Familiarity

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: 9781005411572

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

by

Kyle G. Roesler

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Kyle G. Roesler on Smashwords

Copyright: © 2022 by Kyle G. Roesler

ISBN: 9781005411572

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 – The Last Days of Summer

Chapter IX – Nine Months Later

Book_Club_Discussion_Questions

About_the_Author

Sample of Familiarity: The Director’s Cut"

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

Though the evening in general remains pretty hazy, 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 at the center of a pretty wonderful universe as I joined in the climax before collapsing on Cheryl and under Darlene.

A few hours earlier, my wife Darlene and I sat in air-conditioned comfort in Pizza Hut on the third floor of a cube-like three-story building of concrete and glass squatting on a small cul-de-sac immediately in front of the Sphinx. We watched the Sphinx and the Pyramids as if we were 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; I don’t know her name is Cheryl, yet, but it is. 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.

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. But am I thinking of the Sound and Light Show, or the wonders of ancient Egypt? I am not. I am scanning the crowd trying to spot Cheryl again.

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, assuming I can spot her, 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 crowd dynamics funnels us right next to the woman in question. There are only a few lights helping us walk away from the pyramids but it is enough to convince me she looks just as lovely as I’d imagined. Now, I’m really going to be disappointed when we walk away without saying a word to her. I feel myself turning, turning, turning back to her, too often, so often I’m making it obvious, but it’s hard not to gaze upon beauty when you’re walking right next to it. I finally lock my neck in a straight-ahead orientation before I really get myself in trouble with my spouse.

That’s 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? I don’t know. But I like it.

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

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. 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 (metaphorically) 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 leaving the Sound and Light Show. I first saw him staring at you when we were making our way to our seats.

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. But no one is honestly upset, so I try to relax. Darlene steps back into the conversation. After I noticed Todd noticing you, and I noticed you, too. 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 I synchronized our exits, and 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, when Cheryl 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. 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 pockets, 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 almost 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 Lewis-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 compact 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