Familiarity: The Director's Cut

By Kyle Roesler

Todd and Darlene Archibald love each other. They just can’t stand each other, some of the time. Lucky for them, they have a life altering experience in Egypt during a Y2K holiday. Sure, they appreciate seeing the pyramids and the Sphynx, but their lives are rewired by their ménage a trois with Cheryl, a lovely Australian tourist. When they get back home to Colorado, they try to introduce another woman to their marital bed with hilariously unsuccessful results. It’s only when they give up on bringing a third into their union that they meet the one that fits perfectly: Charles, the hunky, obsessive/compulsive landscape engineer.
Which, of course, introduces a whole slew of new problems. It is a male fantasy turned into a male psychosexual crisis.
Can Todd expand his sexual orientation sufficiently to want to sleep with another man? Can Todd, Darlene and Charles design a lasting polyamory relationship? It’s a hot and bothered romp involving reality TV “stars,“ daring sexual exploits and the beautiful Front Range of Colorado and Wyoming. offered in two distinct formats: the Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Author commercial release and the Read-It-All-Night-Long Director’s Cut. Choose your format or compare and contrast both to really dive into the creative process of writing a novel.
WARNING: this novel contains both more and less mature content than some readers are seeking. In other words, I have decided to challenge all of my readers equally, whatever your expectations for this novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kyle Roesler
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463511114

Kyle Roesler

Kyle G. Roesler, who used to write using the pseudonym Mary Jane, began his writing career as a columnist for "The Muddraker", the student-run newspaper at Harvey Mudd College. He then spent a number of years writing screenplays before turning his attention to writing novels. He published "Fate" in 2001 and "Saba" in 2009.

Book preview

FAMILIARITY

The Director’s Cut

by

Kyle G. Roesler

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Kyle G. Roesler on Smashwords

Copyright: © 2022 by Kyle G. Roesler

ISBN: 9780463511114

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Cover design by: Kyle G. Roesler

Photo credit: Comaniciu Dan on Shutterstock, used via standard licensing agreement.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Novel and its Director’s Cut

Chapter I – January 2000

Chapter II – Home Again

Chapter III – On the Prowl

Chapter IV – Interior Design Class

Chapter V – A New Plan

Chapter VI – Anticipation

Chapter VII – In Bed

Chapter VIII – Fresh Air

Chapter IX – The Last Days of Summer

Chapter X – Nine Months Later

Book_Club_Discussion_Questions

About_the_Author

SAMPLE CHAPTER FROM Mentioned in Dispatches

Epigraph

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

Proverb.

The Novel and its Director’s Cut

It is unusual to release a director’s cut of a novel, I know. I can’t recall it ever being done. No one even adds deleted scenes to the end of their novels; I’ll have to start doing that. But, as I enjoy films as much as novels, I decided that I would give it a try – out of desperation.

You see, when I finished this novel the first time, back in the early 2000’s, it was nearly 400 pages long. That’s how many pages it took to tell the story I wanted to tell in all its glorious detail. And, in my ever so humble opinion, this Director’s Cut of the novel rises above the erotic romance genre and really has something to say about the state of relationships in the western world in the 2000’s. However, I am aware that there is a much larger audience for erotic romance than there is for literary fiction, at least for an unknown scribe such as myself. Therefore, I took it upon myself to see if I could slice and dice this masterpiece into a book that concentrates on the erotic and minimizes the philosophy about the benefits of polyamory. I did say minimize; I didn’t take out all my high-minded ideas, mind you, just some, and I cut back on character development and even cut a couple of characters (Bert, Todd’s boss now has a non-speaking part in the novel and Anne, Charles’ friend, is nearly cut out of the book as well). I hope this Genre Edit of the book will satisfy the interest of some readers while whetting the appetite of many more to dive into the Director’s Cut and spend a little more time getting to know these characters that have come to mean so much to me.

So now (June of 2022), I have both versions ready to be published with just formatting and cover design work remaining and I have to decide how to publish them. Though I could publish both versions in the same e-book, I am hesitant to do so because then I wouldn’t know which edit people are reading when they buy the book. My plan is to publish each version separately, but in the e-book of the commercial release I’ll include the first chapter of the Director’s Cut so readers who took the short road can get an idea what they could experience if they take their time. And, I’ll make the Director’s Cut cheaper, to encourage the curious towards my preferred version of the story.

What do you think of having a Director’s Cut of a novel? Comments and feedback are welcome at [e-mail]. Or you can always review either edition of the novel where you purchased it or your favorite retailer. Thank you.

Chapter I - January 2000

We met Cheryl literally in the shadows of the Pyramids of Giza. We sat at the Sphinx’s paws much like the pharaohs probably did millennia ago, watching Ra set and feeling like the lords of all creation. Those pharaohs utilized the toil of thousands to create these enduring monoliths that transported them to their next lives. The Pyramids then saw Ra set over a million-and-a-half times while waiting for us to arrive, retaining enough vitality to transport us to our next life, too. What happened, what we did that night was a mistake, sure. But it was a beautiful, wonderful, breathtakingly unregrettable mistake.

Squatting on a small cul-de-sac immediately in front of the Sphinx is a cube-like three-story building of concrete and glass. On the third floor of that building, my wife Darlene and I sit in air-conditioned comfort in Pizza Hut, positioned in front of the Sphinx and the Pyramids as if we’re front and center watching Gladys Knight and the Pips.

It’s January, 2000, and we are on a Millennium holiday from home, work and responsibility. We spent the day in and around the pyramids and are now recuperating with some pizza and Pepsi before it gets dark enough to hold something called the Sound and Light Show. How Pizza Hut managed this marketing coup I don’t know, but this must be the best view of any fast food restaurant anywhere in the world. The setting sun is causing the sharp edges of the pyramids to glow a radiant red and the Sphinx looks as if it may stand and take an evening constitutional at any moment. Just as importantly, the restaurant does not have any windows in the opposite direction, so we are blissfully not reminded of the colossal urban sprawl of modern Cairo. Ironically, something so modern and even garish as the red and white checked table cloths of Pizza Hut protect us from the traffic, smog, and monotonous architecture of Cairo, leaving before us only the shifting sands of the endless desert trying to cover up the Sphinx again. We eat voraciously on the familiar thick crust pie, staring lazily out the window at the marvels of mankind.

Well, some of the time anyhow. I also occasionally glance at the marvels of nature. In other words, I’m checking out women. No place is so spectacular or so dramatic it keeps me from checking to see if there are attractive women about. If I’d been in the Crimean War, I’d have been the one checking out Florence Nightingale’s figure as she tended to the wounded. If I’d been on President Kennedy’s staff during the Cuban Missile Crisis, my first concern would have been catching a glimpse of Jackie as she walked down the hall. In my defense, my hormone-driven gazing is a more ancient pursuit than the building of mammoth pyramid-shaped funerary temples. I think it’s the way the male body is wired, decision making being divided evenly between the CEO (brain) and COO (uh, someone living below the waist). The CEO can make the final decisions, but the COO has to check out all the options first.

Darlene, my wife, could be doing her Darwinian-duty of male gazing as well, but I don’t really know. What with the pyramids, the Sphinx, the mortuary temple of Khafre and women in short shorts ambling across the cul-de-sac below me, I can’t keep track of everything.

We are newlyweds, I guess, if that term is applicable in today’s day and age. We’ve been married for 18 months but lived together the 3 preceding years. Since you’ll never actually meet me I’ll tell you I am a strikingly handsome man, tall dark and handsome in fact, with shockingly low body fat and impeccable abs. My hairline will never recede, my locks will never gray, and my belly will never pot. All this and jet-black hair, olive skin and hazel eyes to boot.

Really!

Darlene, on the other hand, actually is gorgeous, and that’s not just me talking. Many have told her so, and she also believes it herself. She is Hispanic, darker than me and more full-bodied. Her body has no straight lines anywhere; her oval face curves gently through her swan-like neck to her full round breasts shadowing her gentle little Buddha belly riding on her lyre-like hips controlling her shapely, strong legs. A few years back she started dying her hair auburn, an exotic look that really works for her. Every moment of my life I’m reminded of the overwhelming, arousing vision of her naked body climbing into bed with me.

Well, not every moment. But we’ll get to that later.

So, being married to a breathtaking brunette-turned-redhead, most of my non-archeological attention is focused on blonds. A friend of mine calls this phenomenon the Chocolate Chip Cookie Syndrome, and the theory goes like this: you may like Chocolate Chip Cookies. They may be your all-time, number-one favorite type of cookie in the world. You may want to have Chocolate Chip Cookies every minute of every day of your life. Still, in the midst of Chocolate Chip Cookie euphoria, there will be times when you think, You know, a Snickerdoodle would really hit the spot right now. Some may call this point of view immature, childish even, and I can’t disagree.

But it doesn’t change the fact it’s true.

Despite the low light on the square below, I have no trouble picking Cheryl out of the sparse crowd as she walks by. She’s reed-thin with ivory skin and pale blond hair pulled into a jaunty little ponytail tied with a red rubber band. She wears khaki shorts and a long-sleeved white linen shirt thin enough to reveal the emerald green straps of her bra. My view from this third-floor window and her slightly bowed posture prevent me from seeing her face as she walks purposefully by, seemingly unconcerned with anyone or anything around her. She doesn’t even glance at the Sphinx, for gosh sake. My eyes follow her until she disappears around the corner, walking toward the queue where tickets for the evening Sound and Light Show can be purchased.

Darlene puts down her Pepsi with a clunk. She reaches out and gently massages my shoulder, staring at me with her beautiful dark eyes. Todd, it’s nearly time for the Sound and Light Show. You ready to go?

I smile. You bet.

We walk to the queue in the gathering dusk, hand in hand. The streets are not particularly busy, but what people there are are all moving in our direction and we’re soon stopped in a winding line of tourists. Resolved to the wait, Darlene gets out the Lonely Planet guidebook for Egypt and begins planning what we should do tomorrow and the next day before flying to Luxor for our cruise down the Nile.

Lonely Planet makes the greatest guidebooks in the world. Don’t leave home without them.

I casually look around and see Cheryl, or at least her ponytail, getting her ticket and moving through the turnstiles. I don’t yet know her name is Cheryl, of course, but it is indeed her name. Once through the turnstiles, she disappears from view again.

A few more minutes in line and we’re through the turnstiles as well, into a small dusty park serving as a holding area until the seating area opens. The collected tourists mill around in the dust, clumped in twos or threes, sometimes looking at the Sphinx or the Pyramids but more often lost in their own little worlds. I reach over, take Darlene’s hand and steer her gently to a mostly empty spot – which happens to have a clear view of Cheryl, who persists in looking away from me. I find this reassuring. I mean, as long as I don’t get a clear look at her face I can fantasize she is indeed the perfect woman and worthy of the small efforts I’m making to get a good look at her. Odds are, of course, she is not perfect. Perfection is a rare trait in Homo sapiens, so expecting to find it in objects of desire is not a realistic state of mind. Nevertheless, I continue to find reasons to gaze in her general direction and feel minor stirrings somewhere below my beltline over the nape of her neck, the line of her thigh, the blond beauty of her pointy little hair.

Then she turns around. Though logic says she can’t be perfect, at first glance I can’t immediately figure out where her imperfections may lie. Her face is exceptionally pleasant and her skin seems to glow. I stare until Cheryl turns the other way again, and then I notice Darlene staring at her, too.

Now, this isn’t a complete surprise to me, but I’ll explain why later, when we know each other a little better. What is surprising is the way she’s looking at her. I don’t usually put too much weight in these sorts of telepathic observations, but right then I believe I can read Darlene’s mind from her eyes and from the lines of her face as she stares at Cheryl. The words racing through her mind are: You want me. I find that ironic, because if anyone gazed at my face as I stared at Cheryl and read my mind by it, the message would have been a little different: I want you.

Or, more honestly: I want you, but I figure you don’t want me.

I hate to admit it, but it’s what my face is often saying. If you begin feeling unattractive at an early, impressionable age, you tend to keep on feeling unattractive. It’s precisely the opposite for Darlene: she’s been admired as long as she can remember and she just assumes everyone she meets feels the same. The way we approach others gets set in concrete awfully early in our little lives.

Slowly Darlene notices my eyes upon her and smiles. She swings her head in Cheryl’s direction, her eyes rolling towards her at the same time. Pretty girl, she says.

Yes, I agree. Why try to pretend I didn’t notice? Now, some women don’t like this sort of admission from their husbands, but Darlene has never minded. It’s that old self-confidence again. Her smile is warm, but at the same time it is condescending, confident I want her here and now. Which is correct.

Those three words (pretty, girl, yes) are the extent of our conversation.

To an outside observer, Darlene and I appear to have little to say to one another. Nothing can be further from the truth. We have tons to say to one another, but most of it gets delivered at high volume and with great agitation. It isn’t always that way, though in recent months it seems to be. The reasons for this unpleasant, immature, and downright embarrassing behavior are unclear and probably subject to one’s point of view. She finds me overbearing, and I find myself becoming overbearing every time she refuses to have a serious discussion with me. I find her uncommitted to our relationship, and she says she feels uncommitted because I’m so overbearing. So our anger and resentment are springing from lots of reasons and no reason at the same time.

This behavior has a lot of consequences. First, it tends to discourage pleasant discourse because, well, the pleasant bits often lead to the less pleasant ones. Secondly, it tends to lead to lying and covering up. I feel rather like a junkie or alcoholic, and figure eventually I’ll be standing in front of a group of strangers saying, Hi, my name is Todd Archibald and my wife and I argue and then cover it up. Our parents and friends think everything’s fine because whenever someone else is around we smile and joke and pretend to be the most compatible of mates. But when alone, things get ugly, and when ugly we lie to people to avoid disclosing our addiction.

The third consequence is the distance this silence creates between us leaves an aching hole in me day after day. There’s never any resolution to our arguments so they gnaw at me, consciously and otherwise. After a row, she says she’s fine, moves on, and doesn’t care I still feel hurt and angry. I think I feel angry all the time, but that’s nonsense; it can’t be more than half the time. Still, does anyone want to spend half of his or her life angry with a spouse who couldn’t care less what you feel?

Ah, the irony of human relationships. Though it seems at least counter-intuitive and more likely outright bizarre, during the last few years I have observed an immutable axiom: with one’s significant other, honesty leads to more problems than dishonesty. No, really, it’s true! If I just pretend to agree instead of openly disagreeing, we get along great. So I ask, what’s wrong with speaking up, with being honest and forthright? It feels right to me to be honest, and other people say they love it – but in the end, they can’t really take it, now can they?

I know I sure can’t.

So all this avoiding arguing and the actual arguing itself are symptoms, but of what I’m not exactly sure. If you held the proverbial gun to my head and forced me to pick a reason, I’d go for this: it’s a symptom of our battle of wills. We’re each trying to change the other, so the winner can have nearly the same life they’d had when single and the loser can learn to deal with it. So who’s winning the war? Thus far, I’d say she’s winning; odds are good she’d see it the other way.

And yet when we’re separated, all we can do is rush back together as quickly as possible. The euphoria will last for up to a week before the annoyance and anger return, and each blissful-stage is getting shorter due to the anticipation of what is sure to follow.

Carpe diem, indeed.

So we have little three-word conversations as demonstrated earlier. Pretty girl, she says. Yes, I agree. Anything more intimate is just asking for trouble.

Anyhow, the Pyramids of Giza have a Sound and Light Show in the evening. We are here to view it. Night has fallen and the daytime store of heat is rushing out of the ground like air from a tire. Three hundred tourists mill about, tickets in hand but with nowhere to go until the show begins in thirty minutes. Darlene reads her guidebook again and I bring out a magazine and browse through it, making a concerted effort to avoid looking at Cheryl. It takes some of the fun out of looking when your wife knows you’re looking, and she’s looking, and she doesn’t mind you looking; or something like that.

Ten minutes before the show is to begin it’s gotten seriously dark. The little park we’re in is well lit but the wonder of the world 100 meters away has completely faded to black. It’s like when a loved one covers your eyes and leads you onward to an unknown destination, all the time repeating the mantra of, Don’t peek! Not yet! Keep your eyes closed! We’re walking eyes wide open, but we can’t see the thing we’re here to see.

Oh, except for Cheryl, of course. When I do glance her way, just to check she is still there, I can see her.

Then the gates open to the general admission seating. Though Darlene had seemed to be lost in the guidebook, she’d apparently been watching for this moment and makes a bold move forward. She drags me along by my slightly sweaty palm. We walk past a lot of people at first but soon traffic snags. We then struggle past the stalled people, Darlene first, with me in tow. The tourists we are passing are not pleased with our behavior; in fact, I’d have to say they are downright pissed off by it. Darlene doesn’t seem to notice, so it falls to me to smile awkwardly at the bumped and annoyed.

It seems to help them. Or at least it helps me.

Via this concerted effort, we end up only a handful of people behind Cheryl as we reach the rows of empty folding chairs awaiting tourist bottoms. Cheryl turns down one row and is followed by those behind her, so Darlene cleverly turns down one row further back. We sit down behind Cheryl, Darlene being nice enough to let me sit directly behind her. Her short little finger of hair is pointing right at me. Up close like this, I can tell she is tiny, and I mean really tiny. I think she’s no more than five feet tall. Her ears are tiny. Her head is the size of an adolescent grapefruit. The folding chairs allow me a clear view of her tiny khaki-clad bottom framed in aluminum, and it looks small. And good. Her hips are only the slightest bit wider than her legs, but then her body curves nicely into her exceptionally small waist and what I imagine is her very flat stomach. Everything about her is a wonderful counterpoint to everything that is wonderful about Darlene. I start to imagine maybe, just maybe, we could all...

And then the Sound and Light Show begins.

After all the lasers have lased and all the colored lights have lit, after all the music has been played and all the terribly silly words have been read in exceedingly pompous tones, the house lights turn on again and the audience rises as one and starts walking towards the exits. Am I thinking of the Sound and Light Show, or the wonders of ancient Egypt? I am not. I am trying to figure out some way to delay the inevitable parting between Cheryl and us.

It’s ridiculous, of course.

Any rational person would walk away from this craziness, forget all about it – and I will. I mean, I’m ready to. But I can’t stop myself from creating micro-plans, like: we could go get a cup of coffee together, and then go back to our hotel and…

Never mind.

OK, so I don’t do too well in the plan-making department. I accept this fantasy is in its final stages, when…

…when Darlene taps Cheryl on the shoulder. Hey, there. You American?

Why, no, she says in a great British accent. Or a great Aussie, or New Zeeland accent. I’m afraid I can’t tell the difference, though Darlene can.

Oh, Australian! Where are you from?

I’m from Brisbane.

How are you enjoying Egypt?

Cheryl smiles a wonderful, big smile. It’s probably a normal-sized smile, but on her small face it looks huge. It’s amazing. It’s one of the greatest places in the world.

At this point, we’re sort of walking out together. I am playing the all-important role of saying nothing and letting the women talk to one another. If my input is required I’m sure I’ll be notified officially.

Further along the path, introductions are done. Darlene introduces me, allowing me to interject one important word into the proceedings: Hi. Then they’re on their own again, chatting happily. At one point I hear Darlene say, My guidebook says it’s difficult to travel around Egypt as a single woman.

Which book?

Lonely Planet.

Cheryl takes her own copy of the Planet out of her knapsack, leading to exclamations of how they’re the greatest guidebook company on this not-so-Lonely Planet. Then it’s back to the topic at hand, Cheryl saying, But it’s true. A lot of men harass you. I’ve been pinched and prodded a bit.

We (Darlene and I) shake our heads in disbelief and horror. Darlene reaches out and touches Cheryl’s shoulder. This is just something she does; she’s a touch-talker, wanting to be physically connected to the person she’s talking to. Cheryl winces momentarily but then relaxes under Darlene’s fingers. Darlene says, Well, we’re planning on going to the Citadel tomorrow. You’re welcome to join us, if you like.

Now see, I like this, but I don’t understand it. I mean, what’s happening here? What is Darlene up to, and am I going to be punished or pleased in the end? I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to go with the flow for a while and take my chances.

Alas, the bubble bursts when Cheryl smiles again and says, That’s very sweet of you, but I was planning on seeing the step pyramid in Saqqara tomorrow. I’ve already booked the tour and everything.

I try to hide my disappointment, but not for long. In a fraction of a second Cheryl continues, I’d be happy if you’d accompany me for a drink now, though.

Darlene looks at me. I look at her. She turns back to Cheryl and says, Sounds great!

We hail a cab together just around the corner from Pizza Hut. Once you’re out of sight of the Pyramids, very little of Cairo is pleasing to the eye. The city is a jumble of dirt, garbage and permanently in-progress concrete buildings, making the whole city feel like an enormous construction site. Though it’s said if you swim in the Nile you’re sure to return to Egypt one day, I think if you swim in the Nile you’re more likely to return to the hospital, perhaps indefinitely. The streets can’t handle the traffic of Ottumwa, Iowa, let alone millions of Egyptians. It makes matters worse that seemingly half the population are driving a taxi at any particular hour of the day or night. Our taxi driver considers lane markers, street signs and stoplights all mere suggestions, holding sway over wimps and foreigners with his boldly aggressive driving. The three of us make occasional attempts at conversation but when each word you say may be your last it’s hard to keep the words flowing.

Our destination is the lobby bar of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Cairo. Actually, it’s the bar situated behind the lobby in a courtyard of the Hilton Hotel. When we arrive and finish kissing the ground in thanks, I realize this is a bar with a great deal of ambiance. At least that’s what I assume people say about a bar like this because it doesn’t have much else going for it. Egyptian men sit around smoking rented water pipes called sheesha. There are also a large number of tourists trying to pretend to be Egyptian men, sitting around smoking sheesha and coughing. The combined effect is that, even outdoors, the atmosphere is thicker than overcooked flan. We find a relatively well-ventilated table and order a round of rum and cokes.

Ah, the rum and coke, nature’s most confusing drink. You take one high-quality depressant and mix it in with one high-quality stimulant and what do you get? You get a seriously confused autonomic nervous system, that’s what you get. But it’s a traditional drink and we’re traditional folks, so we drink the drink. We all forget to order them without ice, something you’re supposed to do when you’re in Egypt because it’s not healthy for foreigners to drink the local water. We simply don’t have the right combination of microbes swimming around in our intestines, but in our enthusiasm for the evening, we forget our standard traveler’s caution. Oh well, either the rum or the coke will probably take care of the evils of the ice.

As we drink, we talk, and it’s wonderful. OK, Darlene and Cheryl do most of the talking, and I think it’s wonderful. We talk of Egypt, Australia, and America. We talk about globalization and the joys of one’s hometown. We talk about travel clothes. You know, you really shouldn’t be wearing those shorts around here, Cheryl, Darlene says. It’s not proper.

I know, I know. I read the book’s fashion advice, too, but I love wearing shorts. Bare legs make me feel so alive. She gets a mischievous smile on her face, one much slyer and, well, sexier than the huge smile she showed us earlier. I guess baring one’s legs is just one small step along the continuum of exhibitionism. Neither Darlene nor I can think of any way to respond. Anyway, Cheryl continues, I think I look good in my shorts.

Darlene turns to me. What do you think, Todd?

One thing about being the lagging leg in a conversation, you get dragged into the fray at the strangest moments. But suddenly here I sit, with my wife and our new lovely friend Cheryl staring at me, waiting for me to comment on the attractiveness of our new friend’s legs. This is a trap, certainly, the sort of thing married men are supposed to avoid, especially in the presence of their spouse. I go ahead and step right into it, though, saying, Cheryl, I think you look fantastic in your shorts.

This is apparently the right answer, for I get smiles (large, not sly) for my efforts, one from each of my companions. Cheryl, rather shyly, says, Thank you, Todd.

You’re welcome.

The waiter comes by with more rum and cokes. I’m wide-awake and half-drunk at the same time. I imagine the flirtatious part of our conversation is complete, but Darlene is not one to give up so easily. Her smile turns mischievous and she touches my shoulder as she says to Cheryl, Honestly, I didn’t notice you first. Todd here did.

Really! Cheryl is enjoying these confessions. I mean, who wouldn’t, but Cheryl is really enjoying this.

As is Darlene. She is enjoying making me squirm a little. And, again, who wouldn’t? And he didn’t first notice you at the Sound and Light Show, or at least not in the seats. You first turned his head while we were all standing around, waiting for the gates to open.

Not true, I wail in self-defense to much laughter. It was actually ten minutes earlier, when Cheryl was walking across the square in front of Pizza Hut.

This leads to more laughter and accusatory remarks. Perhaps, and just perhaps mind you, I am taking this honesty thing a bit too far. Perhaps my previous observation about the advantages of dishonesty should be more central in my mind. But no one is honestly upset, so I try to relax. Darlene steps back into the conversation. And then I noticed you, too, so I dragged Todd along in hopes we could sit next to you, but we were too far behind, I couldn’t make up that sort of ground. Darlene’s tone is changing ever so slightly, the laughter is leaking out of her voice like heat out of the desert sand. This is exactly the sort of thing a self-confident person would say if she wanted something (or someone). Does Darlene want something? Or someone? I feel the normal course of arousal beginning as I hope Darlene is saying what I think she’s saying. So we sat right behind you, instead, and then I synchronized our exits. And so, here we are.

Cheryl is still smiling. Yes. Here we are. Cheryl takes a long drink. Darlene stares at her hungrily. I am holding my breath, ready to scream, Say something! at Cheryl when she puts down her glass and whispers, And so, where do we go from here?

The answer turns out to be our (Darlene’s and my) hotel room. Later, much later, I have looked back to try to determine what exactly happened that night, and I can’t make complete sense of it. I recall the three of us throwing off our clothes as if they were on fire. I think I remember a number of positions and connections that are not in the abridged version of the Karma Sutra. I have a very distinct memory of my entire body being surrounded by beautiful women, their arms wrapped around me and around each other until it was hard to breathe. For some reason, I do recall this: I was on top of Cheryl, thrusting away, as she was directly underneath Darlene, licking away. That placed my face directly between Darlene’s slippery breasts when both women experienced orgasms that just went on and on. Cheryl’s legs and arms and Darlene’s arms were all wrapped around me and I felt like I was the center of a pretty darned wonderful universe as I joined in the climax before collapsing on Cheryl and under Darlene. That was nice, absolutely, but the strongest memory that has stuck with me is of a sensation I wouldn’t have been able to name before that evening: I felt alive. For each moment in that room that night, I felt more alive than ever before.

At least I think I did. What with the rum and the surrealness of the moment, I doubt my testimony could stand up to the stress of cross-examination.

We wake the next morning, late, or afternoon, early. The sun is shining through the wide-open blinds. Clothes, under and otherwise, are strewn around the room. One of the chairs has been turned over and one of the lamps is broken.

All in all, it was a good night.

We, I should mention, only includes Darlene and I. There is no sign of Cheryl anywhere. I get up, unclad, holding a single hand to my throbbing head, and walk towards the bathroom. Halfway through an extensive session of urination, it occurs to me Cheryl doesn’t seem to be in the bathroom either.

I stumble back to bed. The impact of me hitting the mattress is enough to wake Darlene, who rises (equally unclad) and makes a trip to the bathroom. When she flops back onto the mattress, she says, Where’s Cheryl?

I clear my throat noisily. I don’t know.

I start to drift off to sleep again until suddenly Darlene is shaking me and screaming something like, It’s gone! It’s all gone!

What?

Our money! The money is all gone!

That wakes me up. We go through some standard Three Stooges-like maneuvers, bumping into each other while searching through pockets and purses and backpacks and occasionally screaming, My watch! My jewelry! My camera! Oh, there’s my camera.

We finish up this little routine by saying to one another, Passports!

Our passports are, of course, also missing. Cheryl took everything of value from us in one rather fell swoop. I suspect she was drinking just cokes, not rum and cokes, the sneaky little minx.

In case you were wondering, dealing with the Egyptian Police and U. S. Embassy, Cairo, for three days is not the most enjoyable way to spend time in Egypt, but we survived. While sitting in the lobby of the U. S. Embassy waiting for some official to sign our applications for temporary passports, I turn to Darlene and say, I’m guessing she’s probably not really in Saqqara, right?

Darlene nods, too tired to speak. We never make it to the Citadel, and I’m willing to venture out on a limb and declare the results of this little experiment in sexual adventurism distinctly mixed.

Chapter II - Home Again

We return to our little world in Denver, Colorado as soon as our temporary passports are issued. We arrive to clear mountain air and brilliant Colorado sunshine on a frigid winter day. This natural beauty so inspires us on our drive home from the airport we arrive home and… immediately fall asleep. We sleep for the better part of a weekend until our vacation time expires and we have to go back to work. Neither Darlene nor I mention our Cheryl experience at all. I think it’s because we feel more or less idiotic for having fallen into the clutches of such a Venus flytrap and discussing it would tip the scales in favor of more idiotic.

We don’t live in Denver, exactly. We live in a suburb northwest of the city called Louisville, pronounced by most of our neighbors as Louis Vil. Louisville is between conservative Denver and liberal Boulder, so you might expect it to be a philosophical median between the two. That is not the case: very little of Boulder’s left-wing point of view extends into the boundaries of our town. We are an enclosed community of wealthy, mostly conservative professionals who want to live near the mountains but who don’t want to live in Boulder. The houses are large and the lots are bigger than in the older suburbs closer to Denver. The schools are excellent and the mountains are close enough to bike to if you are in good enough shape to deserve a bike in the first place. It’s very handy to US Highway 36, meaning it is a clear commute to either Denver or Boulder, whatever you need. Or, for a couple like us, a clear commute to Denver and Boulder, Darlene in the midsized Mercedes she bought using a bonus from her firm as the down payment and me in my worn-in Nissan Pickup.

Darlene is a junior partner in a law firm with offices in a shiny, glass and steel needle in the very heart of downtown Denver. I love that building. I firmly believe over-the-top architecture is the first step in the right direction. With a little more creativity, some stronger glass and lighter steel we will be able to build taller, brighter and more curvaceous buildings in the future. Darlene is not as thrilled with the place. For her, the greatest good architecture can achieve is to create a floor plan where you are never more than 30 steps from a bathroom; the grand façade of the exterior is of no interest to her whatsoever. It’s also possible she takes the building for granted, getting to see it so often, but for me it’s always awe-inspiring when I make it downtown for a visit.

You see, I work in a cube, not unlike the building in Giza housing Pizza Hut. It is perhaps the most boring building I’ve ever seen; it has made Boulder’s List of Boring Buildings five years in a row. Fallout shelters and Zeppelin hangers are built with more of an eye to style, color and line; they are also often built with more windows. It is depressing to get within 100 meters of the place. Once in the cool darkness of the interior, your emotions move beyond depressed and quickly approach suicidal. My boss’s bosses wonder why people have so little faith in the Phone Company. It’s probably because they are judging our creativity and problem-solving skills by the instructions given to our architects.

I shouldn’t say I work for the Phone Company; there’s no such thing anymore. I was a wee little tyke when the big, bad monopoly was shattered. So I work for a phone company. My personal space is inside a little cubicle with fuzzy walls and attached desktops, file drawers, and computer keyboard trays. The walls are a very soothing shade of lime green. Though the color fails to cheer people up, it does allow them to die peacefully when their despair becomes unbearable. I have a whiteboard against one wall, directly over my computer, placed there for keeping to-do lists, diagramming complex concepts, and organizing working time; instead, I write a Quote for the Day across the top in bright red each day when I arrive at work. When I return to work the first day after Egypt, I quickly scribble, Born in Babylonia, moved to Arizona, King Tut.

Then it’s time to read e-mails. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of technology and all, but I was hoping advanced technology would produce something more exciting than the digital equivalent of junk mail, chain letters and office gossip. At least 90% of the hundreds of e-mails I have waiting for me are junk. I am copied on the minutes of meetings I would have avoided had I been here. I have many different opportunities to purchase things I don’t want. And I have too many e-mails roughly equivalent to a coworker stopping by my desk and bragging to me about things they’ve accomplished instead of letting me take a crack at accomplishing something myself.

At least in e-mail it’s easier to end such a conversation: you press delete and it’s done. It’s not always as simple face to face.

I manage to cull my inbox until there are a dozen things I need and/or want to read. These I spend a little time on while diligently preventing my mouse hand from clicking on the web browser and searching for websites on the metaphysical and spiritual significance of ménage a trois. Our office is, like most, not that open-minded.

Hey, staff meeting time, a coworker says as he buzzes past my cubicle’s gaping hole suggesting space for a door. It’s then, at that exact moment, it hits me: the sense of dread and disaster we all experience when we realize how little of our lives we spend on vacation and how much of it we spend in the office. I’m not dreaming. I really am back at work, and my next vacation is at least six months away.

Groan.

There is an upside, though. I like my boss, so spending a half hour or so in his