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.
I had just returned from lunch. I just had a veggie wrap at a local Subway. First, I'm not the richest kid on the block by wasting my money on extravagant lunches. Secondly, I've got to retain my geek image: thin and geeky, that's me. Low-carb, low-fat, low-cost lunches help keep me thin and rich.
I came in and sat at my desk. Suddenly movement on my home video feed monitor grabbed my attention. Finally there it was. The proof that I had been fully expecting to get. My wife and some guy from the country club. What was his name? Randall Mason, I think.
I remembered the SOB sniffing around my wife at a few of the country club dances. Geez, he must be a foot taller than me and outweigh me by a hundred pounds. But a lot of that is blubber. I know that for a fact, because there he was, standing in my bedroom, undressing.
As he took off his shirt, a good portion of his stomach was hanging over his still-fastened belt. Well, damn! Is my wife so desperate that she would go to bed with a big fat slob? I think she is a very attractive woman. I'm kind of insulted that she couldn't attract a better looking guy for her infidelity. Where's the justice in this world, anyway?
Oh, shit. He pulled down his pants and displayed a totally hairy ass. I mean, this is gross. How am I supposed to touch my wife after she's been to bed with that? Oh my God! That ass is going to lie in my bed! I may need to fumigate it.
I figured I may as well listen in on the lovebirds so I slipped on a headset and plugged it into my computer.
"... if hubby comes home unexpectedly?"
I heard my wife laugh. "Chad leave work early? Surely you jest. All he thinks about is work. Even if he did come home, he would just blink in surprise and go back to work. I don't rate that high on his priority list."
Well now I'm really pissed. I give the bitch everything she wants and she says I don't care about her. Hey, I'm upholding my end of the bargain.
The lovers finished undressing. My wife said, "Come on, Randy, hurry up. I'm horny. I can't remember the last time I was laid."
"I'm right with you, babe!"
I saw the fat man dive onto the middle of my bed (the furniture bounced about 4 inches in the air before returning to earth), as Lori daintily slid onto the bed herself. The fat man's flaccid dick just lay on his fat thigh like a little (very little) rubbery snake. It made me sick to look at it.
Wifey said, "Oh, dear. It looks so small and helpless. Let's see if we can make it big and strong."
With that Lori kneeled in front of fat Randall and took his little dick in her mouth. I figured there was no need to be concerned about overflow or tonsil damage. Finally the fat little snake began to grow. Not much, but at least it looked like it might have a spine.
It occurred to me that I was being unfair to the world. I get to watch this live-action porn on my in-office TV, but no one else could see it.
I have a couple of dozen website templates that our guys have worked on over the years to allow for a quick and dirty launch of a website. I figured I needed a quick and dirty website for this.
Bringing up my trusty version of Dreamweaver MX, I started creating an instant web attraction. I grabbed the wording from some erotic website, I think it was Literotica, so I could have a screen warning that all hope abandon ye who enter here if under eighteen. And the web title in 36 point Verdana was:
National Nude Day 2004
real naked people doing real naked things
What did entry into this website give you? Why continuous streaming video of my lovely wife fucking some fat slob! I set it up that once the video ended it would cycle back to the beginning and start again. I figured no one would believe their eyes the first time they saw it so they all would need to watch it again.
I'm in the industry; I know a few spammers. I know a lot of web host guys. I got a web guy to get me an instant registration for a domain name. I had a spammer send out about a billion emails with the domain name and an invitation for a free trial. It was worth the expense.
Within half an hour we were in business. We were getting hits right and left. I looked over at my personal window to NatNudeDayCheatingWife.com. They had been going at it ever since fat ass achieved full erection; not exactly a monumental event. Geez, Lori was barely visible underneath Randy's fat ass. All you could see was that hairy butt bouncing up and down, that fat red-faced big cheeked head rocking back and forth. That Neanderthal-like back needing about ten gallons of Nair. It was truly disgusting.
I instant messaged everyone in Lori's family with the IP address. I thought they might like to see her in action. In the meantime I had a friend call Randall's wife with the suggestion that she look at the latest in web entertainment. Man I can be a prick!
Okay, I was getting my pound of flesh. But it really didn't do much for me. I was still pissed at my wife. What the hell does she think she's doing, fucking around on me? I decided that for pure entertainment value and originality of program content, it would be best if I journeyed home to confront the wife and her fat-assed lover on the world wide web.
My office is about ten minutes from home. I had to hurry because I figured either fat Randy would be the poster-boy for premature ejaculation or would die of a heart attack trying to keep up with my wife. I put my Jag through its paces and made it home in five minutes.
I entered the kitchen through the garage entrance and made my way upstairs. I could hear the sound of a rutting pig from the bottom of the stairwell. I'll admit it. I was starting to seethe. I don't care if Randall fucking Mason did outweigh me by a hundred pounds. I was going to kick his fat ass for the entire world to see. Well, I must admit that I hoped that after a forty-five minute session of sex with the lovely Lori he wouldn't have much left in the old gas tank. I've got to figure all the angles here.
I walked into the room and watched that revolting ass humping up and down on my bed. I could hear my wife urging him on.
"Come for me, Randy. Come on, baby. Give it to me. Cum, baby. Cum, baby. Cum."
Christ she sounded like an infielder at a little league game exhorting the pitcher. It was all too surreal. I couldn't have dreamed up this scenario with a bucket-full of LSD.
Finally (thank God), Randall's ass cheeks seemed to tighten up a little (slendering up from totally obscene to merely obesely gross). He let out a groan that sounded somewhere between a belch and a fart. And then he was through.
He collapsed on the bed. I heard my wife gasping for breath. "Randy, honey. Why don't you get up now? Randy, I can't breathe!"
Slowly the behemoth rolled to the side and for the first time I saw the face of my dear, loving, cheating bitch of a wife. And she saw my face, too.
You would think the bitch would have had the good grace to scream or cry or yell of something. Not my lovely wife. Instead she gave me a shit-eating grin.
"Oh, it's Chad! Enjoying the view, darling? I got tired of waiting for you so I asked a real man to help me out. Thank you, Randy. I really needed that." Damn, she decided to go the 'cuckold the wimp husband' route. I wasn't going for that.
"Get the fuck out of my bed, you fat fucking slob!" I took a step toward the bed just as fat ass turned to see me for the first time. There was an instant of fear in his eyes, but when he assessed the situation it was obvious that he wasn't too concerned about me. I was the little geek with the glasses. He was the over-the-hill football stud. No concern for him there.
He stood up and feigned anger. "Just get out of my way, you little wimp. If you try to cause any trouble I'll rip you a new asshole."
I just smiled; the kind of smirky insulting smile one gives to one's inferiors.
"Come on, fat ass. Show me what a man you are. Then I'll bust your fucking balls."
Randall bounded off the bed and rushed towards me, exhibiting surprising agility for a fat-assed slob who was all fucked out.
When I was in high school, I was the king of the duck-under. I could shoot that takedown so fast not even I could see it. Remember that third grade joke everyone used to tell: 'I'm the fastest gun in the west. Wanna see me draw?' - wait a second - 'Wanna see it again?' That was my duck-under.
One instant I was facing the oncoming bulk of fat-assed Randall, the next instant I was behind him going for the kill. He didn't even realize where I was.
There is a wrestling move called the CBC, which stands for cross ball carry. The way it works is that if one is in the position I was in, that is, behind the opponent with both guys standing, you reach between his legs with one hand, grab him by the balls and lift. I had a buddy in high school that regularly lifted kids who weighed two hundred pounds using a CBC and carried them across the mat. Even with a wrestling singlet and a jock strap on, the move gets your attention.
I had intended to go for the CBC here, but then I realized that I probably wasn't going to be able to lift two hundred and fifty pounds of ugly fat with one hand. So I went to option number 2. I dropped to one knee and brought my fist up in a round-house right between fat Randy's legs, culminating in a direct hit on his scrotum minimus; about six inches in front of his gluteous maximus (and I do mean maximus). I think Randy's balls were in danger of popping out of his mouth.