Sex, Lies and the Dirty

by Nik Richie

  I’m not the least bit jealous though. Or mad.

  If it ever comes back to me that Leper and I hooked up, I’ll have the pictures to prove that I didn’t just fuck around on my wife.

  16Douche + retard.

  17Gay or feminine.

  18She + him.

  19Ugly slut.

  20Blonde + donkey.

  21Girls with huge teeth and/or gums. Typically, their faces are terrible but they have incredible bodies.

  22This is not a rumor. Alien has fucked on camera more than a few times under the alias Lacy Holliday.

  23This is sort of an inside joke. On the site I’m constantly being asked whether I would or would not hook up with a girl, and my response 99% of the time is some variation of, “No, I wouldn’t stick it,” and this is actually something I’ve said referring to Leper directly.

  24Lil Wayne’s real name.

  Split

  After I get back from Dallas, my wife invites me out to lunch.

  This is unusual for her because we’re so distant from each other that she can barely stand the sight of me. She hates Nik Richie. Hates the site. It’s a mixture of disapproval and professional jealousy. When my identity leaked out, there was a moment where she tried to be reassuring and supportive—perhaps because she thought it was the beginning of the end. Amanda might have been under the impression that The Dirty was going to have to shut down. Close shop. Now that I’m getting booked for celebrity appearances, she’s back to her old self: distant, cold, and unfriendly. Ever since the incident she’s been like this.

  So the lunch invite is unexpected.

  I meet Amanda out at Kierland Commons, and I can’t help but be reminded that it’s the same place where I invented the formula a couple years ago. The Nik Richie equation that got me to where I am now, but Kierland is about to take on a whole new meaning. We sit down, make a little small talk about the menu. The way we communicate is more like acquaintances now, and not long after our waters are delivered does Amanda say those magic words: “I want a divorce.”

  For the record, I don’t want this. I’m unhappy, have been unhappy for a while, but divorce was never an option for me. In my family, or any Iranian family for that matter, when you get married, you stay married. Divorce is considered an unforgivable epic fuckup. It’s shameful, and even though Amanda and I have clearly lost our connection, my intention was always to stick it out. Hope for the best. Maybe time would bring us back together, a few years from now when she got over the idea of Hooman Karamian and Nik Richie being the same guy. My plan was always to stay underground, get some investors, have them flip the site for $100M, and I’d wash my hands clean of everything. It was never my goal to be Nik Richie forever, but maybe being outed removes that as an option. That may be why Amanda is asking for a divorce, crying. She’s crying in public, but I don’t feel empathetic or any sense of compassion. And I sure as fuck don’t feel sorry for her.

  What I know is that she’s lured me out to this place, a public place, and she purposely brought this up so that I couldn’t do anything. I can’t react. In this situation, all I can do is nod quietly and give her what she wants.

  I go out of town for an event.

  When I get back, all my shit is packed up. My clothes are in boxes. This is Amanda’s way of circumventing the awkward moving-out process. All I have to do is put this stuff in the back of my car and leave.

  Amanda and I have to go to the courthouse to fill out the divorce papers, but instead of acting all cold and distant, she’s actually playing up the relationship we’re going to have.

  “We’ll be best friends,” she says. “We’ll still hang out and it’ll be cool.”

  I’m a bit relieved because the last thing I wanted was to be on bad terms or anything like that. Getting a divorce is one thing, but going through one where the two people can’t be amicable is another issue. The last thing I need is my ex trying to fuck up my life, especially at this stage in the game. So this makes me happy, her finally attempting to get along with me. I don’t want to hate Amanda. Trashing all those years seems like a waste, so I want us to be friends. I’m optimistic that we can accomplish that much even though the marriage is about to be dissolved.

  So I sign what she wants me to sign at the courthouse. The papers get filed. I tell Amanda that I’m going to be there for her. I’ll send her money so she can keep up with the bills. It’s not like I have to do this, but I let her have everything: the car, the house, and all the shit that comes with it. I’m left with nothing, but I’m okay with that.

  Amanda is driving the white Lexus, giving me a ride back to Nik Richie headquarters, and that Pink song 25 comes on. It’s such a gay fucking bullshit song, but Amanda’s singing it. She’s actually singing it at me, turning in her seat and saying, “I’m still a rock star, I’ve got my rock moves,” and she’s acting like she’s trying to be funny but she’s being serious. It’s her way of saying to me, “I’m going to make it and you’re not,” because that’s what Pink is talking about in the song. Amanda is rubbing it in my face that she’ll come out of this on top and I’ll fail. Even after signing our divorce papers, Amanda is still competing with me.

  The ride in the Lexus with the Pink song is the last time I see Amanda.

  I’m sending her money and have called her a few times about taking Iris 26 for the week, but I get no answer. I honestly don’t miss being with Amanda. The hardest part is not having my dog anymore. I’m alone now. Alone and single, and that state of being makes it so much easier to be Nik Richie. The attachment that Hooman Karamian had in marriage no longer exists. I’m free now.

  I’m free to do whatever the fuck I want.

  I can chase that American dream.

  25“So What”.

  26My pit bull at the time.

  Lohan

  Samantha Ronson and Lindsay Lohan are the “it” couple right now, and in a stroke of genius, Justin Levine books Sam to deejay Mansion in Miami—not necessarily because he likes her as a performer, but because he knows that if Sam’s there, Lindsay is going to be there, too. So Lindsay ends up getting booked for $25,000 as the headliner with Sam making an undisclosed amount (possibly less). I actually get booked too, but because Lindsay is headlining and she’s a Hollywood A-lister banging a chick DJ, her clout overshadows Nik Richie. That’s the way it works in this business.

  I have to break a celebrity scandal to get any publicity.

  All Lohan has to do is sneeze wrong and TMZ is all over it.

  So I’m looking to stir the pot tonight in Miami, telling Levine, “I’m going to break those two up tonight.”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” he waves me off. “Not happening. They love each other.”

  “Justin,” I say, “Lindsay isn’t a lesbian. Am I the only one who sees this?”

  “Fuck off, man. You’re wrong,” he tells me.

  At Mansion, Sam checks her equipment while Lindsay does the red carpet. She’s wearing a tank top dress (sequined, checkered black and bronze), no bra, hair casually pulled back. People take pictures. Flashes everywhere. These will serve as the “before” photos leading up to whatever disaster happens tonight. People expect this from her now.

  So Sam, Lindsay and I all end up on the main stage inside the club, a platform where the DJ booth is set up overlooking the lower-level dance floor. Sam is cueing up songs in her headphones and smoking a cigarette. Lindsay and I are drinking, watching Sam. It’s dark and kind of boring. I’m thinking that if I hit on Lindsay (who actually looks decent tonight) that Sam will go nuts and they’ll get in a fight. There’s a PR chick that we’re supposed to talk to if we need to use the bathroom, so I tell this girl that if Lindsay needs to go, make sure to grab me so I can go too.

  A couple of drinks pass where Sam is spinning, smoking cigarettes, and Lindsay and I meander. Sometimes we’ll nod our heads to the music or casually chat. People are looking on from the rope that separates the platform from the rest of the club. Taking video, pictures. Securit
y stands around waving flashlights at people to move away from the rope. Eventually the PR girl is telling me that Lindsay is going to the bathroom, so I sidle up to them, ready to navigate the stairs and hallways. Lindsay takes my hand, leading the way through the dark.

  The PR girl opens the bathroom door for us to walk through and stands guard outside. It’s candlelit, but the light makes my pupils shrink. Lindsay goes straight for the toilet, pulling her dress up and sitting (no underwear), and one of her breasts is hanging out the top of the dress. I start to wash my hands and she asks me, “So, what’s your story?” before doing an uneven line of coke off her wrist.

  I say, “Nothing…just, y’know…partying.”

  Nik Richie kicks out the cast of Jersey Shore from Miami Beach, Florida hot spot Mansion nightclub.

  I’m watching Lindsay do coke to my right, that pale tit hanging out, and it takes a couple of seconds to kick in that it’s intentional. I’m supposed to see this. She wants me to. And she’s doing more coke, raising her eyebrows at me like, Want some? She sniffs. Snorts. She swabs a little in her mouth and I’ve heard about this kind of thing on TV and in the papers, but it’s different seeing it: the chick from Mean Girls doing blow on the toilet next to me. She’s not the same girl anymore. Something’s changed. She’s lost her way, and seeing it is freaking me out. The PR chick is knocking on the door because she thinks we’re fucking, and I take that as my cue to leave. It’s too much. Too real.

  I walk myself back to the DJ booth where Sam is smoking a cigarette, cueing the next track up on her laptop. Sam shrugs at me like, Where’s Lindsay? So I get up close, up in her ear and say, “She’s doing coke in the bathroom. That chick is crazy. How do you put up with it?”

  And Sam says, “Ugh! I knoooooooooooooooow,” in a girly way I didn’t think she was capable of, but other than that she’s cool and down-to-earth, sort of like a dude. We’re chatting in the DJ booth, laughing and giggling over Lohan drama, then Lindsay comes back and sees the two of us. She’s wiping her chest off because someone spilled a drink on her during the walk back. Lindsay sees Sam and me getting along (I’m basically hitting on her) and flips shit.

  Sam asks her, “Babe, are you okay?” motioning to Lindsay’s wet chest.

  Then Lindsay is yelling, “I can’t believe you’d fucking cheat on me like that! What the fuck?!”

  And I try to intervene, telling her, “Lindsay, I’m not going to fuck her. She’s a lesbian. It’s cool.”

  She doesn’t even bother trying to talk to me. Lindsay turns to the nearest security guy and yells, “Get this fucking guy out of here!” before she turns back to rip into Sam some more, causing a scene. Nobody can hear exactly what’s being said over the music (which, ironically, is “Womanizer” by Britney Spears), but their body language toward each other is clearly one of an argument. Everyone points. Laughs. Another camera flashes to capture the moment: the “after” photos. They feed the media another story.

  Justin Levine escorts me out of the DJ booth. He’s supposed to kick me out of Mansion altogether since that’s what Lindsay wants, but he puts me in the back corner booth instead. I get a couple bottles of Grey Goose and chat with this half-Asian chick, Stephanie, who’s gorgeous, but I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger. We recap the fight and talk shit on people instead, drinking the rest of New Year’s away together at Mansion. It’s a little boring. New Year’s is typically a letdown anyway.

  When I get back to the hotel that night there’s pounding and yelling. Screams. Mirrors are being broken and I don’t even bother calling the front desk to report it because I’m drunk and figure someone’s going to get to it soon. Come to find out that Lindsay and Sam are in the room above me. Justin Levine fills me in the next day, telling me that Lindsay absolutely shredded the room to the count of $13,000 in damages. It’s on the news. TMZ’s all over it. Radar Online. All those guys. There’s video of the argument from Mansion coming to me through my e-mail. Pictures of Lindsay and Sam at the airport are being published moments after they’re taken. I’m going through my e-mail and a server at Dirty Pretty is telling me that Charles Barkley just got a DUI. He was there last night with Michael Strahan and the guy that played Urkel on Family Matters and wants to know if I want the receipt.

  I say “yes” and the drama continues. It never stops.

  Chuck

  Charles Barkley’s daughter is submitted to the site.

  I don’t need to be told it’s her because the chick looks exactly like Chuck. In the pictures she’s posing with a bottle of Smirnoff vodka with a friend, and then there’s another one where she’s doing a four-way kiss with some girls. Typical college stuff. She’s underage, but it’s only a big deal because of who her dad is. Thousands of girls at U of A just like her are getting away with this sort of behavior, but whatever. I do the job. I play Nik Richie. I bag on her a little and flip a Charles Barkley line, the “I am not a role model” one.

  And I say: How could Charles raise his daughter to be like this?

  The investors contact me a few days later saying that Chuck wants the post taken down, but he’s not going the legal route. He’s not sending a cease-and-desist letter or any of that shit.

  My investors say, “Charles wants to know if you want to play golf with him.”

  I say, “I don’t get it.”

  In this business, when someone makes you an offer, that means they want something back in return.

  “Well, Charles would like the post taken down, so I guess what he wants to know is, what’s it going to take? Golf? Tickets? What do you want?”

  “Since when did I start taking posts down for fucking tickets?”

  They say, “Yes, well, it’s not your typical M.O. However, we think it would be a really good idea for you to make an exception here,” they say, stressing the word “really.” They’re trying to strong-arm me. “Having Charles in our corner might come in handy later.”

  They have a point, and the post has been up a week anyway, so it’s old news by now. Everyone has already seen it by this point, so I say, “Fine, I’ll take it down…whatever.”

  “Fantastic, Nik. Would you like us to reach out to Charles for a tee time?”

  I hang up.

  Three months later: I’m in Scottsdale with Eric Chavez 27 and Jermaine Dye 28 at the bar in the W Hotel. It’s a casual night. We’re catching up on stuff, talking about baseball, the site, bullshit like that. Jermaine mentions how he’s afraid to hang out with me considering what he’s seen on The Dirty.

  “This is gonna be crazy, man,” he says, as if it’s my goal to get him into trouble tonight. Or maybe he just assumes that trouble follows me.

  Randomly, Charles Barkley walks in and notices Jermaine and Eric. They start talking, Chuck orders a drink and has a seat with the group of us. Chuck doesn’t know me, so he thinks I’m just a friend or brothers with Chavez. The Nik Richie thing doesn’t register nor do I say anything to bring it to his attention since I’m not sure how he’ll react to it. I took his daughter down, but I didn’t do it in a timely fashion and I kind of snubbed the guy. He probably thinks I’m an asshole. His attention is mostly on Eric and J.D. anyway so I’m not too worried about it. I also made sure to let the guys know not to let it slip that I’m in charge of The Dirty.

  Chuck wants to know what we’re doing after this. What he actually says is, “So what are we doing next?” kind of inviting himself along and taking our quiet night up a notch in one move.

  We go to Dirty Pretty.

  We get a table in the back corner of Dirty Pretty. The four of us are chilling in the booth, scoping out chicks dancing to hip-hop music through the beams of light, and Chuck is telling jokes. He keeps name-dropping guys like Michael Jordan and Shaq and trying to be funny, but none of us are laughing at him. The server comes up and asks us what we want. Chavez, J.D. and I all order some kind of vodka mix since we have a bottle of that on the table. Grey Goose, I think. Since Chuck has to be cool or whatever, he orders a six-pack of Hei
neken (which probably cost about $80). So the server gets Chuck his beer, and she does this quickly because he’s Charles Barkley and the rumor is that Chuck tips like a motherfucker. He’s sipping on his beer, making bad jokes, and I’m like, “Chuck, you’re not funny, dude,” and that pisses him off a little because he’s used to people laughing at whatever he says.

  Regardless, Chuck and I get to a place where I think we’re cool after an hour or so. We’ve all got a good buzz going. The scenery is nice. Chuck has stopped trying to be funny and now we’re all just chilling at Dirty Pretty like we’re boys. Perhaps it’s the liquor that makes me do the thing I do next, or maybe my instincts are wrong, but I finally lean in to Chuck and say, “Chuck, just so you know—no hard feelings, but I’m Nik Richie. I’m the guy that runs The Dirty.”

  Chuck smirks.

  He checks both ways to make sure no one is watching us, and then he leans in like he’s going to say something to me. I do the same, leaning my ear toward his mouth so I can hear whatever he says over the music, then—can’t breathe.

  The wind is sucked out of me, and I see Chuck slowly lean back smiling at me. He just sucker-punched me in the gut, and the motion was so smooth it’s like he’s done it before. Hard. Effective. And no one notices. My lungs slowly unclench and take air. Hot club air, struggling into my throat, and Chuck is laughing. He’s drinking his beer, leaning back into the leather couch and smiling.

  That was all he wanted. One hit.

  I put up his daughter and that earns me one punch. So I take it, telling Charles, “Okay, I deserve that.”

  Chavez is asking me, “Are you okay?”

  And I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m good. I’m good,” trying to look like nothing happened, but this answers the question a lot of people ask.