Nerd. It's a title I've worn proudly for most of my life. Actually it's a title I've cultivated. I've always had glasses with the elastic holder around my neck, even though my vision is 20-20. They are only reading glasses, but my public doesn't know that.
I have my hair cut in a short, 1950's manner. My clothes are just slightly off kilter, geeky and different. I'm an odd looking guy with the haircut, the clothes, and the glasses. And by the way, I'm a top of the line computer geek. Hey, I'm only giving people the image they want to see.
I figured it out when I was just a kid. People like to categorize other people, to put them in boxes. Since I was going to be put into a box, I chose the genius box. Maybe I'm not really smarter than a lot of other people; but I look the part. It was what I figured out when I was a kid. People buy the sizzle and not the steak. Image is everything.
My clothes make me look like a dufus, but beneath them I'm actually pretty normal, even exceptional. I wrestled in high school, still building on my nerd image. I wore black socks when everyone else wore white socks. I kept on those glasses until I actually went out on the mat to wrestle. It was then I was transformed into something of a monster. One kid I wrestled told me afterwards, "When I saw those glasses, I thought I was wrestling Clark Kent. Then you took them off and turned into Superman."
I wrestled in high school mostly to make sure that my nerd image didn't provoke physical abuse from my classmates. It wasn't uncommon for the members of the Junior Engineering and Technical Society to be the victims of high school muggings. But the toughs and the bullies left me alone, because they knew I could kick their asses.
At college I didn't need to be an athlete to be a star. The computer and physics and math geeks were the stars on that campus. I was tempted to go out for wrestling because I could have just walked on and started at any of three different weight classes. But I held my ego in check for the sake of my image. In college, geeks weren't supposed to be athletes.
Let's face it; the college I went to was about money. The most attractive people on campus were the ones generally considered to be those most likely to succeed. And I was on the "A" list. Nerd that I was, I had all the chicks I wanted. They were all jockeying for a shot at the big bucks.
In the end, Lori Matthews won the Chad Landis lottery. In a college where the girls were as geeky as the guys, there weren't many number one draft choices. But Lori would have qualified anywhere. She is 5'5", soft, round, smooth, and beautiful. Her long red hair and smattering of freckles make her look at once like a super model and the girl next door. We courted each other over the last couple of years in college, then married a year after graduation.
I was all for getting married immediately, but Lori wanted to wait. She never said it, but I'm sure she wanted to see where I was going in my career before she wedded a super-geek. The first year showed her that I was her guy. I was making 90 grand a year from the get-go, with the promise of much more if I lived up to my potential. And I had every intention of living up to my potential with that company. At least until I dropped them and started my own company.
Ten years later and all the things predicted and expected have come to pass. My own company has been a success out of the starting blocks. The downside is that I travel a bit. But we own the big house, are members of the country club, drive dual Jaguars. Our life is good.
So why has it all turned to shit? I've given Lori everything she has ever asked of me. I make love to her somewhat regularly; far more regularly than I would if I were a real geek, I think.
And yet for months I've felt this estrangement; the false smiles, the forced laughter, the perfunctory lovemaking, the empty words. It was looking to me like after ten happy years, Lori was having second thoughts. Now I'm not a naturally suspicious guy, but I didn't get to where I am by not covering my ass.
I guessed it was time to have a long talk with my wife. But first I thought I had better move my assets off shore. The Caymans are a really great place for someone who wants to hide money and avoid taxes. I opened a post office box down there, had my company incorporated, moved all of the copyrights and patents to the islands. From that point forward, my company in the states paid royalties to my company in Grand Cayman for every sale that they made. The royalties paid pretty much equaled the net profit on every sale. That way I had no corporate profits to give to the IRS. Cool, huh?
Yes, I made all the right moves. I was burying bodies so deep the IRS would never find them. And neither would my wife's lawyer. In retrospect, it does make me sound like a bit of a prick. But a guy has to do what a guy has to do.
Meanwhile, I maintained my equilibrium around the house. I even tried courting Lori again. We went to dinner more often than was our norm. I sent her flowers for no particular reason. I mean, just because I was covering my ass financially didn't mean I was ready to forfeit ten years of marriage.
When you read those stories on erotic web sites about women screwing around on their husbands, the husbands react in one of two ways. Either they are heartbroken and/or so pissed off that they immediately terminate the marriage, or they want to drink the wife's lovers' cum. I had theorized that I wouldn't act like the first option. The second option is too bizarre to contemplate.
I had thought about it over the years, as I had my nice little marriage going. I had thought that if my wife ever strayed, I would be magnanimous about it. I figured everyone wants some excitement in his or her life; everyone wants to feel attractive to the opposite sex. In my heart of hearts I was sure that I would look the other way if it ever happened. I wouldn't be a cuckold wimp, but I would make an informed decision that my wife needed some reassurance about herself and didn't intend to harm me or the marriage. That was my plan. And my plan worked, right up until the first time that I suspected my wife was cheating.
It's so clichéd that it isn't worth recounting. All of the signs were in place. It would take a blind man to miss them: she's not at home when I call from a road trip; she has to go out to be with the girls a little too often; she is too tired for sex more often than not; there are hurried phone calls and furtive glances. Shit, I knew right away that she was having an affair.
Strangely, my reaction surprised me. That magnanimous, understanding guy that I expected to be just disappeared in a puff of smoke. Instead I was pissed off and hurt, just like almost every other husband in my position.
I'm a logical guy, a methodical guy. I was flying on instruments, here. I really had no proof that anything was happening, just conjecture. I needed proof, one way or the other.
A computer guy like me has assets that the average Joe just doesn't have access to. We have a security package that we sell in conjunction with a hardware manufacturer. They provide the hardware, we provide the software. I called a friend at that company and before long I had everything I needed, no charge.
They have this neat little low-light capable camera with a wireless network card built right in, and a wide-angle lens. It's about the size of a pencil cut in half and has a broadcast range of several hundred feet. Perfect.
I placed a bunch of these cameras in convenient locations throughout the house. My buddy gave me all the tips on how to hide or disguise them. I put two cameras in our guest bedrooms and three in our master bedroom. One can never be too careful.
I set a motion sensor in each room, so the cameras were only activated when necessary. I sent the feed from each camera into the computer in my den. It has enough storage capacity to run a major country. I figured it could store a few video feeds.
I set up a second monitor in my office at work, one of those flat screen plasma monitors. Whenever a camera was activated in my house, the feed from that camera was displayed in my office. I am one sneaky son of a bitch. And loving it.
Now I didn't know that I was going to get anything incriminating. But we have this Big Brother technology. I may as well take advantage of it. I figured at the worst I could watch Lori get undressed. She has a few freckles on her boobs that I never see enough of. They are on the top half, highlighting her cleavage. The rest of her boobs are milk-white. I just love that look.
I know I'm acting ambivalently about this whole thing. Somewhere in the back of my mind is my original view of infidelity: that it's no big thing, just some ego massaging that my wife needs. Secondly, we don't have the most passionate of marriages anyway. It's been kind of like a business arrangement. She gets to be married to the money, the cars, the house, the vacations, the social position. But the nerd is the curse that comes with the perks. That's me. I get to have this beautiful trophy wife on my arm for social functions, or in my bed for the occasional evening of passion. I always thought it was a pretty good deal for both of us.
Why is it, then, that I'm pissed the hell off? It seemed that every time one of those cameras kicked in, I was glued to the screen, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It dropped, all right.
.... There is more of this story ...