by Nik Richie
How many times have you had the shit kicked out of you because of the site?
Just the one punch from Charles. That’s it.
But I get the last laugh.
While I’m in Miami with Lohan, Chuck gets popped for a DUI with a box of bear claws riding shotgun. I put it up on the site and the users start eating it up in the comment boards. They give their little two cents about racist cops and how Chuck needs to lose weight and his gambling debts. They speculate. Tease. The usual.
What happened was Chuck ran a stop sign around 1:30 in the morning, admitting to the cops that he was in a hurry to get a blowjob from some chick he had met the week before. The cop has him exit the car because of the smell of alcohol. Chuck fails his field sobriety test, and the rest is history. It’s all over the news: local, national, everywhere. When you’re someone like Charles Barkley, the media gets into a frenzy over stuff like this. I’ve been there myself. If someone’s down, the first instinct most people have is to kick them.
That’s how the game works: you rise to prominence, and although nobody says it, they’re all betting on when you’ll fall. Everybody loves a trainwreck.
27MLB Third Baseman/First Baseman (Oakland Athletics, New York Yankees).
28MLB Right Fielder (Atlanta Braves, Kansas City Royals, Oakland Athletics, Chicago White Sox).
Three
I’m getting appearances like crazy.
I’m single. I’m on the road. Every weekend it’s somewhere different: Texas, Arizona, Nevada, California. It’s a different club with a different group of people. The weekend doesn’t mean the same thing it used to anymore. Every Friday and Saturday it’s a different city banging a different chick in a different hotel room. It’s constantly changing but a pattern is emerging.
It goes: dinner, drinks, club, flirt, fuck, fly away.
I get on a plane to do it all over again. I go to Chicago, Atlanta, and St. Louis. I fuck a bottle rat 29, a server, a socialite. And then I wake up at the Marriott, the Hilton, or the Hyatt, checking out to catch my plane on Southwest, Delta, or American Airlines.
Nik Richie is no longer just a person.
He’s a brand. He blogs all week, and then he jets off to another city, another club, to have his way with another girl.
And everything is free. Everyone is offering me something.
Free booze. Free clothes. Free girls. These are the girls that normal people would have to wine and dine and break their wallets for, but not with me. They submit. Throw themselves at me. There’s no challenge, so then I start pushing the envelope. In order to keep the experience alive and exciting, I start exploring the boundaries of how far I can go. How far I can take these girls before they stop saying “yes.”
Another trip to Dallas. San Diego and Beverly Hills.
I’m drinking, fucking, sometimes blacking out. I spray a bottle of champagne in a server’s face and tell her to clean herself off. Call her a peasant. And nothing happens. Not one person says, “No, Nik, you can’t treat people like that.”
They don’t tell me I’m out of control. They don’t say “stop.”
Then I go to Phoenix, Dallas (again), and Seattle.
There has to be more than one girl now. There has to be because one is boring. It’s been done before. Nik Richie knows that he can get a girl. That’s the easy part. But two…two is different. Two girls is not common, and therefore, not boring. I won’t be bored if I can fuck two girls, get them to kiss each other, fuck each other. Sometimes they’ll eat each other’s cunts, and although that’s very cool, the part that I love the most is that it’s something they’d never do unless I told them to. I’m getting the girls to push the envelope with me, be reckless with me. My online persona and the effect it has manifests within these clubs, in the hotel beds where these girls do the things they never thought they would.
We’re all living in the moment.
Living without consequences.
But now the bar has been raised. I go to the club, I drink the drinks, flirt with the girls. I do all that, only now I have to end up with two girls in my bed. It has to be at least a threesome or else it will be boring. Mundane and typical. If I can’t have two girls it’s not even worth my time or effort. I’ve acclimated. Adapted to having whatever I want when I want it: the life of indulgence and people loving you for what you represent, not who you really are.
I expect to be pampered and have my ass kissed.
The girls are no longer girls. They’re objects.
Little things start to slip my mind, like what it’s like to actually have to try with a girl or how it feels to pay a bar tab. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been rejected, but I keep going. I stay on the road, hopping off planes, going to these dinners and clubs and hotels.
I arrive at Last Supper Club with Spencer Hawes 30, and at this point I’m limitless. I can do whatever the fuck I want to whoever I want to do it to. Spencer is tailing me through the club as we walk to our table, and there’s these two girls. Two girls standing together. A blonde and a brunette. I grab the blonde and start making out with her. Grab her by the neck and stick my tongue in her mouth, and then I do the same thing to her friend.
No one stops me.
They don’t say “no.”
Spencer asks, “Do you know these girls or something?”
I’ve never seen them before in my life. Nik Richie doesn’t need to be acquainted with someone to kiss them, fuck them, or make them do what he wants. Nik Richie, unlike Hooman Karamian, has no boundaries. The game has changed. Nik Richie has no rules, and therefore, cannot break any of them.
So the two girls from Last Supper Club end up at my hotel. The brunette wants to fuck. “I want to fuck so bad,” she says, but the blonde is weirded out. She’s never known her best friend in that way. Never seen her naked. Like most people, she’s never had a threesome, so it’s strange and overwhelming for her. Sex still means something to her. It’s not boring. The blonde doesn’t want to fuck me if her friend is in the room, but I tell them that it doesn’t work that way.
“I’ve had three threesomes in a row,” I say. “I’m going to have a fourth tonight.”
I say it flatly. Honestly. Nik Richie doesn’t need to be coy. He doesn’t need to ask nicely anymore. He makes demands, so he tells these girls that we’re all going to fuck tonight.
The blonde says she wants to watch.
I’m on the bed with the brunette, and the blonde is watching. She’s touching herself while I fuck her friend. I’m pumping the brunette, whispering into her ear, “Tell your friend to take her clothes off,” and she does. She says it and the blonde does it. I give the orders, the brunette relays them. So I’m fucking one, just one, but it’s not boring because now I’m telling the brunette what to say next. I say, “Tell your friend to touch yourself,” and in between sharp breaths, she repeats it. The blonde starts rubbing her cunt, fingering herself against the wall. She grinds her fingers into herself and the brunette and I watch from the bed. Breathing sharply. The girls are moaning, and I keep fucking and giving orders. I keep pushing the envelope because that’s what Nik Richie does.
The brunette and I fuck. We direct the blonde.
We’re all coming at the same time. We go too far, but we do it together in our private little room where no one can see that we’re losing ourselves. Losing our way. I come all over the brunette’s back while her blonde friend climaxes, masturbating against cool white walls. Their eyes flutter, spent. Exhausted. We sleep together. We pass out from liquor and the exertion of too much freedom. We’ve pushed too hard, so we sleep.
Sleep, and the next morning reality sets in.
The girls are sober and their inhibitions have come back, more so for the blonde who is scavenging the hotel room for her clothes. She’s picking up her underwear and last night’s dress, balling it against her chest. Crying. Sobbing and freaked out, and the brunette is trying to calm her down, telling her, “It’s okay, it’s fine,” but clearly it isn’t. A bounda
ry was crossed last night, and some of us weren’t ready for it. We weren’t prepared. I’m watching the blonde cry and fall to pieces from the bed, naked under the covers, and I go into a little bit of a shell. Ashamed. And it’s the first time I ask myself if I’m losing it.
Maybe I’m taking things too far.
Perhaps I’m turning for the worse.
Nik Richie spraying civilians at Stingaree Nightclub, San Diego, California.
29A girl at a club who will find a group of guys and drink off their bottle service the entire night.
30NBA player (Sacramento Kings; Philadelphia 76ers).
Pleasanton
The problem with my divorce is I never went through an alone period.
There was never a time for me to sit back and reflect on things, think about my life. I was single, but not single in the way most people are. I could have anyone I wanted. Anyone. I didn’t have to try. In fact, I’d have to push girls away most nights. There was too much choice. Too many offers. I had to filter it down to the best one. Then I started pushing it, taking things further, and bringing two girls back with me.
But watching that blonde freak out in Seattle changed something. It made me reflect. Ask questions. It starts to sink in that this isn’t normal newly-divorced guy behavior. I need to get stable, I think. I need to step it back before I do something that permanently fucks me up somehow. I need something real. The Nik Richie game is fun, but it’s dangerous. It’ll keep escalating until it hits a breaking point.
I go to Pleasanton for an event.
This is where I meet Amanda Reed.
She’s young. Really young. Eighteen, blonde with light blue eyes. The kind of blue eyes that I like. She’s doing this pretend red carpet interview, which is basically going to be a direct-to-YouTube upload. It’s not going to be on TV, so I’m kind of fucking with Amanda when she tries to ask me questions. Any time she tries to get an answer out of me, I turn it back to her.
What are we doing tonight, Amanda?
What’s your story?
The story is that she’s the assistant to the club promoter and she’s got a boyfriend. No one knows if it’s serious or not. They just know she’s not single. She doesn’t fuck around on him, or at least, not that anyone has seen. And I like her. I’m drawn to her. Part of it is the way she looks, how she carries herself. The other part is that she was born in the ‘90s. She’s young. Unspoiled. She hasn’t been tarnished by the scene yet. Not yet, anyway. The liquor and late nights haven’t had their chance to age her skin or break her morality. She’s still got a chance to live a good life.
I love this girl.
I don’t love her specifically, but I love the ideal that she represents. She could be my stability. She could bring me back from the edge. So I JanSport 31 this chick for the night. After the interview (if you can even call it that), we keep talking. I talk to her about whatever she wants to talk about. Like she’s my girlfriend. I make it all about her: her interests, her life. If a girl comes to the table wanting to meet me, I either outright ignore them or make it brief so I can get back to Amanda. The entire night is devoted to Amanda, but I’m not the only one. Throughout the evening, maybe twenty or thirty times, the boyfriend texts her. He tries calling a couple times too but it’s so loud in the club that they wouldn’t be able to hear each other anyway. The boyfriend texts while we talk, flirt, get to know each other. Actually, it’s really me getting to know Amanda. I try not to make Nik Richie a topic, thinking that she’ll stop thinking of me as a brand or a persona. A blogger. I’m trying to get normal, so I keep the discussion as normal as I can.
There’s no mention of Dirty Celebs or fame-chasers or what actress is doing which drugs in a certain club. We really don’t talk about the site. During the interview we did, but we’re both over it now. And the boyfriend keeps texting, wondering when Amanda is going to be home. He wants to take her from me. Steal her away. And even though I can tell that she’s kind of into me and all the attention I’m giving her, another part, the responsible one knows this is leading to something wrong. She’s crossed the boundary of flirting with another man, but I want to keep going. Keep pushing.
I stay on her for the rest of the night: from the club to the after-party. We drink and the hours pass. Eventually, the boyfriend stops texting. He gives up. I don’t.
I tell her, “Look, it’s really late. Can you please get me back to the hotel? I have no clue where I am.”
It’s bullshit. I’m lying. We both know it. I could call a cab and get back to the room just fine by myself, but I don’t want to be alone right now. I want Amanda. And she needs to be needed if this is going to go any further. She needs the excuse of seeing another person stranded and helping them. An emotional loophole.
So she stays. We get a cab and get back to the hotel, at which point I talk her into coming up to the room. It’s six in the morning and we’re both tired. Exhausted. And I’m telling her to just have a drink and relax.
She says, “I don’t want a drink. I’m done drinking.”
“Well, then, take a nap or something. You can’t go home right now,” I say. “You need to rest. I’ll give you money for a cab later. Let’s just rest.”
She doesn’t say anything. She’s trying to decide.
Or she’s waiting for me to make the decision for her.
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” I say. “Let’s just talk.”
As if I’m somehow channeling Leper, I use the “let’s just talk” line. I use it and it works. She stays. She sits on the bed and I’m sweeping her hair back with my fingers telling her she’s gorgeous. I kiss her cheek. She says “no,” but it’s not a real “no.” It’s a “yes, keep going” type of “no,” and then I lock into the blue eyes and kiss her mouth. I kiss her, but not like she’s a whore or a club-rat or fame-chaser. I kiss her like I love her, and I want to so badly that I trick myself into believing this is real and genuine and not at all temporary. I pretend I’m not going to be on a plane in a few hours. We’re going to be together and I can get normal. I can be Hooman around this girl when being Nik becomes too much. She can be my stability.
And when we make love it’s soft. I do everything soft. I’m inside of Amanda with no condom and it’s slow and warm. It’s safe. Innocent. She’s pure and gentle and all the things that I’m not used to. Amanda is all the girls I don’t meet at the club. She’s perfect, and for about an hour we’re perfect together. Unified. I look into the blue eyes and forget Nik Richie and all the things that are waiting for me tomorrow. I forget. Let go. I stop chasing.
With Amanda, making love, there’s no want for the future or regret in my past. There’s nothing I want other than this. So for a moment, a very brief moment, I’m content with life and there seems to be some balance. Amanda serves the exact purpose I thought she could, either fixing me, or, at the very least, repairing the wound of my divorce.
It’s a temporary fix, though.
Just like Seattle, reality sets in the next day.
We exchange numbers and go our separate ways, and I try to keep this going with Amanda (whatever it is). I pursue this girl: calling her, texting her, trying to get her to come out to Scottsdale or meet me in Vegas. But she’s afraid. She doesn’t want the boyfriend to find out because that’s her stability. Amanda is already where I’m trying to get to, so she ignores me. Over the next two months she ignores me, and there’s only so much of that a person can take when there are other girls saying “yes.” Girls sitting with me. Flirting with me. They want Nik. They’re willing. Ready.
And I take what’s offered.
I embrace the persona.
31Also known as “pulling a Janny” or “Jannypacking.” The act of picking a girl and backpacking her all night.
Carrie Prejean; Perez Hilton
Sometimes I get pulled into the celebrity world.
The whole Carrie Prejean thing started with Perez Hilton putting this chick on blast because he didn’t like how she answered a questi
on. At the Miss USA Pageant 32, during the Q&A portion, Perez said to Carrie: “Vermont recently became the fourth state to legalize same-sex marriage. Do you think every state should follow suit? Why or why not?”
When a flamboyant gay man asks you on national television if you support gay marriage, logic dictates that you have to agree with him.
Instead, Carrie responded: “Well, I think it’s great that Americans are able to choose one way or the other. We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage. And, you know what, in my country, in my family, I think that, I believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman, no offense to anybody out there. But that’s how I was raised and I believe that it should be between a man and a woman.”
Then Perez, like a fucking child, took to his video blog calling Carrie a dumb bitch for the answer that she gave to his question. It was one of those moments where she could have either answered how Perez wanted or said what she really felt. She went with the latter.
Of this moment, Carrie said: “I was being dared—in front of the entire world—to give a candid answer to a serious question. I knew if I told the truth, I would lose all that I was competing for: the crown, the luxury apartment in New York City, the large salary—everything that went with the Miss USA title. I also knew, or suspected, that I was the frontrunner, and if I gritted my teeth and gave the politically correct answer, I could be Miss USA.”33
So Perez and Carrie are going at it, and because I really don’t give a shit about either one of them, I never directly comment on the matter. Perez’s site is the celebrity gossip. I’m civilian gossip, and the only time I’ll step into celebrity territory is if it lands in my lap. Well, it lands in my lap.
During this whole media frenzy, a submission from San Diego (I’m assuming from her ex-boyfriend) comes in with three semi-nude photos of Carrie attached. She was in the middle of explaining her answer to the gay question and her faith and her +2’s, and then some person from San Diego sends me another tank of gasoline to throw on this fire: the pictures. Carrie posing in pink underwear, turning away from the camera, smiling, tan, young. I know they’re going to be big.