Date: Tue, 11 May 1999 18:25:17 PDT From: "Robert J. Cutter" <cutter57@hotmail.com> Subject: "My Melancholy Dane - Part 1" (Man/Boy) Disclaimer: The following contains depictions of a man/boy sexual relationship. The story is also interracial in nature. It is a work of fiction. All characters are completely the creations of the author. If any aspect of sex or of the human experience offends you, please go elsewhere. Author's Note: Please take a minute to e-mail me any comments you have about this story. I appreciate anything that you, the reader, have to say; this is my only way of knowing what kind of job I'm doing and if my efforts are worthwhile. Please let me know at my e-mail address: cutter57@hotmail.com. I will answer all e-mails. Thanks Robert J. Cutter MY MELANCHOLY DANE Copyright 1999 by Robert J. Cutter - All Rights Reserved The author retains all rights to this story. It is not permissible to distribute it to any newsgroups and/or other web sites without the express written consent and permission of the author. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- He is lying in the bed next to me with his back pressed against my side. I'm lying on my back with both arms over my head, hands holding fast the headboard. I hear the summer thunderstorms rumbling and crashing outside. The thunder is loud and the flashes of lightning completely light up the room every few seconds. But still Simon does not move. His breathing is very slow and regular but I'm convinced that he's not asleep. Something happened tonight that he knows will affect our on going four-year relationship. I'm sure that Simon does not want to talk about it just yet and that he's just pretending to sleep, hoping that I will fall asleep first. The feeling of him against me is as wonderful as it has always been. I feel so much at peace and my mind seems to roam so free when Simon is with me - especially when we are in bed together. My spirit seems to soar and ideas come so easily and frequently. Where do I begin our story? Simon's and mine. It's definitely our story - not my story or Simon's story but our story together. However, the events of tonight could drive a wedge between us that will make our future lives together almost impossible. Another particularly violent roll of thunder; I get up and walk over to the windows and look out at the raging storm. These summer storms are as magnificent as they are frightening. The physical phenomenon occurring outside my window mirrors the psychological turmoil that I'm experiencing. I live in a converted factory building in the warehouse district of New Orleans, my favorite city in the world. I am what some would call by some a struggling artist. To me I am an artist, and a very excellent one. I live in this enormous space trying to produce works of art that are true to myself and that will also sell. I have not been too fortunate. My loft is crammed with unsold works. I have been approached by numerous art dealers who have tried to convince me to make my works more accessible - that is, smaller and more compact. But I steadfastly refuse to change anything to appease the so- called proper tastes of the art world patrons. My works are very large - sometimes as much as twenty feet high and even wider. I will not compromise my talents or principles - I have to create what I have to create. It has to come from within me and it has to spring organically from deep inside of me. My works obviously do not have mass appeal, otherwise I would be rich by now. I work in various media - oil, tempera, acrylic, epoxy and select pieces of refuse like chicken wire, wood, newspapers and whatever else I can salvage and use. Whatever I produce with whatever materials I use, however, there is only one subject that I pursue - and that is Simon. I am absolutely obsessed with him and his incomparable boyhood beauty. From the first time he entered my studio he is all that I have wanted to reproduce or paint or recreate. The exquisite beauty of his body, the ethereal refinement of his face, the totally godlike appearance of his form - all of these things have made him my muse and my only subject. I look at him again. He has rolled onto his back and I see him in all his matchless beauty. He is sleeping naked and every detail of his matchless form is readily discernible. The sum of his peerless beauty is indisputable. His incredible body is occasionally illuminated by the lightning. Even in this strange and unnatural light he looks like the boy god he is. His beautiful arms and legs are akimbo. They are so gloriously molded - so smooth, so satiny, so delicately created, so infinitely pleasing to the senses. God, he is ravishing; beauty like this comes along so incredibly infrequently. He is all I want, all I desire, all I need. It seems eons ago that I was waiting at Hartsfield International Airport for the flight from Frankfurt. I know realistically that it was only four years ago, but what happened in those four years has changed my life - my entire world - completely. Part 1 - Meeting In Atlanta I was born in Germany twenty-six years ago. My father was a black American serviceman doing his duty for his country and my mother was a white German fraulein - blonde hair, blue eyes. They never married and after fifteen months of service overseas, my father was rotated back to the states. My mother could be called a whore by some, but to me she was just mother. Yes, she had many different men, and yes, she had many children. Some of the children were black, like me, some were white with blonde hair and blue eyes, some had Asian features and some were just ordinary looking kids. But they were all my brothers and sisters; we loved each other and excellent took care of each other. We were a very caring and tight family unit. There were a total of seven of us children. It wasn't easy to keep our loving family together, though. Money was always scarce. When we were old enough each of us kids tried earning money as best he or she could. Selling newspapers, hawking candies, cleaning people's homes, etc. were some of the ways we brought extra money home. Because my artistic bent was recognized when I was quite young, I was sent by my older siblings to make drawings using colored chalk on the sidewalks near the train station. People would drop a few pennies on the drawings and I would quickly snap them up. Our family also qualified for a state subsidy program and that helped things out enormously. This was our life. I did go to school - my mother insisted that all the kids try to get as much of an education as possible. The schools were okay, I suppose. I did learn to read and write and even learned how to speak English. When I was eighteen years old I immigrated to the United States. This was on the advice of my mother who felt that a black man in Germany was not something to be desired. Of course, I was a complete oddity and a total outcast in America. Here I was, a tall black man speaking with a very heavy German accent. I was shunned by the black community and by the white community and by any German-speaking group. I eventually made my way to New Orleans. It was a moderately long and a very torturous journey. After studying in various art schools and taking free college courses wherever I resided, I discovered the joys and freedom of New Orleans. Yes, it's hot and very humid in the summer, and yes it rains most of the time and the city flood periodically. But I love it! It is so free and open and food is absolutely fabulous. That is, when I can afford it. And the gay life is very good. I had known since I was in my early teens that I was gay and I used to occasionally prostitute myself to make some extra money while living in Germany. I took a few odd jobs in various restaurants in New Orleans while continuing to work on my art. I shucked oysters, filleted fish, clean out the various places all to be able to afford to live in a hovel and work on my creations. Then about four years ago I was speaking to my sister Maria (who was still living in Germany). She suggested that I need other interests in my life - like having a child living with me. It seemed that her son Simon had become a discipline problem - getting into constant trouble with the police and school authorities. She said it began right after her husband left her and went back to Denmark. She promised that she would send me money every month if I agreed to have Simon live with me. She had a handsome divorce settlement in addition to her own considerable income from her chain of lingerie shops. I really had to think about this one. Having a nine-year old boy living with me would certainly bring about an enormous change to my life style. It would mean staying home and not cruising bars or hotel lobbies. But it would also mean that I wouldn't have to work because the amount of money she offered was really substantial. Her ex-husband was sending her plenty of money every month she claimed and she would send me enough to keep up my work and not have to perform menial tasks to make ends meet. She had three other children (all girls) and she needed to get Simon into a strong male dominated environment before she'd lose her mind. I call her the following week and said that I would do what she asked. She was thrilled and said Simon was too. After the decision was made it was a never ending process of lawyers and immigration officials and more lawyers and more immigration officials. I had become a United States citizen only six months before and had zero connections. However, an ex-lover of mine was currently "seeing" a certain congressman and he definitely helped things proceed along. After all the paperwork was completed and totally legal I sent Warren a big bouquet of flowers as a thank you gift; it was personally delivered by a ravishing young man. Simon was scheduled to arrive in Atlanta during the Christmas holidays - the rainy season in New Orleans. Come to think of it, it's always the rainy season in New Orleans. Only in wintertime the rain is a cold rain being driven off the Gulf of Mexico. I knew what he looked like because of the photos my sister had sent me of him and because I had met him a few years earlier when I had visited Germany. I knew he was blond, had blue eyes and was very thin. According to the recent photographs he had developed into a real beauty; in reality he was absolutely gorgeous. He had all the attributes of what we commonly refer to as Nordic blood - and then some. What I hadn't expected was how soft spoken, polite, charming and endearing he was. I could not reconcile this current behavior with the kid who was being hounded by the police and by his schoolteachers? When we first met he was so quiet and shy that I had to coax a word or two out of him. He spoke English very well when he did speak. However I spoke to him in German when we first met. He also spoke Danish (his father's native language), French and Spanish. He was quite a linguist. He was quite a boy. I had driven from New Orleans to Atlanta to meet him. I borrowed a car from a model I was using at the time. Simon's flight was scheduled to come in late in the day from Frankfurt. I decided we should spent the first night of our new lives together in a hotel near the airport and then drive to New Orleans the next day. When I saw him come through the immigration gates I was immediately struck by his exquisite beauty. He was wearing the same thing that boys all over the world were wearing - jeans, a tee shirt, and sneakers, and he was carrying a very large backpack. He had no other luggage since his mother was shipping his personal belongings separately. His blonde hair shone lustrously even in the harsh artificial lighting of the terminal. I swear that his blue eyes could be seen from fifty feet away - they were that large and that luminous. He slowly walked up to me and extended his right hand. We shook hand and he looked down at his shoes. "Don't you have a kiss and a hug for your uncle?" I asked. He nodded and dropped his pack and slowly stepped forward into my open arms. I was squatting down; I kissed him on both cheeks and hugged Simon to my body. He had a delicious boy aroma combined with the effects of being on an airplane for twelve hours. "Are you hungry?" I asked. He shook his head. "Well then, let's get over to the hotel and we can eat later. After checking in and going to our room Simon seated himself on a chair near the television and turned it on. He picked up the remote control and began flipping through the various channels. This must be an international male thing - give a male a remote control and he can amuse himself happyily for hours. Simon was surprised at the number of channels available; I told him that there are even more available in New Orleans. "Do you want to shower or clean up or anything, Simon?" "Ya, that would be good, uncle. It was a long flight." Simon began undressing right in front of me. I had forgotten that Europeans have many fewer inhibitions than we Americans do. Simon slowly slipped off his jeans, his shirt and white boxer underwear. It was almost like a striptease - slow, sensuous and utterly charming. He was finally standing there in front of me completely nude. I must have had my mouth opened because I suddenly found it getting very dry. His beauty was breathtaking - absolutely breathtaking. As an art student I really appreciated the exquisite beauty of his form. It was a body like the classical painter used as models - smooth pale alabaster skin sprinkled so lightly with almost invisible blond hairs. His back had an incredibly sensuous curve leading down from his long thin neck to his gloriously rounded and prominent ass mounds. He had sleek, smooth arms showing just the slightest hint of future muscle development. The muscles and shape of his thighs and lower legs were ravishing - as smooth and gently curved as a draftsman might create on one of those sexy, high styled sports automobiles. His face was luminous - those enormous azure blue eyes, the perfectly shaped small nose with just the exact correct number of freckles across it. And those lips...those lip. They were rosy and full and parted so sensuously - they absolutely invited another set of lips to press against them. He almost seemed to be posing for me - showing off his glorious body from just about every angle. I was absolutely certain that this was what he was doing. As I looked at him closer I could see the blue of the veins below the surface of his slightly translucent skin. His skin almost looked like a delicate latticework screen; it was most fascinating presentation of the human body I had ever experienced. I knew, I absolutely knew that Simon was trying to entice me - and he was succeeding completely! Finally he stopped moving and presented me with a three-quarter view; my eyes were riveted to his crotch. His exquisitely beautiful body was fully complimented by the magnificence of his boy equipment - absolutely dazzling! His penis was uncircumcised, as was (and still is) the practice in most European countries. It was very pale in color and almost matched the color of his skin. Again I could see the veins running the length of his glorious shaft. It was flaccid and seemed to be about two inches in length including the wonderful foreskin. That foreskin looked to be rather thick and came to the cutest little point at the end. It was too adorable and too sexy and too ravishingly beautiful to be real - it looked like it was the work of an exceptionally talented artist. His scrotum was small in proportion to his penis; it was slightly darker in color and was exquisite because it appeared to be completely wrinkle-free. I just allowed myself to soak up the beauty and precious splendor of this boy. I was completely enamored - I was passionately and irrevocably in love with my nephew Simon. The End