The Nicaragua trip is feeling like a very dead horse. I’ve beat on that thing pretty well. Time to drop it and move on.
Which was the plan. File it away in my long term memory, focus on the now. Move forward, never look back.
But, what do you know, the subject of our failed degenerate triangle sent me a message on facebook today.
Was not expecting that. Figured I’d never hear from her again. Slowly forget her name and face. She’d eventually be remembered only as that-one-girl-from-Nicaragua.
Turns out she’s been reading your beloved BeachGrit, wants to add her own take on the situation. I get a kick out of the idea. Between her and the wife I’m becoming some sort of writer pimp. Getting together a stable, putting them to work for me. The wife’ll be bottom bitch. Keep the others in line.
Probably not the most lucrative form of flesh-peddling.
“Bitch, where’s my money at?”
“Oh, Daddy! You know I be workin’. Look at all this exposure I got for you!”
“What’s this HuffPo bullshit, ho? You know exposure ain’t gonna pay no fuckin’ bills!”
“I’m sorry, Daddy! It’s just so hard to find paying work.”
“Don’t give me that shit! Now get your ass back out on the street and get submittin’! Don’t make me slap a ho!”
What a life that’d be. A man can only dream.
Anyway, here’s what she sent me. I’m sure some of you will find yet another installment rather tedious, but I think it’s interesting how three people shared the same situation while taking away vastly different experiences.
(I should also probably add, the wife is not a fan of the “for her age” comment. Which, I think, is a fair reaction. Even if it is technically true. She’s got a killer pair of tits for any age, but most especially for someone in her early thirties.)
Rory, how are you and how are things back home? I went on your Facebook a few weeks ago, after I got back from surfing north of Gigante to send you a message saying thanks for letting me tag along on your holiday and to tell you that I think you and (Rory’s Wife) are absolute legends.
Then I came across the beach grit article about the potential threesome with me (which I found hilarious by the way) and then I felt bad because a threesome never in fact happened and then I thought I should explain why and I thought I’d try do it in an article.
The article is below. Feel free to change the ending to include the steamiest of threesome descriptions in history and post online if you feel your readers need answers.
I went to Gigante for a threesome and all I got was a lousy beach grit tank.
Sitting at microbrewery in San Juan- their $4 craft beers burn holes in my backpacker pockets but its oak bar top and range of hops make me feel less like a salty drifter who has been on the road for 8 months and more like a human. Worth every cordoba.
Men’s 50km walk is showing from Rio, my concentration is hooked to the tv, naturally. In the ad break I look around, spot a white middle aged couple to my left- man has tie dye shirt on and is sweating profously, woman has extremely nice breasts for her age, both chain smoking.
I make conversation. Man writes for surf magazine and is free diving enthusiast, woman is lawyer and is passionate about the legalisation of marijuana. Both live in Hawaii, both very cool.
They invite me to a seafood feast and I decline politley. They insist and my body- which has been surviving on pasta and Natura’s prepackaged sauce for the past month accepts.
We have a delightful night and (Rory’s Wife) wants to order more food so she can package it and feed it to stray dogs- fucking legend. I take them to the park where I think the dogs most in need of fish croquttes and lobster are. They invite me to Playa Gigante, (Rory’s Wife) says she needs a spa buddy whilst Rory goes spear fishing. I ain’t got no plans so accept…and pray I ain’t getting catfished.
No spear fishing for Rory but massage, nonetheless for (Rory’s Wife) and myself. We are all getting along like a house on fire, they discover I am a fan of Fleetwood Mac and give me a beach grit tank.
One night I start to feel under the weather- high fever and my body aches, didn’t surf that day because my kook mates working at the surf camp ran their boat battery flat. It must be Zika. Rory and (Rory’s Wife) take me back to the hotel, feed me codeine and put on Rick and Morty- the parents I never had.
I feel better the next day. That night (Rory’s Wife) is wing-manning so hard for Rory she deserves wife of the year award.
Threesome is put on the table.
I have smoked copious amounts of cannabis with my kook mates at surf camp and is no way as drunk as she. I contemplate the offer and she sees it in my blazed eyes. Says offer is there for tomorrow night.
Can I have a threesome with this lovely couple who have nursed me to health and have shared multiple conversations about how using water to clean residual feces is better than paper?
I think about it, perhaps too much and decide no. I roll a consolation joint for them in the morning, say my goodbyes and head north to catch the last days of good swell. I hope they meet a young lass in the Granada and treats them with less kindness so a threesome materialises.
NB: I really like my beach grit tank and where it every day.