The Allure of the Nerd (#bdsm #nerd #alphamale)

By Lisabet Sarai

Okay, I admit it. I've got a thing for nerds. When The Man from U.N.C.L.E. was popular, I had the hots for skinny, intense Ilya Kuryakin, not the dashing alpha guy Napoleon Solo. I was hopelessly in love with Mr. Spock. (After all, think about making love while in the throes of a Vulcan mind-meld!) Near the top of my sexy, romantic movie list is "Earth Girls are Easy", featuring gangly, geeky Jeff Goldblum as a brilliant alien. A more recent example of a romantic nerd is Clive Owen's short, unshaven, and amazingly ingenious character in the bank robbery thriller "Inside Man".

It's fairly easy to understand why I feel this way. Growing up, I was the egghead, the bookworm, the too-smart girl whom everyone made fun of. The only guys who could deal with me were the ones who were at least as smart as I was. They weren't on the football squad; they weren't voted Best Looking or Most Popular. But they had that something that could start my motors. It was intoxicating—yes, arousing—to have a conversation with some of these guys, especially when I got out of high school and into college. We understood each other, and I began to discover that despite their definite nerdish qualities, they were enthusiastic and innovative when it came to sex.

Since I joined the romance authors community, I've heard a lot about alpha heroes. It's critically important, I've been led to believe, that the protagonist in an erotic romance be tall, beautiful and buff. Rugged but handsome features, broad shoulders, chiseled pectorals, powerful, muscular thighs that naturally invite musings about what lies sheltered between them—attributes like these apparently constitute the romance ideal. Our hero should also be physically strong, courageous, and generally the dominant type, though some sensitivity or a shameful secret will not be taken amiss.

Well, I don't completely buy it. I mean, a nice bod and a pretty face are not to be sneezed at. But they're not enough. Call me perverse (many people have), but I find intelligence to be the most essential aspect of a sexy hero. Furthermore, I'm willing to accept less than stellar physical qualities if my hero is a clever, imaginative, horny genius who can figure out how to get himself and his heroine out of sticky situations, and who's smart enough to understand what will truly turn her on.

Theo Moore, the hero of my BDSM erotic romance The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, is perhaps the most thorough nerd I’ve ever written. He’s a brilliant computer scientist, a professor at a top university and the inventor of a revolutionary artificial intelligence program. He’s also shy and socially awkward, a borderline autistic with mild symptoms of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). How could this sort of guy possibly be sexy? you might be thinking. He is, though—so much so that my editor told me she had to take breaks to relieve her tension while she was working on the book!

As it turns out, Theo’s the “virgin” of the book’s title. (Ever met an alpha male virgin? Nah!) Though he’s in his late twenties, he’s far too uncomfortable in social situations to have ever had a girlfriend. On the other hand, as befits the brilliant academic that he is, he has done a lot of research. Theo’s a natural dominant who’s made a thorough study of sexual and BDSM techniques. When he meets billionaire CEO and closet submissive Rachel Zelinsky, he finally gets the opportunity to put all his research—and his Dom’s intuition— into practice. He gives Rachel what she’s been looking for her entire life, the opportunity for complete surrender. Not to mention quite a few orgasms along the way!

Just for fun, here’s a bit from the book that illustrates my hero’s decidedly non-alpha tendencies.

The smell tells me I’m home, long before I open my eyes—a mixture of black tea, sandalwood incense, and a hint of the glue I use for my models. The air conditioner hums and in the background, I hear the soft, sedate progress of some Bach harpsichord sonata. The music sets up echoes inside my head, which feels swollen and fragile as a Fabergé egg.

The firmness molding my back and butt suggests I’m stretched out on the bed. Have I been asleep? I don’t recall lying down, indeed, don’t remember anything for the space of several breaths. Then it all comes crashing back, a tsunami of embarrassment, fear and regret. The fund raiser. Rachel. Oh, my God!

“Theo? Are you awake?”

She keeps her voice low, as though she understands the pain bouncing around in the hollows of my skull. Memory flutters back in bits and pieces. A dizzy, endless journey. Struggling not to vomit on Rachel’s upholstery. I crack open my eyelids, squinting into the welcome dimness.

“Rachel?” I rasp, my mouth dry as the Santa Anas. All I can see is the featureless ceiling. “What happened?”

When I raise my head, seeking her, the room spins and my stomach objects strenuously. She’s there, though, leaning toward me, seated on one of my dining room chairs, which she’s dragged to the side of the bed. Her curls have come loose from the glittering clips she used to tame them, and her make-up is smudged. She’s unspeakably gorgeous.

Despite my sorry state, the headache and the cotton mouth and the dizziness, my cock stirs inside the monkey suit I’m apparently still wearing. Ah, the tenaciousness of lust!

“How are you feeling?” The concern I hear in her tone has an immediate healing effect.

“Pretty rocky, but I suppose I’m all right.” I ease myself into a half-sit, propped against my pillow.

“Here, drink this.” She hands me a glass full of fizzing liquid.

I swallow it down, ignoring the protests from my gut. Despite the medicinal taste, I feel slightly more human after consuming it.

Rachel leans back and contemplates me, eyebrows drawn together into a frown. My dick hardens further while a blush climbs into my cheeks. I feel like a naughty schoolboy. The sensation is not entirely unpleasant.

“I told you to go easy on the champagne.”

“I should have listened to you,” I admit. “But I was so nervous.”

“I know,” she says. “I know. I think the stress had as much to do with your collapse as the alcohol.”

I nod. “I used to faint, back when I was at school—when things got really bad. When I couldn’t handle a situation, that was my final escape. Finally my parents pulled me out and got me a tutor. It hasn’t happened since.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you so hard, Theo. I should have known better.”

Her hand claims mine, in a gesture so casual and natural it seems unconscious. Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me? Still, remarkably, I have no urge to pull away.

“You were doing so well, though. I was so proud of you.” She gives my fingers a squeeze. I squeeze back, amazed that I can be so comfortable with her touching me.

“But now I’ve disappointed you, I imagine.” I try sitting up straighter. It’s awkward with only one hand free. I want to adjust the swollen lump pressing against my zipper, but of course I don’t dare. “And the donors—they’re probably all laughing their millionaire heads off at poor, pathetic Theo Moore.”

“Not at all. Everyone was quite worried about you. Roger Varley wanted to call an ambulance, but I thought you’d really rather go home.”

“You were right. Thank you. But how did you get me up to the second floor and into bed?”

“It wasn’t easy.” Her whole face lights up when she laughs. “You’re a big guy. The gardener helped me bundle you up the stairs. I fished the key out of your trouser pocket.”

The concept of her hand wriggling into my pants, her heat warming my body—it’s too much. My cock surges, threatening a premature explosion. I’ve got to get Rachel Zelinsky out of here, before I really embarrass myself.

~~~

To be honest, I’m deeply in love with Theo myself. He represents every geeky, horny guy I’ve ever had the pleasure to know—and I mean that in the Biblical sense! No alpha male could ever turn me on the way he does.