Sex, Lies and the Dirty

by Nik Richie

  Sex, Lies

  and

  The

  Dirty

  Sex, Lies

  and

  The

  Dirty

  A Memoir

  Nik Richie

  FERAL HOUSE

  Copyright © 2013 Nik Richie

  All rights reserved.

  Feral House

  1240 W. Sims Way

  Suite 124

  Port Townsend, WA 98368

  feralhouse.com

  Cover by Sean Tejaratchi

  Book design by Gregg Einhorn

  ISBN 978-1936239665

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Acknowledgements

  Myself.

  Without me, none of this would have been possible.

  Contents

  Vegas; Hard Rock

  A Call From Justin Levine

  Exposure

  Origins (Part 1)

  Dolce Vendetta

  Split

  Lohan

  Chuck

  Three

  Pleasanton

  Carrie Prejean; Perez Hilton

  Scooby Snack

  Escorts & Porta-Potties

  Ginger

  Origins (Part 2)

  Posts

  31

  Colors

  Vegas; Lavo

  Shayne

  Media

  Optima

  Meeting the Family

  Origins (Part 3)

  Ben Quayle

  $11M

  Dr. Phil

  Origins (Part 4)

  20/20 (Part 1)

  Deposition

  Broadcast

  20/20 (Part 2)

  Anderson: Episode 1

  Verdict

  Anderson: Episode 2

  Billboards

  Origins (Part 5)

  The Tour

  The Catalyst

  To Press

  Exit

  Niktionary

  Vegas; Hard Rock

  Audrina Patridge ends up fucking us.

  Our original plan is to do a 4th of July weekend out in Vegas for branding purposes, but because I haven’t gone public yet as Nik Richie, we need to put a face on the event. Someone that we can put on flyers and people will recognize. Tony Wang 1, who is our contact, tells us we should reach out to a celebrity to host this thing, recommending that we get a cast member from The Hills 2 because everyone is watching that fucking show. There’s also the issue of the $25,000 the Hard Rock wants to charge us for being there or using their venue or whatever. If we pull in a celeb to host, Tony explains, the Hard Rock will waive that.

  The decision doesn’t take long. We don’t want a dude to host and Lauren Conrad costs fifty grand, so Audrina is our best option. We agree to fly her and her four friends out (first class), pay for their rooms at the hotel (suites), and Audrina’s $15,000 appearance fee.

  I’m glad we manage to book a celeb for the event and save a few grand, but I have to admit that I don’t know much about Audrina outside of the following two things:

  1) She’s on a popular TV show, and although she has a terrible refund gap 3 I could probably fuck her and feel okay about it.

  2) From guys I know that have fucked her, she gets really wet—like obnoxiously wet. So wet that you can’t feel anything and you need five paper towels just to wipe your dick off. I realize this shouldn’t be a point of issue, but it’s disgusting from what I’ve been told. Like she’s got a drooling Labrador inside her cervix.

  Despite the rumors, I’m still leaning toward fucking her should the opportunity arise. If it doesn’t, I’m cool with just meeting her and getting a contact out of the deal. It’s whatever. I’m optimistic about things. We buy a bunch of extra merchandise to give away to coincide with the Audrina appearance: T-shirts, trucker hats, and panties that have The Dirty logo on the ass. Everything is in line for a successful weekend.

  Five days before the event is when we get the call.

  It’s Audrina’s management telling us, “Audrina’s not doing it. She doesn’t want to go to Vegas.”

  It comes off a little shady because, again, Audrina is getting paid to show up at Body English, drink for free, and take a few photos. Not very difficult in the grand scheme of things. That’s the excuse they give us though: “She’s not doing it. She doesn’t want to go.”

  And I’m thinking, Seriously, who doesn’t want to get paid to go to Vegas?

  So I’m fucking livid because Audrina is canceling five days before the event (and not even with a decent excuse), and because she’s doing it so short-notice that makes it next to impossible to book another celeb to fill the slot. We’re also back on the hook to pay $25,000 to the Hard Rock. Fortunately, we have a backup plan.

  Who needs Audrina when you’ve got Dirty Celebs?

  Leper and Alien are from Dallas.

  G-Girl is from Scottsdale.

  We’re flying all three of them out to Vegas for the event, but it’s tough to even get these girls on an airplane because they’re all alcoholics and drug addicts. Anything they can put in their body to lose their sense of reality, they’re on it, and you can tell G-Girl is taking all sorts of crazy prescription shit on top of whatever bottle she can get those engorged lips around. Leper and Alien would suck a hobo’s cock if they thought Crown Royal was going to shoot out, but that’s not really saying much since it’s a well-known fact they dabble in porn and pay-for-play 4. Pictures don’t lie.

  They’re blonde and tan and slutty and rarely sober, and though I’m inclined to disagree, the general consensus is that they’re all “totally fuckable.” So these girls, these Dirty Celebs 5, as we refer to them, are meant to replace Audrina Patridge to an extent. The idea is that we’re going to hire ten photographers to follow them around like paparazzi, and that this will draw attention to them in a way that will have people associating Dirty Celebs with chicks like Paris Hilton who are always out partying. Add a bunch of alcohol and whatever drugs they wind up taking, and it should yield some interesting footage. Something tangible.

  These girls can be the thing that Nik Richie can’t: a public image, a face to the idea. No matter how often they say “don’t look at me” or “stop talking about me,” it’s bullshit. They’re some of the biggest fame-chasers 6 out there, and the fact that they’re coming out to Vegas confirms that in my mind.

  Meanwhile, on the Audrina Patridge front, the Hard Rock gets back with us and verifies that her I don’t want to go to Vegas excuse was a crock of shit. Apparently, she (or her management) thought we wanted her to wear the Dirty panties at the Rehab pool party, and then there was another line of bullshit about how she got booked somewhere else for a higher rate.

  I make a mental note to blast her on the site later.

  No time to think about that now. The girls are in Vegas and already Alien is trying to fuck me.

  Someone from my idiot staff tells Alien that I’m the guy.

  Not directly, but they give her my room number which is basically the same thing. Even a drunk like her can find a room number. How she actually gets in is still a mystery to me. All I know is that around three in the afternoon, Alien is in my bedroom taking her clothes off, saying, “Eat my pussy. Eat my pussy,” in her weird Dallas accent, slurring hard on airplane booze and whatever else she’s on.

  Her skin smells like urine and spray tan, and she’s pushing me onto the bed. Pushing hard. Aggressive. And I’m saying “No.” Confused. Caught off-guard because for the better part of a year I’ve called this chick out for being a drunk-slut-cokehead piece of shit, putting her on blast 7, boosting my own popularity at her expense. Now she’s throwing herself at me. Wanting me. Holding me down on the hotel bed.

  This is how Alien and I meet: he
r saying, “Eat my pussy, Nik.” Small tits hanging out. She presses them to my face, my mouth. Those smell like urine, too, and my lips curl over my teeth. Curl tight. Her fingers wrap around my wrist, spelling G-L-A-M in blue and red ink. One letter per finger. They clamp down and lock. My face turns left…right…back again, avoiding her lips. Her breath smells like liquor and shit, and she’s saying it again. Alien says, “Eat my cunt,” like every disparaging thing I ever wrote about her was my weird way of flirting.

  I say, “No, I’m not the guy. I’m not the guy,” trying to push back, and when she reaches down to grab my cock, I’m able to shift my weight and throw her off. Alien is so fucked-up though that she thinks I’m playing into her aggressive bullshit, smiling messy pink gloss. Drunk. She can’t even comprehend rejection. Can’t process a guy not wanting to fuck her, maybe because whatever is kicking around in her system won’t let her. I’m not sure.

  “Seriously, I’m not him,” and then I pull Alien off of the bed, walking her out of the suite and locking the door behind her.

  That’s only the beginning; I can feel it.

  It’s about to get so much worse.

  At Body English inside the Hard Rock, G-Girl, Leper, and Alien are getting photo-bombed at the press wall, doing what they do best: smiling, posing, hair-flipping, and that thing where they bring their faces in like they’re about to kiss, but then they freeze less than an inch from touching. Teasing. The cameras love them. Alien does one of her signature poses, flipping the bird and kissing the print of her middle finger while G-Girl and Leper bounce their tits for the photographers. Huge, fake tits that someone else paid for, and now the crowd is stopping to see what all the fuss is about. Tan, blonde girls flaunting themselves and each other. Advertising. Modeling. Fame-chasing.

  Kiss. Wink. Flash.

  Everyone’s watching.

  Audrina Patridge shows up to the event—not to host or to meet any of us, mind you. She’s just there, drinking with friends and hanging out. So I despise Audrina now because she not only pulled out of the deal at the last minute, but then she showed up anyway acting like a fucking tough chick. She keeps throwing little bitchy glares our way.

  Of course, I can’t say anything directly because Nik Richie isn’t supposed to be here. There’s rumors going around that I am, and after that shit with Alien showing up to my room, I’ve got Duane Bell (my black security guy) tailing me through the club, just in case some idiot from my staff decides to out me again. I’m mostly here to make sure the event goes smoothly and keep everyone on task.

  We’ve got the center stage at Body English: bottles of Grey Goose and people taking photos of Leper and Alien making out on one of the maroon leather couches. Hip-hop music thumping. Cameras flashing, and not just from the photographers now. People are either crowding up to get a shirt or pair of underwear, or they’re trying to get a shot of Leper shoving her tongue into Alien’s mouth, sucking on it while Alien reaches over to grab G-Girl’s tit. It feels like the club and everyone in it stops to watch these girls, because it’s not casual or a couple of chicks kissing for attention. These are drunk strippers, so coked-out they’re probably not even aware they’re being watched, photographed, adored. They have no idea how much this is going to help out the business.

  After-party. My suite.

  The staff is all here along with a bunch of random girls, and in a way you could call this a celebration since the event did what we intended it to do. Mostly due to Leper, Alien, and G-Girl, we’ve left our mark on Vegas, got a ton of footage, and most importantly, got people talking about The Dirty8. In hindsight, Audrina dropping out was a bit of a blessing. Body English is buzzing over The Dirty, not The Dirty and “that chick from The Hills.’

  So everyone’s here now: drinking, partying, socializing.

  I’m a little bit more at ease now that the event is behind us and I don’t need Duane to tail me anymore, but every once in a while I’ll catch a look. Nothing hostile. It’s more like recognition. Like they know who I really am. Slowly, everyone in the room is figuring out that I’m the guy. The secret spreads. It circulates through loose talk and lowered inhibitions, finally getting to the wrong girls. The fame-chasers.

  This manifests when I go to take a piss. G-Girl follows me into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I’m pissing and she takes her top off. She’s hammered—almost blackout drunk with her tits hanging out now, and they’re spray-tanned in a way where her nipples have been painted over. I’m pissing, looking at two huge lumps of tan meat, then Leper and Alien are at the bathroom door.

  They’re pounding, yelling in their drunken Texas accents, “I’m gonna kick your ass, you fuckin’ slut-bag whore!”

  I’m pissing, and G-Girl folds onto the floor. Tits spilling everywhere, and they’re still out there pounding. Pounding and yelling. I shake, tuck my Greg 9 away and zip up. G-Girl’s eyes are fluttering. She’s barely conscious, fading, so I open the door and let Leper and Alien see her laying on the bathroom tiles. Drunk and harmless.

  I shrug at the two of them, saying, “Hey, I’m just taking a piss. I don’t know what her deal is.” Then I have one of my guys, Tristan, mop G-Girl off the floor and take her away. Her tits are still hanging out, and for all I know she probably thinks she’s walking off with me.

  I’m left standing with Alien and Leper.

  They’re on way too many drugs and they know who I am now.

  Leper decides she’s going to let Alien have me because, apparently, she called dibs or something like that. They’re respecting the dibs rule because they’re best friends. Never mind the fact that I haven’t the slightest fucking interest in Alien—that I actually think Leper isn’t bad-looking (the +2’s 10 and Dallas blue eyes do it for me). Because this crazy bitch called dibs, I’m stuck with her throwing herself at me again while Duane ushers everyone out of the suite. It’s four in the morning, and all I want to do is sleep because we’ve got to do this all over again tomorrow (later today, actually) at Rehab.

  Alien is telling me, “I just want to talk.”

  And I’m like, “Talk? About what?”

  “About…my life,” she says. “The site. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  Then we’re in my bedroom, and I’m under the clean cool sheets, trying to drift off while Alien meanders in the room. She’s staring. Just looking at me. Not talking. Alien tries to get into bed with me and I say “No.”

  She says, “I just want to talk,” and she stinks even worse than this afternoon. It’s piss and old spray tan. It’s sweat and liquor that has dried to her skin, and her face is wrecked. Smeared. And I close my eyes to not see it, thinking, go away…just go the fuck away, but I can still feel her getting closer. The smell intensifies: the liquor and drugs and piss seeping through her pores, and I say “No, it’s not happening.”

  Alien gets out of the bed, and for a second—one thrilling moment—I think it might be that easy. She’ll walk off and leave me alone. I’ll deal with her shit for one more day and never have to see her again.

  She says, “I’m going to kill myself. You’re going to watch me kill myself if you don’t fuck me right now.”

  I open my eyes. I look at her.

  “I have a daughter,” she says. “I’m going to kill myself.”

  So the choice is: I can either take one for the team by fucking this whore, or I could yell for Duane and have him come in and get rid of her.

  Then I’m thinking, There’s no fucking way she’s going to jump, but that’s when Alien opens the balcony door and throws one of her legs over the ledge. We’re on the sixth floor. It’s just high up enough that she could survive the fall if she doesn’t land on her head.

  She’s sitting there, looking at me, saying, “I have a daughter.”

  I pause, thinking, then I tell her, “Jump.”

  I say it again. Firmer this time. “Jump.”

  Alien challenges, “You really want to me jump? I’ll jump.”

&n
bsp; I say, “Kill yourself. I don’t fucking care. You’re worthless to me.”

  I’m thinking, Fuck, this better work.

  I say it again. “Jump.” And she’s so out of her mind, so completely fucked on drugs and liquor and some dream that never happened, that she might do it. She might find it easier to just end her life, and I refuse to fuck her to save it.

  She sits on the ledge. Sits. Thinking.

  Alien says, “No…I have a daughter.”

  It’s late morning when I wake up.

  I open the bedroom doors and the place is wrecked: beer and liquor bottles, trash, random bits of food. Cigarettes are on the ground, a little wipe pattern of ash from where some chick stepped and twisted. Tables are flipped over. It stinks. Stinks like stale booze and smoke. And there’s blood on the couch. A lot of blood, like somebody stabbed themselves. No body. Just a huge bloodstain on this light gray couch, the kind of stain that the maid would have to report. It seriously looks like someone died in here, and staring at the stain is making me light-headed.

  I walk across the living room, knocking on Duane’s door to find out what the fuck is going on. He opens up, wearing nothing but boxers and a T-shirt and I’m like, “Dude, why is there blood all over the place?”

  He says, “Huh?”

  We walk over to the couch and I motion to it, the blood. He looks at it, at me, searching for a response. Duane grabs his camera and starts filming it, the huge red stain streaking this fucking couch. You can see clots if you look close enough, and while Duane’s filming this thing I fill him in on last night. “Alien tried to kill herself.”

  Duane turns away from the blood, giving me a look like, That came from Alien?

  I say, “No, she tried to jump out the window. Where the fuck were you?”

  He busts out laughing and says, “Man, that would have been awesome if she did it.”

  I shake my head, get my phone and call Tristan to see if he knows anything. He picks up and I ask, “What the fuck, dude? There’s fucking blood all over the place.”