Blake Hart
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My First Maypole – Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 20:00:07 +0000 UTCHey everyone! I’m kicking off a fun little two-part mini series, inspired by the writing competition happening over on my subreddit, r/TheGayErotica. I’ll be posting it there tomorrow, but as always, you’re getting the first look here!
While I don’t enter the competition myself, I was inspired by it and wanted to create something fun around it. Feel free to join the competition too, many of you are excellent writers, and I’d love to see what you come up with!
Part 2 will be out tomorrow, and then on Saturday and Sunday, I’ll be posting the final two chapters of Slut for Cabo. A brand new story debuts next week, so stay tuned!
Everyone in this story is 18+
The first thing I noticed when we pulled into New Uppsala was how everything still smelled the same, cut grass, sun-warmed wood, and lilac trees just beginning to bloom. It hit me like a memory that had been waiting in the lungs. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out like a dog, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.
“God, you’re still such a dork,” Mom said from the front seat, but she was smiling too. Even Dad was humming some folk song I half-recognized as we passed the sign with the town’s name carved in birchwood. New Uppsala-est. 1893. Beneath it someone had tacked up a hand-painted banner that read: "Glad Maj! May the Pole Rise!"
My heart did this weird skip.
It’d been nearly a year since we left, Chicago felt like another planet and I hadn’t seen the guys in almost that long. The “Ikea Squad,” they used to call us. I was the youngest, the one always chasing after them barefoot through the pine trails or cannonballing into the lake trying to impress them.
Today, though? I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was already eighteen. Graduated. Done with high school and ready to start my life. And, hopefully, if things went right, I’d be starting that life at Minnesota State University, where they were. I hadn’t told them yet. I wanted to see their faces.
We pulled up to the town, where the celebration took place and standing there with two bottles of cider and a crooked flower crown was Jens.
He looked like summer itself. Shirtless, already, of course. His skin was dotted with freckles like someone had shaken cinnamon on his shoulders. His hair was lighter than I remembered, sun-touched auburn and the flower crown made him look ridiculous in the best way.
“ALBIN!” he shouted, grinning like he was about to launch himself off the porch. “Get your ass over here.”
I dropped my bag and ran.
We hugged hard, tighter than I expected. He smelled like sunscreen and citrus and something just him. I realized I was grinning like an idiot.
“God, you got taller,” he muttered against my shoulder. “And hotter, what the fuck?”
“I missed you too,” I laughed, pulling back. “You look good.”
“Thanks, but not as good as you!” Jens said dramatically, then handed me a cider. “Welcome back to New Uppsala. Seems Midsommar starts early this year. You ready?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Ready for what?”
He just winked. “You’ll see.”
Jens handed me the cider, then flopped down onto on of the many the porches set up for the celebrations in the small-town square.
I turned to Jens. “So tell me, meet any cute guys at college?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. Just a lot of straight boys who get weird when you sit too close in study groups. One guy nearly cried when I complimented his cologne.”
I nearly spit out my drink. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. Full meltdown. Mid-lecture.” Jens tilted his head toward me, grinning. “So? Any nice girls in the big city?”
I shrugged, trying not to sound too lame. “There were a couple, I guess. But nothing ever went past dating. You know how dorky I get with girls.”
Jens gave me this long, slow smirk. The kind that annoyed me and made me realize he was right, both at the same time.
“Maybe,” he said, taking a sip, “you should try with guys. It’s easier.”
I laughed, probably too hard. My voice cracked just a little, and I ducked my head to cover it up. “Nah, I’m good,” I said, waving him off while I adjusted myself slightly on the swing.
“Anyway,” I said quickly, “I’ve got big news.”
“Oh yeah?”
But before I could answer, the low purr of an engine rumbled up the gravel drive. We both turned to look.
It was a beat-up old Volvo, green, scratched, still holding on like it had something to prove. The passenger-side mirror was taped on, and the muffler wheezed like a dying walrus.
My heart thudded.
And I was already smiling when I saw who climbed out.
Jens grinned. “Speak of the devils.”
The Volvo door creaked open and out stepped Leo, tall as a tree and dressed like he’d just come from a linen catalog, or a forest séance.
He wore an open cream shirt that fluttered a little in the breeze, a leather satchel slung across his chest, and a crown of half-wilted wildflowers like it was no big deal. His hair was longer than I remembered, black as ever, brushing the tops of his cheekbones. Pale skin, sunburn blooming across his nose, blue eyes calm as glaciers.
“You look like a Druid,” I said, grinning.
He smirked as he adjusted the strap on his bag. “I come bearing runes and salted licorice from the homeland.”
“Was your grandma glad to see you?”
“She cried when I left.” He paused, then added dryly, “Though it might’ve been the smell of my laundry.”
Then Mikael slid out of the driver’s seat, all bronzed muscle and boyish swagger. Sleeveless shirt, soccer shorts, a fresh scrape on one knee. His brown hair was shorter than last year, and he looked annoyingly good in every way a guy who lifts weights, drinks beer, and doesn't try too hard usually does.
“Albin!” he bellowed, like we were still ten years old and about to wrestle in a sandbox.
I didn’t even try to keep the grin off my face as I jogged over to meet them.
We did one of those chest-bump half-hugs that turned into something more solid. He smelled like sweat, pine, and aftershave. Fuck, I missed this.
“Dude, you got jacked,” I said, patting his back.
“Thanks, bro. Gains and grains.” He flexed a little, mock-serious, then looked past me toward the porch. “And you,” he called to Jens, “rocking the fairy prince vibe, as always.”
Jens raised his cider and bowed from the swing. “You know me.”
Before anyone else could toss in a quip, a familiar voice cut through from across the another porch.
“Well, well, well. The four musketeers, reunited at last.”
We turned to see Mrs. Halvorssen, standing at another porch fence in a wide-brimmed sunhat and a floral apron, holding a pie dish like a prop in a play. She must’ve been seventy-five, easy, but her eyes were sharp as ever.
“You boys together again?” she said, smirking. “That smells like trouble in the making.”
Leo gave a slight bow. “Only the good kind of trouble, fru Halverson.”
She cackled. “I still remember when you all painted my cat blue for midsommar. Poor thing looked like a smurf for weeks.”
“That was Mikael,” Jens said, pointing.
“Snitch,” Mikael muttered.
“Owned it,” Jens replied, sipping his cider.
I just stood there for a moment, heart full and throat tight, watching them banter like no time had passed. For a second, I could see us as we were, muddy knees, sticky hands from ice pops, daring each other to jump off the dock naked. Before anything got complicated. Before I even had words for the way I sometimes looked at them.
And now… here we were again.
Back in New Uppsala.
We decided to go exploring the little town. The Maypole stood tall and wrapped in ribbons, like a sentinel watching over the square. Kids ran wild with flower crowns askew, older folks lingered near food stalls gossiping in Swedish, and somewhere a fiddle was trying to keep time with a Bluetooth speaker.
“God, it hasn’t changed a bit,” I muttered, half in awe, half dizzy from déjà vu.
We moved through the crowd as a unit, Jens taking pastries, Mikael eyeing the bratwurst stand, Leo... already turning slightly ethereal as he drifted toward the bonfire pit.
That’s where we saw Erik near the bonfire pit, standing alone with a pewter coffee mug and a carved walking stick like some kind of wandering Nordic sage.
“Pojkarna!” he called out when he saw us, voice strong despite the years. His white beard looked freshly trimmed, and the Mjolnir pendant at his neck gleamed in the fading light.
Leo moved ahead of us, breaking into fluent Swedish as they embraced briefly.
“Hej, morfar. Jag trodde inte att du skulle komma så tidigt.”
“Det är bättre att komma i början än att missa slutet,” Erik replied. Then with a sly twinkle, he added:
“Hur mår din mormor? Fortfarande arg att jag behöll brudsilvret?”
Leo gave a small shake of his head, smirking. “Nej, hon är bara glad att hon blev av med dig, ditt skratt.”
Erik barked a laugh that turned a few heads nearby. “Hon har alltid varit klokare än mig.”
Then, glancing at the rest of us, his tone shifted as he switched to English. “And the rest of you, you all look taller.
He sipped his coffee and settled into a folding chair like a throne. Not imposing, exactly—but definitely present. Not just as Leo’s grandfather, but as someone who belonged to the bones of this town. This tradition.
We stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the dancers spin around the Maypole. Music swelling.
And just as we turned to go, Erik raised his mug.
“Skål,” he said.
“Skål,” we echoed.
◆◆◆
Later that evening we cut through the woods, following a path only they seemed to remember. The trees were tall and close, golden light slanting through the branches. I followed behind, heart thudding for no good reason, or maybe every reason. I could hear them laughing softly ahead, Jens whispering something to Leo that made Mikael snort.
When we reached the clearing, I stopped.
It was circular, perfectly so, framed by tall birches and soft moss underfoot, flanked by a smaller forest porch close by. In the center of the clearing stood a smaller maypole, not as tall or polished as the town’s, but wrapped in wildflowers, cloth ribbons, and what looked like old leather.
A hush settled over the space. The air felt different here, thicker, like the trees were holding their breath.
Leo stepped forward and touched the pole lightly, almost reverently.
“You guys built it?” I said, eyes wide.
“Every year,” Mikael said. “Private tradition.”
“What? I have never seen it Why?”
“Only for initiates,” Jens added with a sly grin.
“What kind of initiation are we talking about?”
Leo turned to look at me, blue eyes unreadable in the dimming light. “You’ll find out. Midnight.”
“Midnight?” I laughed nervously. “You’re joking, right?”
“Nope,” Mikael said, already tossing down a blanket on the moss like this was the most normal thing in the world. “We’ve all done it. Last year was Jens.”
Jens gave a little bow. “Definitely my best Midsommar.”
“And the year before...” Mikael shot a look at Leo. “Well, we don’t talk about that one.”
“We absolutely talk about that one,” Jens said, grinning wickedly. “Just not in front of Erik.”
They all looked at me.
And I knew, knew-something was coming.
Mikael opened the cooler he'd stashed near the porch. Inside were a few beers, a bottle of schnapps, and something wrapped in a cloth that looked suspiciously ceremonial.
“I don’t like how ominous that looks,” I said.
“You’re not supposed to,” Leo said, kneeling down and unwrapping it slowly. Inside was a crown of flowers much larger and more intricate than any of the ones worn at the celebration. Dark purple blooms. Braided willow branches. A thin red ribbon that trailed like a whisper.
My stomach did a flip I couldn’t blame on the cider.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
Leo looked up at me, serious now.
“You.”
Jens came up beside me, slipping the neck of a beer bottle into my hand without asking. His fingers lingered on mine for half a second too long.
“Tradition,” he said softly. “It’s your first year back as an adult. You’re not just a guest anymore.”
Mikael sat on the porch rail, arms crossed over his chest like a sentry. “Last year was Jens. Year before that? Me and Leo. Sort of.”
Leo: “It started as a joke. Then it… didn’t stay one.”
Jens leaned against my shoulder, warm and casual like always, except now I could feel his breath just below my ear.
“You trust us, right?”
I nodded slowly. The beer bottle was sweating in my hand.
“Then tonight,” Leo said, standing, “we show you what the Maypole is really for.”
◆◆◆
Later, the schnapps burned low in my throat, and so did the heat creeping up my neck.
The firelight danced across our skin, throwing slow shadows. No one spoke for a moment. Then Mikael asked it plain, calm, with a glint in his eyes:
“You’re still a virgin, right?”
The question dropped like a stone into the silence. My breath caught.
Jens didn’t move, but his eyes flicked sideways, watching me, not mocking, just there.
I nodded, small and sharp. “Yeah.”
Leo didn’t react with surprise. He just said, “Good.”
That stunned me more than anything.
“Good?”
Leo stood slowly, brushing off his hands. The fire crackled behind him like punctuation. “It means this matters. The first time always does but especially here. Especially now.”
“Tonight,” Mikael said, voice steady, “you’d be giving it. Offering it.”
Jens leaned in a little closer. “Like planting the first seed of summer. A ritual of release, of... beginning.”
My throat was dry again. I shifted, suddenly aware of every inch of me they could see.
Leo knelt beside me, slowly, as if he were kneeling at an altar.
“This isn’t about taking anything from you,” he said. “It’s about what you choose to give. Freely. Knowingly. In the way our ancestors did with open hands and a willing heart.”
He reached out, palm up.
“Your virginity becomes a kind of offering. For future fertility. For prosperity. For claiming the man you’re becoming.”
Jens murmured, “We all did it. Gave ourselves to the others. It changed us. Not just the sex. The surrender.”
“You’d be bound,” Leo said again, voice lower now. “Tied to the maypole, not as punishment. As a symbol. Of tradition. Of trust. Of unity.”
I looked from Leo to Jens to Mikael.
Mikael’s voice was soft, unusually so. “You’d be worshipped. Every inch of you. You wouldn’t be used, you’d be adored.”
Jens added, “We’d take care of you. Every step.”
“And if I want to stop?” I asked, because I had to.
Leo’s hand didn’t waver. “Then you say stop, and we stop. No guilt. No pressure. No shame.”
I looked at his hand.
At the flower crown, now sitting in Jens’s lap like a halo waiting for a head.
At the firelight painting Mikael’s strong arms in gold.
Leo looked at me, “So, do you want to?”
And I could feel it now, thick in the air. This pull. This moment. This unspoken gravity drawing me forward into something ancient and unspeakable.
The Maypole loomed just beyond the clearing, its red and white ribbons twisting in the wind like veins. The pole... upright. Waiting. I stared at the crown, then at each of them, three boys I had grown up with, laughed with, trusted, loved in ways I never dared say out loud.
And I felt it, the pull. And the answer forming on my lips.
