like a man who had just seen a ghost walk back into the living.
“Hi, Tom. It’s Chris. I’m okay,” Chris said, his voice flat and weary. “I just need some time alone. Away from Jelmer. So please… don’t let him know I called.”
“Okay. I’m glad you’re alright, buddy… You had a lot of people worried. Where are you calling from, Chris?” Tom asked, his tone shifting into professional ‘Officer’ mode, searching for a location.
But Chris didn’t have any more answers to give. His mouth had gone dry, and his brain started to throb again. He hung up the phone without a word, the dial tone buzzing in his ear like an angry hornet. He retreated back to the guest room and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the world to stop spinning. He wasn’t ready to be the Island’s hero, and he certainly wasn’t ready to be Jelmer’s boyfriend. For now, the silence of Sofia’s house was the only thing he could stomach.
However, by late afternoon, even the walls of Sofia’s guest room felt like a coffin. Chris needed to drown the stadium riot in his head, and he needed something stronger than tea. He slipped out the back and walked through the village like a ghost. He passed the lighthouse, the bakery where Sipke was likely kneading dough, and the B&B owned by his aunt Petra. He saw the sidelong glances from the locals — the whispers of ‘the boy who came back from the dead’ — but he ignored them all. His feet led him straight to ‘The Whaler.’
The beachclub doors were locked. “Just my luck… of course they’re closed,” he muttered, slumped against the weathered wood of the terrace. He’d only been sitting there a minute when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. It was Wessel, the owner, looking every bit the salt-crusted father figure.
“Come on in, boy… let’s talk,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble as he unlocked the door.
Christopher took a stool at the mahogany bar, the air inside smelling of stale hops and old stories. Wessel slid a large, frost-covered pint in front of him and watched as Chris drained half of it in one desperate go.
“Ha… is it that bad?” Wessel laughed, though his eyes were kind.
“Worse —” Chris said, his eyes blurring with moisture again. “Jelmer broke up with me. He thinks I’m a liar because he can’t handle the truth of what I am. Or maybe he just can’t handle me.” It felt like a physical weight lifting just to say it out loud.
Wessel didn’t offer pity. Instead, he slid a tattered notepad and a pen across the bar as he pulled another pint. “Write that down. There’s a song in there somewhere, and the world loves a good heartbreak tune.”
Chris started to scribble, the words flowing with a jagged, honest energy. He asked Wessel for something bluesy, but instead of playing, Wessel reached behind the bar and handed over his most prized possession — a vintage, expensive acoustic guitar. Chris laid it across the bar, his fingers finding the familiar frets.
He started a slow, rhythmic strum, a deep blues progression that mirrored the throb in his chest. Wessel leaned over the lyrics, humming a harmony. For the next twenty-two minutes and several pints, the world outside didn’t exist. They jammed, they cursed, and they finally recorded a rough, soulful track on Wessel’s studio deck, their voices blending in a slightly tipsy, perfect discord with a clear moral: “♪ ♫ ‘If you split me open, you’d better like the truth you find inside.’ ♫ ♪”
Afterward, they collapsed into the leather couches by the stage, the room spinning in a pleasant, golden haze. Chris felt a lightness he hadn’t known since Amsterdam. Wessel clinked his whiskey glass against Chris’s beer.
“Buddy, if I were gay, I’d do you right here on the stage. You’re fucking amazing. A real artist.” He paused, a lopsided grin on his face. “I hope you and Jelmer find a way back, though. If not? There’s definitely another song in these feelings you’re having, Chris. I love your voice, man. We need to write some more.”
The warm, golden haze of the pints and the blues was still humming in Chris’s ears when the front door of The Whaler swung open, letting in the cool evening air and the last of the May sun. The heavy, measured thud of boots announced the arrivals before the light hit them: Officer Tom, Aunt Dianna, and Uncle Mathias.
“There you are!” his uncle called out, his voice a mix of frustration and profound relief. Aunt Dianna looked like she’d aged five years in a single afternoon, her eyes scanning Chris for injuries as if he’d just crawled out of a shipwreck.
But it was Tom who moved first. He didn’t come in with handcuffs or a lecture; he simply navigated the darkened tables and sat down on the leather couch next to the tipsy boy. More out of instinct than anything else, Chris leaned into him, giving the tall hunk a firm, desperate hug. He needed the solidity of the man — the familiar scent of the vintage brown leather jacket and cologne that reminded him he wasn’t a ghost.
“Guess you needed some time to put your thoughts on paper,” Tom whispered into his ear, his voice vibrating with a deep, understanding rumble, glancing at the song in the notebook. He squeezed Chris’s shoulder with a hand that felt like an anchor.
“But you did give us a good scare, boy. The whole Island was ready to pull the plug on the lake. Someone had seen you sitting there, crying.”
Chris pulled back just enough to look at him, his head swaying slightly. ”Yeah… that could not be helped,” he muttered, his tongue feeling thick. “Jelmer kicked me out. He can’t handle the truth. It seems he wasn’t ready for me to move in with him afterall…”
He looked over at his distant relations, who were hovering near the bar, watching the exchange with wary eyes. The ‘truth’ Chris was talking about was a twelve-inch secret currently sitting right next to him on the sofa. Still, to his family, it just sounded like the rambling of a heartbroken kid.
The transition from the smoky warmth of The Whaler to the inside of the Land Rover had been a blur of cold salt air and the smell of Tom’s leather upholstery. Chris remembered arguing — something about bunker blueprints and not wanting to see Jelmer’s ‘betraying face’ — before the rhythm of the tires on the gravel road finally lulled him into a stupor.
When Christopher finally clawed his way back to consciousness on Monday morning, the sunlight hitting the bedroom wall felt like a physical assault. He was stark naked, tangled in high-thread-count sheets that definitely didn’t belong to his grandmother or the campground cabin.
He shifted, his muscles aching with a specific, rhythmic soreness, and realized he wasn’t alone. Tom was lying facedown next to him, his massive, dark frame taking up two-thirds of the bed. As Chris sat up, he noticed the Sergeant’s backside was exposed — relaxed, slick, and looking thoroughly used.
“Morning, sunshine. You finally back with us?” Tom’s voice was a gravelly morning rumble. He didn’t move, just cut his eyes toward Chris with a lazy, satisfied smirk.
“Oh, hey, Tommy…” Chris croaked, clutching his head. “How did I end up here? Last thing I remember was Wessel’s guitar.”
“You refused to give me an address, and you were too drunk to be left on a park bench,” Tom laughed softly, finally rolling over. He looked revitalized, while Chris felt like he’d been run over by a ferry. “So I brought you back here. I thought you’d just pass out, but apparently, you had some demons to work out. You fucked the absolute crap out of me, boy. Drunk or not, you’ve got a nice mean streak in you.”
Tom reached over to the nightstand, handing Chris two aspirins and a glass of water. “I’ve had a lot of men try to handle this size, but you… You went at it like you were trying to drill for oil. I think you might have actually broken something.”
Chris gratefully took the glass of water, his mind flashing with jagged, visceral memories of the night: his hands slid over Tom’s massive shoulders, the sound of pleasure from the Sergeant’s heavy groans got muffled by the pillow. The desperate, angry heat of his own aching mind, trying to forget Jelmer. He hadn’t been a ‘runt’ last night; he’d been a force of nature. But somehow, the hard sex had unclogged something; the conflict in his brain finally subsided.
“Sorry,” Chris muttered, though his smirk matched Tom’s. “♪ ♫ The truth is a heavy load, remember? ♫ ♪”
“Don’t apologize,” Tom said, pulling Chris down for a rough, morning-breath kiss that tasted like forgiveness. “I think I prefer you when you’re not being a ‘good boy,’ Christopher. It has been a while since I got butt-fucked that roughly. I hope it’s not the last time this summer.”
Chris smirked nastily and let his tongue soothe the brown buns. Smelling the great sex they must have had. He was just disappointed he could not remember a thing, but the evidence was clear to see.
Tom served them breakfast in bed, and Chris took the bus back West to get back to the Harbor View Campgrounds.
• Continued in chapter 9 •
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© StrykerJ - February 2026
