What really happened in Nicaragua. Rory's wife tells all!

(Editor’s note: This story was written by the wife of the noted Rory Parker, who recently took a trip to Nicaragua with a goal to date, and sex, a woman other than his wife. All italics are by Rory Parker.)

A lot of you have been wondering what happened on our Nicaragua trip. Rory had a goal to relive our youth by having a threesome. It was all for me. Put some joie de vivre back in my life. I used to be wild, happy, adventurous, fun loving. I was down for anything and jumped head first with my eyes closed.

(That was never the goal. I missed the thrill of dating. That damp palm, butterfly stomach feeling that comes with putting yourself out there while trying to lure another person into your life. Group gropes are fun, but they’re also a ton of work. And I won’t kid myself and pretend I can satisfy a number of women. One at a time, if I’m on my game.)

I’ll give you a snap shot of what I used to be like. Ten years ago, I planned a trip to Nicaragua. I loved to travel. Didn’t matter when, where, or how. We were “poor” at the time. Or so I thought. Not real poor, but the rich kid in college poor. My rent was paid, always had money for crappy food and more importantly drugs, alcohol, and cheap vacations.

(Not much has changed, from my perspective.)

I thought things were rough, but now I look back on them with a fondness beyond words. During our 2006 trip to Nicaragua, we stayed in the cheapest hostels we could find. We “roughed” it in the same way upper class, first world backpacker kids have been doing for decades. On a budget, but with the luxury of calling daddy if thing get too bad. So not roughing it at all really. But damn did we live it up.

On our first night we met a very lovely Australian couple. He was a doctor, she was a writer. It was glaringly obvious they wanted us as companions. Rory tried making me write a travel diary, which I followed through with for exactly one night. We both had the same entry that night: “I think they want to fuck us.”

(They did want to fuck us. Not a surprise. Both me and the wife were at the height of our youthful sexiness.)

Don’t get me wrong, we were into the idea. Rory and I have always had an open relationship. We met when we were children. He was twenty, I was eighteen. There was no way our relationship was going to be monogamous. We agreed on that from the beginning.

(Which is one of many reasons why we’ve lasted roughly fifteen years together.)

When our companion couple invited us to Ometepe, an island in the middle of lake Nicaragua, we hopped on a ferry. Why not?

While drinking copious amount of Flor de Caña, I spied four lonely Québécoise. We didn’t want to be rude, and I’ve always found a ratio of 3:1 perfect. As Rory likes to say, it was kismet. Next thing we know, well, I’m sure you can use your imagination. And yes, I do have pictures. And no, I won’t be sharing. I respect the privacy of those open to explore. I do not and will not share my private collection with anyone but Rory.

( I have no such qualms. However I can’t find the external hard drive that contains said photos, and the missus is being less than helpful. No huge loss. Poorly lit debauchery featuring two couples and a handful of overweight Canadians is better imagined than experienced. I’ll add that one of them was a squirter. The first and only time I’ve encountered one. It was messy, and more than a little gross.)

The only weird thing about the night was the hostel staff kept asking us if we needed more towels or water. What the fuck, we’re obviously engaged in some hardcore hedonism. No we don’t need fucking towels, but water is great, gracias!

The next morning we woke up, still drunk, and went to breakfast. We noticed some very dirty looks from the Nicas. The proprietor of the establishment approached us and told us in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of his hostel Turns out our wild debauchery was not late into the evening, but rather right after sunset. After reviewing my pictures (they’re art!) from the night before, it also turns out our patio, where a lot of the fun took place, was in full view of everything and everyone. Needless to say, we took the first boat off the Island.

What’s the point of this story? To titillate, to brag? (Yes!) Not at all. To provide context to our recent trip, exactly ten years later. (Liar.) See, I’ve always been, for lack of a better word, the instigator in our relationship. Rory was a good boy when I met him. Model UN, tons of extracurriculars, didn’t do drugs, barely smoked weed, lost his virginity to his longtime high school girlfriend on senior prom night. Me, I was a horrid slut and wild child. From the time I was twelve I was every parent’s nightmare.

(This is a relatively honest description of us in our youth. I was a struggling try-hard who couldn’t push past the finger-bang barrier. My wife had a well deserved reputation as a voracious little slut.)

We had a wild youth, but it was always me at the helm. I picked the places, I picked the girls, I picked everything. When Rory wanted to return to Nicaragua with me, he pointed this out. He wanted to plan the trip. It wasn’t fair that I always got to do everything. After countless hours of fighting, I gave in. Go along to get along right? So the trip planning begins. Rory wrote a highly one-sided and what I’d characterize as less than truthful account here.

(More lies. I am always totally objective in my descriptions of our relationship.)

Never one to contradict my husband, (Ha!) I’ll move on to our current situation. We live on a small conservative Island. Sexual degenerates not welcome. Don’t shit where you eat. I’m sure Rory will criticize my overuse of clichés, but fuck him. He’s the writer not me.

(Yes, fuck me. I’ll refrain from pointing out that a lawyer’s job is 90% writing. The type that pays orders of magnitude more than the pseudo-creative bullshit I pump out on a daily basis. The only real difference is that it’s unlikely someone will call you a faggot in court.)

He has had this idea in his head for a while now of asking a woman out on a date with us. Not going out to dinner, but “my wife and I want to date you.” I thought it was absurd, (It’s meant to be) and still do, but a happy husband makes a happy wife. (When, exactly, did this become policy?)

Out of all the shit I put up with (Fuck that. I’m nice as pie, and twice as sweet), this was so minor it wasn’t worth my energy to argue about. I did explain there was no way he was going to pull a sweet something his way. Too awkward. More importantly, you don’t develop a relationship with the target. It’s all about spontaneity. Since this was his chance to be in control, fuck it, we’ll try it his way. Even though it was obviously going to fail.

(It was never truly meant to succeed. The last thing I want is a second woman in my life. Polyamory is for lunatics. Maintaining a healthy lifelong relationship between two people is so difficult as to be nearly impossible. Tossing a third in the mix ends with gunshots and bloodshed.)

He wrote about us going to the terrible clusterfuck entitled “Sunday Funday.” I tried my damnedest to do it his way and got a couple yeses, but then he’d swoop in, make it super creepy. “You know this is sexual, right?” and they’d flee. Fuck, so would I.

(That is an accurate depiction of the night.)

On our last night in San Juan Del Sur, I saw a chance to make Rory’s “date night” come true. To be honest, I’ve turned into a miserable human being. Any joy left in my life comes from making Rory happy. I spoil him. Or try to. Some may call it enabling (Everyone calls it enabling), but fuck it, it’s what I do. Sometimes that means taking control regardless of prior agreements. (Sometimes?) Any person in a long-term relationship knows this truth.

We’re at a bar and I spy a single, adorable hapa girl (yes, I know this means mixed Haole/Hawaiian, but it’s colloquially used to refer to Asian/Haole as well). I tell Rory to let me handle this. (She actually sent me to pick up a dress that was being altered by a local seamstress. I was not consulted regarding the following.) I invite our hapa to have a beer. She agrees and seems to like us. I invite her on a date. Make it clear my husband and I are interested in her and want to take her out to a romantic dinner. Everything went just as he wanted. A bit awkward, but exciting. He got that feeling he was looking for. Does she like me, my heart is beating faster, should I hold her hand, am I in junior high again?

(Turns out those feelings suck. It’s taken me thirty six years to build a wall of baseless self confidence. Chipping away at it was a total fucking chump move.)

We all get along great. Dinner is amazing, we even take her to the park for ice cream afterwards. I invite her back to our room, to let Rory do his thing. After all, this is his chance, his time to shine. I’m the evil wife who always controls everything and he’s going to change that.

(Yes, and that “lack” of control took the form of constant whispered advice, meaningful looks, and outright scorn at bumbled attempts to woo.)

He makes no move on her whatsoever. None. I thought maybe he needed more time. Maybe he wasn’t feelin’ it that night. This was his first go at it and she was exactly what he said he wanted. I thought I’d give him a second chance. We were leaving for Playa Gigante the next day. I invited her to join us. He told me that was stupid. Got kind of angry with me. Said no way will she show up to put herself in the clutches of the weird old couple.

Next morning she shows up at our hotel, while we’re eating breakfast, with an adorable smile on her face asking if she’s still welcome. “Of course, darling.”

You only know Rory through his writing. In person, he’s quite charming and witty. (Nope.) No negativity, no anger (with people other than his wife) (Wrong). The little hapa is eating it up. She thinks Rory is the coolest person she’s ever met. They develop a relationship. A weird, paternal relationship. He talks to her about her future (she wants to go to med school), warns her of the dangers of men like him, chases away all the horny scumbag surfers fighting over her like starved dogs.

(This was a truly unforeseen development. She was amazingly attractive, but the more I got to know her the more she felt like a younger sister. Or maybe a cousin. The one you’ve, shamefully, jerked it to a handful of times, but would never dream of actually fucking.)

As our time in Gigante winds down, with our little hapa doing sexy dances for him every night in our hostel, clearly waiting for him to make the move that never arrives, I become perplexed. What the fuck Rory, are you going to close the deal or not? The answer was no. We get in a huge fight about it.

“This is what you wanted and I dropped her in your lap.”

“No, I wanted you to have a good time, you always think you know what I want and you don’t.”

“If this was about me, why the fuck are we in this shithole? I wanted to sip mojitos while getting massages from sexy Latin boys. I wanted luxury. I wanted… not this!”

Then I feel fucking terrible (You should). Because this trip really was meant to be about me (It was). He wanted to recreate the magic of our last soiree (I did). Bring me out of my funk. (I failed.)

I had no interest in our hapa and turns out neither did he.

When I was younger, experimenting with the inexperienced was fun, great, new, loved it. Now, I don’t want to train little girls. I’ve had way too many nights with inexperienced girls giving me terrible head.

My taste in women has changed. Give me a nice big gay woman with decades of experience any day. Make me cum like gangbusters. None of this awkward, fumbling, learning. Slightly intimidated, but intrigued bullshit. I thought sexy little girls might still work for Rory. Turns out they make him feel like an old creeper (They do). The guy he never wanted to be (But am). We used to laugh at the weird old couple at the hostel, hanging with the kids, swore that would never be us (or feared it would be).

Well, it turns out none of it mattered anyway. I got sick before we left Gigante. Not the normal upset stomach, but felt like someone was stabbing my gut sick. Couldn’t have pulled the threesome even my life had depended on it.

(In the end, the experiment was a success. I wanted to feel the young again. Re-experience the thrill of courting. The nerves and fear. The lack of confidence and awkward attempts to connect. The soul crushing sensation of utter failure.

I got all of that. And I hated it. Never again.

All thanks to the imaginary sky man that I am not single. I pity you poor fuckers forced to live this shit on a daily basis.)