Clickbait: “My vacay threesome hell!”

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.)


The owner, very sad, on his empty terrace.

Cold: “Shark Victim Ruined my Business!”

Reunion Island restaurant owner blames shark attack victim for a downturn in biz.

You probably heard there was another shark attack at Reunion on Saturday.

Bodyboarder Laurent Chardard paddled out at Boucan Canot, a netted beach, two days before his twenty-second birthday. There were red flags on the beach because a two-metre hole had been detected in the seven-hundred-metre net earlier that day.

Still, it was the safest place on the island, and the waves were pumping. Reunion has plenty of serious risk-takers, but Laurent is not one of them. There were already about fifteen people in the water. Laurent joined them.

The set of the day rolled in. Some locals think the shark swam in over the net, others believe it cruised through the tiny hole. Either way, it grabbed Laurent’s right arm. He punched it with his left. His reaction didn’t save his arm, but the shark did retreat. Laurent got back on his board. The shark returned, and this time took part of his right leg.

Some other surfers came to Laurent’s aid. According to Laurent’s friend Camille, who I spoke to by phone last night, he told them, “Just let me die, I don’t want to live like this.” This is the kind of instruction none of us ever wants to hear. They saved him anyway.

Laurent is made of tough stuff. Eight years ago, his dad went hiking, and returned with what seemed like a flu. It wasn’t. It was leptospirosis, and Laurent’s dad died within a week.

Around the same time, Laurent was diagnosed with diabetes. He shrugged both setbacks off with uncommon optimism. Camille says he has woken in hospital with similar determination.

“He wants to get better, and he wants to live again. He is thinking about where he is going to recover, and thinking about prosthetics. It’s so impressive. He’s mind-blowing.”

But that positivity is in contrast to the absurd drama that has followed the attack, which is the part of the story you may not have heard yet.

The owner of Le Petit Boucan, one of five restaurants on the beach at Boucan Canot, was interviewed on radio soon after the attack, blaming Laurent, who had defied red flags on the beach that day, for his restaurant now being deserted.

According to two people I spoke to, the restaurateur went to the local police station and said Laurent should be charged with an offence. The cops shrugged and told him to take Laurent to court.

A Facebook page was quickly established, calling for a boycott of Le Petit Boucan whose clientele consists mostly of surfers. Within days, 1000 people had signed up to it.

But even a boycott would not achieve anything, Camille says. “People will think we are just stupid, and want to break everything that is against us. But we just want to make Reunion better. So we are trying to make it right.” Nevertheless, she said, surfers were angry, and likely to boycott Le Petit Boucan anyway.

Jean Francois Nativel, who is one of the island’s leading anti-shark activists, said he was trying to act as a “mediator” with Le Petit Boucan. (I asked Nativel to put a couple of questions to the restaurateur, but haven’t had a reply yet.)

“Greenies’ responsibility is bigger than Laurent’s,” Nativel said.

Another Reunion resident, Laurence Joanblanq, a schoolteacher and mother to a couple of keen young surfers, told me via email that the restaurateur had simply been fooled by the media. “The media is always on the side of the scientists and animalists. This guy just follows what we can read after every shark attack – that surfers are guilty! All the time we are not the victims!”

She said the big scandal was that marine scientists had got the local court to ban drumlines near Boucan because it is a marine reserve. The beach was full of students on the day, she said.

“It was awful. It is hard for them. We thought it was okay (at Boucan Canot). Now we have had one attack inside the nets. Everybody is very sad. We have taken a step back.”

I find this almost incomprehensible. All this insanity, misanthrope, anguish and tragedy… over a stupid fish.

Here’s another thing about Laurent. About a year ago, he was swimming with some friends in a lake on the east of the island. There was a rock ledge above the lake from which other people were diving into the water. Laurent watched a man dive in. When the man failed to surface, Laurent dived in to search for him. Camille says he found the man eight metres underwater, and hauled him back to the surface. Laurent’s friend, a nurse, resuscitated him. The man survived.

Obviously, Laurent can’t do that any more.


Steph Gilmore food fights Miley Cyrus!

Hot gossip straight from Hollywood!

Get a load of this slice of steamy gossip! Forgive the lack of accurate detail and possible meanders into non-truth. I was listening to someone else’s conversation, eating Chinese food and drinking a ridiculously sweet/fizzy rosé. Easy to get very mixed up.

Sooooooo apparently Steph Gilmore and her boyf (?) were hanging out with Miley Cyrus and hers. Stephanie is obviously Australian and so is her boyfriend (?) and Miley Cyrus’s boyfriend too. Or maybe Miley’s husband. They might have just got married yesterday (?). His name is Liam Hemsworth and he was in Hunger Games (?) but his brother is more famous because he is Thor.

In any case, Australian! And the four (?) of them went out to Soho House in Hollywood with the handsome man whose conversation I was listening to and another talented man and started hammering on some tequila (?) shots. The handsome man actually was the one who suggested doing tequila shots and he was concerned that it might be too gauche (?) for Steph but she was way hyped and threw them down bam bam bam.

The night took this turn and that turn and the four (Steph, boyf (?), Miley, husband (?)) got separated from the two (handsome man, talented man) but they all found each other again and, when they did, the handsome man says that Stephanie Gilmore picked up a cupcake and threw it right at Miley Cyrus’s boob.

Her boob!

Six-time world champ Steph Gilmore!

Throwing boob cakes!

It was unclear if Steph was angry with Miley or joking with Miley or if Miley liked the boob cake or if she didn’t.

It was, anyhow, at this point where I interjected to ask, “Was it sexy?”

That, I’m afraid, was also unclear.


New brand seeks derelict surfers!

"They don't build 'em like Christian Fletcher anymore..." or do they?

There was a time in surfing’s illustrious history when talent was found not made. When scraggly boys with snarling attitudes ripped beach breaks and point breaks and reef breaks not because daddy wanted them to make millions of dollars on professional surfing tours but because their hearts beat bad.

And hasn’t daddy just wrecked it all? Turned the scraggly boys into li’l machines! Turned them into empty-headed robots check-turning robots!

Turned them on to homeschooling!

And these homeschooled vessels with every edge sanded right off, sanded right down to Crest Whitestrip smiles, are the modern faces of the brands. They are our icons!

Except I heard the most wonderful rumor the other day. I heard that one man, who comes to us from skate and music, is out to change all that lame and his name is Damon Way.

Does it sound familiar? Oh but it should!

You’ll remember Damon as part of the heated rumors surrounding Dane Reynolds and co.’s aborted brand Destroyer. It was whispered that he would be the genius behind it all because he is a genius, having created/sold DC and a heap of other things.

Destroyer died in a heap of bloated ego (allegedly!) but Damon don’t need it because he has Fact. a white hot skate/music brand that the kids are . And rumor has it that he is thinking about dipping into the surfs!

A very good source tells me he was posted on the sand at Trestles very recently, wearing all black, scouting talent, trying to find the right surfer to fit the Fact. ethos. Scraggle. Snarl.

But maybe his trip was unsuccessful. He was heard mumbling, “They don’t build ’em like Christian Fletcher anymore…” as he headed back up the path, though my very good source says he’s not giving up.

Ditch daddy, boys! Head down to Trestles and get wild!

Homeschool’s out for summer!

Homeschool’s out forever!


Terror: Death Storms to Stomp Hawaii!

Hawaiian hurricane terror is real!

Hawaii hurricane terror is real. Streets flooded with people going about their business. Overcast skies! Palm trees swaying in pleasant sea breezes.

But it’s only a matter of time ’til the rush. Families flocking to their nearest market.  Mass hoarding of toilet paper and bottled water and light beer. Pure anarchy!

As of two pm Wednesday afternoon two class twelve death hurricanes are rapidly spinning their way towards our idyllic tropical archipelago. One has been named after a cookie, the other after that uncle who once cornered you at a family gathering and jammed his finger up your ass.

Hawaii Governor David Ige has declared a state of emergency! Schools will be closed!

Madeline will most likely bash herself to death against the southern shores of the Big Island. Residents of Puna will be cut off for weeks!

They’ll barely notice. Business as usual in that off-grid neck of the woods. Some generators will fail, residents will be forced to drink tepid Steinlager.

One has been named after a cookie, the other after that uncle who once cornered you at a family gathering and jammed his finger up your ass.

Lester is forecast to swoop north through the island chain, destroying everything in its wake. Hits Kauai on Saturday.

Is this to be a repeat of Iniki?

Gnarly time out here. People tell stories. Horrible consequences in the fighting chicken world as hundreds of coops were destroyed. Prize game cocks scattered to the four winds.

I’m appropriately nervous. Raised in Southern California, I can handle earthquakes.  Wind and rain, not so much.

But I’m prepared! Cases of bottled water, spare batteries for flashlights, a huge amount of fireworks I bought this past Fourth of July and never used. A handle of Jameson Whiskey a guest left behind and half a bottle of Cognac Derek sent me for Christmas!  Probably barter both of those for some child slaves.

Once the DTs start kicking in it’ll be a seller’s market.