Date: Thu, 11 Oct 2007 20:52:33 -0700 (PDT) From: Mark Adams <mark.stories@yahoo.com> Subject: Temptation of Adam - Chapter 12 Disclaimer ------------------------------------------------------------------------ This story is a work of fiction. It contains sexual content between underage and adult males which may be inappropriate or illegal where you live. I do not condone the actions or choices of the fictional characters contained within this story. If you are offended by this or if it is illegal where you live, please go no further. Why would you? ....Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from? Gen. 3:11 ....From the last chapter... She walked past me in a huff, clutching her purse as if I were a mugger, toward the guest bathroom. My mind flashed to a naked Adam who had headed that direction, and I started after her to head her off. But as I walked into the family room, I froze. And I saw where my father was looking. And it was not at Casey. On the cushion of the couch, next to the still damp cum stains on the leather, were a small pair of little boy giraffe underwear, wedged part way between the cushion and the arm of the couch where Casey sat. His eyes raised from the couch to me, searching me for an answer to an unasked question, a question I prayed would never be asked... Temptation of Adam - Chapter 12 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My world crashed in around me. I quickly picked up the pair of 8-10 underwear and ran them quickly over the few drops of ejaculate and crumpled them into a ball, heading toward my room. "Mark," my father called after me, but I only picked up the pace, tossing Adam's underwear into my room before closing the door in front of me. It was as if I were sealing a vault. I leaned against the door, my mind reeling. And then I thought of Adam... I spun around to head back toward the guest bath and ran into my father. He looked confused, upset, angry-- all at the same time. "What the hell is going on here, Mark?" he yelled quietly. "Have you touched that child?" he asked, his accusation an arrow in my Achilles' heel. "Dad," I started to protest, and stopped. I didn't have any time for this. I pushed him aside and he looked... afraid of me as I strode toward the bathroom, when I heard her. "Mark," she said in a confused tone, "Who is this?" I saw her coming out of the laundry room with Adam, fully dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a red polo, his hair still somewhat unkempt. He was crouched over, his hands crossed in front of him. He look terrified. A strange lady was leading him out into the hallway, a hand on his left shoulder. He had tears in his eyes that were so large, I don't know how they didn't tumble out onto his cheeks. I wondered at his ingenuity. Instead of heading for the most logical hiding place, the bathroom, he had gone for his freshly washed clothes in the laundry room. When he saw me, Adam broke away from my mother and ran into my arms, where I bent down to receive him. I pulled him up into the safety of my arms and he buried his face into my neck. In that moment, holding Adam, I was able to see the last 24 hours with crystal clarity, and I knew I could never be for this boy, this beautiful boy, what I needed to be. What *he* needed me to be. I could see not just the past day, but the whole of my life. The suppression of my desires, the perfect, boring life I had created for myself and what my desperate clinging to Adam really meant. I didn't deserve Adam, and I had known all along. "Get out," I told them, barely audible. "Mark, what's going..." my mother started to ask. "Get... OUT!" "Mark," my father said, stunned at the outburst, "I think we need to talk. Man to man." "I think," I said, turning toward my father, "that you must not have been listening." I took a couple breaths and neither said anything. "Because I distinctly remember telling you to leave. Now." "If it's about..." my father started, but I cut him off. "You think you know something. Don't you?" I asked him accusingly. He looked at me, stunned. "But you don't know anything. I asked you not to come in. I asked you to leave me alone. But your nosy fucking wife barged in anyway." My mother recoiled from my vulgarity. "I didn't..." my father started to give me some excuse, but I cut him off again. "You didn't listen," I told him. "That's all. Now please leave while I'm still rational." I think my father, having been challenged by his son, had an almost natural instinct to stand up to the challenge. I saw a vein begin to stand out on his neck, and I saw his lip start to curl for a moment. And I think my old man must have seen resolve in my face because, although I was holding a small boy in my arms, I believe he knew in that moment his son-- his extremely fit son-- was up for any challenge. And I give him credit for avoiding a terrible scene, because after blinking a few times in surprise, he turned and took my mother my the arm and led her out the front door. He closed it quietly behind them and with it, a chapter in my life. I cradled Adam in my arms, heading to the front door and locking it. We went into the living room, where I bounced him gently in my arms, to soothe him. "It's ok," I told him, as much to myself as to him. "It's going to be just fine, buddy." He was still crying softly on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," Adam sniffled into my neck. "No, no, Adam," I told him. "You did nothing wrong, boy. Look at me." He didn't move. "Come on, son. Look at me." He slowly lifted his head, moving his wise, old-soul eyes toward mine, but not making eye contact. I saw his baby blues soaked with tears and it tugged at my heart strings. "Adam," I told him, "I'm so proud of you thinking to get your clothes like that." He sniffled, and I felt him shaking his head slightly. "You did nothing wrong at all, Adam. It's going to be ok." He put his head back on my shoulder, and I rocked him in my arms as he settled down and, although the tears had stopped, the sniffling had not. "Mark," he told me, raising his face enough to speak. "I did know." I started to interrupt again, but he kept speaking, talking into my shoulder. "I knew something like this was going to happen. And I don't mean that the way you're thinking. I'm not who you think I am. I knew..." "Shhh," I said, interrupting him again, trying to change the subject. "I don't want to hear that kind of talk... I've got an idea..." I was eager to make him believe things were ok, even though I was riddled with doubt. "Want me to play you something on the piano?" I noticed the sniffles stopped. I waited for him to say something. "Play the piano?" he asked, his head coming part way off my shoulder. I thought he must be thinking I was completely off my rocker, but it seemed to be distracting him. "Sure," I said. "I often play the piano when I'm stressed or worried about something." I moved over to the piano and set him on the bench, his bare feet dangling below, and eased in next to him. "It relaxes me..." I started to piddle around on the piano a bit, playing goofy little children's tunes and such. "That's not relaxing me, Mark," he said sincerely, and I had to laugh inside. "May I play?" he asked quietly after a moment of silence. I guessed he was telling me even a child could do better. I scooted over to make room for him. "Sure, buddy. Be my guest." Adam wiped his tears on the sleeves of his shirt, and wiped his hands on his khaki shorts. He scooted up to the edge of the bench and leaned forward slightly, resting his fingers naturally on the keyboard. I held my breath... did my angel play? Where would he have learned? He pressed a key, and I wondered if he was going to play some Barney the Dinosaur tune or something. But, to my surprise, he began playing something beautiful, soft, and slow. And I quickly recognized the song as Yanni's 'In the Morning Light' which was about a year old at the time. He picked up the rhythm a bit, and as the song progressed, I felt tears come to my eyes. This was not simple mimicry. His rendition was heartfelt, and flawless, and his ability clearly exceeded my own. He was a prodigy. I noticed how the high desert morning light sifted in through the gauze drapery of the living room, dancing about the room in accompaniment. He played, eyes closed, face contorting mildly as his fingers eased the notes from the piano. His grace and passion filled the room, my whole home, and my soul. As he played on, I had an epiphany of sorts. I realized I had truly underestimated him, treated him like a child the entire time I had known him. He was right-- he wasn't who I thought he was. I had taken advantage of what I thought was youthful ignorance. Tears rolled down my face as I considered Adam, a beautiful soul in a beautiful body, a ten year old body, more intelligent than most adults, lacking only experience. A young boy who had stolen my heart, while his own was breaking. A boy, more mature than I, who was telling me something I couldn't fully comprehend, something I didn't want to understand. As he came to the conclusion, he quietly asked "One more?" without looking at me. I wanted to plead with him for a thousand more... "Of course... Adam," I told him, my heart in my throat. Through my own tear-soaked eyes, I saw tears trickling down his face from his almost iridescent eyes. They closed, squeezing out a few more tears, as he began another song, and I immediately recognized it as Yanni's 'Before I Go' and the the tears began pouring out of me, and I sobbed quietly. I finally understood what he was trying to tell me when I interrupted him, because I knew he was going to play that song. For the first time, I truly knew Adam, not just the boy who had opened my eyes to the world and the importance of love over wealth, strength of character over physical strength. Not simply the boy who had shown me how to love, who had given me, a child in a grown man's body, the courage to stand up for myself. Adam, the person, was telling me something he couldn't say-- or that I couldn't hear-- with words alone... *** I can still remember walking Adam back home that warm Sunday morning in May. I can see us clearly now in my mind's eye, walking back to his apartment-- me carrying his new clothes, Casey walking behind us, and Georgie hanging from Adam's small hand. I was with Adam and his mother in the hospital on September 10th when, two weeks and two days before his eleventh birthday, Ana passed away, his hand in hers. I held him in my arms until he cried himself to sleep. Adam was taken into 'the system' where, as I expected, he thrived. Casey came to live with me, to be my girl, and the old gal sits on my lap, purring as I put the final touches on the story of her boy, of my first love... Adam was adopted quickly by an older, 'new age' couple in Santa Fe, and I moved to Dallas shortly thereafter. I sold my properties, finished my degree in architecture and pursued my life's dream. Earlier this year, I received an invitation to attend his graduation from Stanford, where he had just completed his Ph.D. in the Cancer Biology program at the tender age of 23. When I saw him, I could see from his smiling and insightful eyes that only his body had changed. He was still Adam. And when he hugged me I felt that electricity flowing out of him, that energy I hadn't understood back when I was 23. Adam turned 24 years old last month, on the 26th. I can never give him a gift to match what he gave me. Happy birthday, precious Adam... End. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings - words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out." - Stephen King, from 'The Body' (Stand by Me) There are so many things I want to say, but let me simply thank you for sharing my not-so-private therapy. I also feel I must apologize for the story, but I cannot. I must assume that, since you read this far, you understand. And I hope I didn't let you down, whether you agreed with the ending or not. The story of little Adam has been with me quite a while, and it was time to release him to you. Forget it or keep it with you-- no me importa. There is no wrong answer. Thank you, dearest Adam. And, as someone recently told me, the rest is silence... Mark