In my own, honest opinion, I thought they were horrible, laughable even, unrealistic. But these books are not written for me. They are written for women who are lonely. They are written for women whose Husbands or boyfriends lack in their duties to their partner. They are written for women who find rippling abs, muscular arms and greek god like looks attractive.
Not my type.
So what about the rest of us? What about those of us who appreciate a big brain, geek tendencies and awkward, gangly bodies?
I feel like WE deserve something.
Now, I do not profess to be a writer. I am anything BUT. So don't be all, "Ehhhhhhhh, you didn't write it right." Coz I'll be all, "Ehhhhhh, shut your cakehole." Capeesh?
And so, I very un-seriously present an excerpt from the story for the rest of us lovely, geeky, nerdy girls:
50 SHADES OF NERD
"Here we are!" Tristan smiles widely at me, his silver braces gleaming in the brightly lit room. "Home."
I look around , stunned. This is how a multi-billionaire lives? The apartment is small, cramped, with a living room that is crowded by a very old, very dusty looking green couch. Facing the couch is a television, one of those TVs that is made of wood and you have to turn the dial to change the channels. I haven't seen anything like it since I was a kid. The walls are covered in a wallpaper that looks like it hasn't been changed since the 1970's - orange and brown, an akward design, and some of it is peeling.
The kitchen is even smaller, if possible, with a green stove and refridgerator that look like they are on their last leg. A Captain America cookie jar sits on the counter, a clean and immaculate item in an otherwise dusty, dirty kitchen. He obviously takes care of his comic book items.
"Wow, it's...something." I smile up at him, once again taken aback by how large and luminous his blue eyes look behind the thick, bottle-like lenses of his glasses. Will I ever get used to the effect he has on me?
He shrugs, akwardly rubbing his nose as he sniffles. Allergies. "No use wasting all my money on frivolities like a fancy apartment. All my money is tied up in mutual funds and stocks and..." he suddenly flushes, his eyes darting away from mine to a door that I hadn't noticed before.
"And what?" I ask, curious as to what is behind that door.
He stares at the door in silence for a moment, deep in thought, his face as red as the turtleneck that covers his thin torso. I wait, admiring his gangly body. His shoulders are slouching, as usual, hunched up as he thinks. His adam's apple, seemingly too large for his long, slender neck, bobs up and down as he swallows nervously. He's always nervous.
Finally, his eyes meet mine, and he smiles, slowly. "Come," he beckons me, heading for the mysterious door, "I want to show you something."
His long, spiderey fingers reach for the doorknob, hesitating, like he's unsure of showing me what's behind door number one. What is he hiding? He glances back at me, searching my face with his large, lovely eyes, before turning the knob slowly and pushing the door open. A light flickers on.
"This...is my playroom."
Holy crap. I stare in shock. In all of my wildest, craziest dreams, I could never have imagined this.
The room is large, obviously the bedroom, with a small twin bed in the corner. The walls are covered in posters and prints; large posters of Batman and Superman hang side by side, and on the far wall, a lifesize photo of Princess Leia, lounging in her gold bikini.
But the posters are nothing compared to the shelves and displays of action figures. Thousands of action figures, all in their boxes, all from different universes and multiverses and from galaxies far, far away. Some I recognize, and some, I have to read the title on the box to know exactly what it is.
Tristan walks clumsily over to the closet door and opens it. A filing system. I come to stand beside him and open a drawer. No, not files - comic books, thousands of them, all filed away neatly and in plastic envelopes to protect them. A shiver races through my body and I close my eyes to try to pull myself together. I never expected this. I never expected to be so...turned on. My inner nerd goddess trips over her own feet in delight.
"Anya?" Tristan's soft voice sounds unsure. I turn and look at him. His face is a mass of emotions; elation, confusion, excitement, nervousness, as if he's scared I'll be frightened away by his collection of toys. I give him a small smile, unsure myself. What do I make of all of this? I try to untangle my own mess of emotions, looking for a clear feeling.
I close the drawer to the large filing cabinet, and step back. An action figure sitting on a shelf beside me captures my attention; Wonder Woman. My mouth creeps into a smile. Wonder Woman has a special place in my heart. Tall, an Amazon, she towers over men, just as I do. I reach out to touch the box.
I gasp in shock as Tristan harshly grabs my outstretched hand. My eyes fly up to look at his face. He looks furious, more evil and angry and delicious than I have ever seen him before. I lick my lips, which are suddenly dry. I watch his eyes grow darker. I try to find my voice.
Tristan stares at me blankly for a moment and then looks down at my hand, which he is currently crushing. He lets go suddenly and sighs, pushing his glasses back up onto his long nose. "Please...just..." His eyes find mine and I can see the desperation in them. "Don't touch anything."
"Why, Tristan?" I watch him. He seems out of sorts, like he was just awoken from a deep sleep. He says nothing, so I try again. "Why can't I touch any of your action figures?"
He shakes his head, staring at the floor, all awkward and unsure and contrite. He looks so young like this.
"Tristan, why?" I press him.
"Anya..." He sighs, adjusting his glasses, sniffling from his allergies, "I just...I just had a rough childhood, and I'm very protective of my things. You wouldn't understand."
I bite the inside of my cheek. Why wouldn't I understand?
We stand in silence for what seems like ages, neither of us moving, scarcely daring to breathe. He looks at me, his eyes scanning my face. Why? I silently question him.
"M-My Father..." he breathes.
I nod, waiting for him to continue, my breath hitching in my throat.
He stares at me, his eyes welling with tears behind his bottle-lensed glasses.
"My Father...was a jock."
And there you have it. An except from a story that will never exist. Hope you enjoyed!
Oh, and do your part! Kiss a nerd today!