by Nik Richie
He says, “Dude, Nik…it’s cool.”
“No it’s not, man. What the fuck happened?” I ask. “It looks like someone fucking stabbed themselves.”
“Oh, nah man, it’s fine. It’s just G-Girl,” he says. “She’s on her period.”
“Then get the fuck up here and clean this shit up, man.”
“Let a maid do it.”
“Tristan,” I say. “You fucked this girl—you unplugged her, you O.J.’d her. Get the fuck up her and clean this shit.”
Meanwhile, Duane is still taping the couch, taping me on the phone and laughing his ass off. Tristan comes up to the room, but I can already tell it’s to argue his case in person rather than clean up the mess. Duane tries to hand him a wet washcloth, bitching about being recorded and that we should “just let the maid do her job.” He starts working on the stain, begrudgingly, but the blood has been soaking into the fabric for so long that all Tristan is accomplishing is getting the couch wet. Nothing’s coming out, and Duane keeps recording the whole ordeal and laughing.
Then I decide to give Tristan an even shittier job than cleaning period blood.
I say, “Round up the girls and get them down to the pool.”
Of course, they’re probably in any room but the ones they’re supposed to be in. Girls like Alien and Leper don’t go to bed alone, and they’re never where they’re supposed to be.
Leper and Alien make it down to the pool at Rehab, already drunk on minibar booze and whatever pills they took. Apparently, G-Girl was too embarrassed about the period blood thing to come down, so it’s the Leper and Alien show: stripping, kissing, almost fucking in this cabana that we’re in. Cameras clicking away or recording. It doesn’t take a lot to get them going because they’re still drunk from last night, and security has to constantly watch these girls because the fucking guidos and muscle-heads are getting too aggressive. Hundreds of people are watching this play out, and if you listen closely you can hear random dudes say things like, “Those are the two chicks from last night I was telling you about.”
At one point Leper comes up to me in the cabana that I’m sitting in. She plants herself down, pretty much wasted, but her body is nice and she’s smiling at me like I’m the only one that matters out of all these juiceheads and tourists. She says, “I know you’re the guy.”
I take a drink of vodka/water. Nod.
Leper says, “You’re fucking hot. But my friend likes you.”
And me being an idiot, I say, “Kelli, the only reason I flew you guys out here was to meet you. You’re the one I want. Not Alien.” I ask her, “Can you get her the fuck away from me?”
Then Leper smiles, happy and drunk and full of something like hope, putting a hand on my knee, saying, “Okay. I’ll keep her away.”
Leper gets up, disappearing into the crowd, and here I’m thinking that this should take care of it. I won’t have to deal with Alien’s shit anymore, but all I’ve done is made it worse again.
We reach a new low.
Most of the news comes secondhand, but what I do know is that after we partied at Body English again, the girls completely lost their shit. Alien and Leper got into some kind of weird altercation, probably because of what I said at Rehab. My staff tells me that Leper almost got raped by some guidos at the hotel and security has to be called, and none of my people can keep up with them because they’re running around the Hard Rock, cracked out of their minds on a drug buffet. God knows where G-Girl is.
Leper’s banging on people’s doors, either looking for her room or just a place to hide out—I don’t know. Randomly, one of the doors is Jenna Jameson’s, who is staying with Tito Ortiz, and Jenna’s saying, “I don’t know you. I can’t help you,” because it’s three or four in the morning and she’s trying to sleep.
About an hour before sunrise, Alien is knocking on my door and crying hysterically, saying, “I don’t feel safe. I need help.”
Crying. Drunk and exhausted.
She says, “Please let me stay here. I can’t find Kelli.”
While I’m deliberating, Duane says to me, “Dude, if you let her stay here, at least we’ll know where she is and we can get her on the plane tomorrow.”
So I let Alien into the suite. She stops crying and follows me into my bedroom, trembling and wiping the mascara out of her eyes. I try not to look at her because she’s such a goddamn wreck. Not even close to that girl I’ve seen in pictures that men obsess over, and the urine smell is even worse than before. Gag-inducing.
Alien gets into the bed and starts grabbing my cock, and I’m so burnt-out that this time I don’t put up much of a resistance. She puts my cock in her mouth, sucking and jacking me off, pushing her tongue piercing into the cluster of nerves on the underside.
I relent, saying, “I’m not going to fuck you but I’ll put it in your ass,” because I’m thinking that if I blow my load, she’ll leave me the fuck alone and go to sleep.
She says, “No, you’re not doing that,” pinning me to the bed, and then I push her off and pin her. Now Alien thinks I’m playing into her sexual-aggressive bullshit again, but this is just me trying to control her, the situation.
I say, “I don’t have a condom.”
She says, “Fine, you can put it in my ass,” then Alien starts giving me head again. Spitting and slobbering all over me. She works on me until I’m hard and dripping her saliva, rolling onto all fours and sticking her ass out with that trashy butterfly tattoo on the right cheek. My cock slides in, slides in way too easily like she does this all the time, and I’m thinking, Please don’t catch a DRD11, dude…please don’t catch a DRD.
I fuck her, breathing through my mouth as much as I can because a shit smell is comingling with urine and booze and smoke, and Alien’s moaning. She’s pushing her asshole against me, and my eyes turn upward to the ceiling so I don’t have to see my cock or the shit coming out of her, but the smell is so intense that I can taste shit and spray-tan on my tongue. I fuck her harder. Harder. Fuck her, and when I come the orgasm is so weak I barely feel it, but now there’s cum all over her back and the spray-tan looks like watercolors.
In the bathroom, I’m wiping my cock off on one of the hotel towels, and there’s a brownish-orange muck coming off of it that makes me gag. I take a deep breath. Collect myself. I wash my dick off in the sink and towel off again. Get back into bed.
I ask Alien, “Can I please go to sleep now?”
Her face turns, angry perhaps, and she says, “No, that’s not fair. You didn’t make me come. You have to eat my pussy.”
And I’m like, “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
I pretend to pass out, but Alien moves to sit on my face, putting her cunt on my lips. It’s rotten. It’s got little pieces of shit on it from when I fucked her in the ass, but she’s pushing it on me, on my skin, telling me to make her come. I’m holding my breath—not breathing, twisting my face away into the pillow, but then my guts clench like a fist and my throat wants to burst. Wants an exit. The shit and fish and urine are choking the air, and I throw Alien off and run back to the bathroom where I piss and throw up at the same time. Vomit everywhere.
I wash out my mouth and wait.
Wait for Alien to go to sleep.
When I wake up Alien’s gone.
She’s not here, but I can smell urine, and I want this to be a dream so bad that I’m actually whispering it to myself. I’m looking around the bedroom, making sure that I’m truly alone and trying to identify the piss smell. It’s as strong as it was last night.
Please be a dream, please be a dream.
Urine. Shit. Vomit.
Please be a dream.
I go to the bathroom and see chunks of puke on the toilet and all over the floor. In the bedroom, the urine smell is too intense for Alien to not be here. It’s like she’s in the room and I just can’t see her, but when I take a closer look at the bed I find the answer. Grabbing a handful of blankets, I tug everything off the mattress and see it: a large piss stain.
It’s not a dream. It all happened.
I get the first flight back home and promise myself that I’ll never go to Vegas again.
1Committed suicide in 2011.
2Scripted reality show that aired from 2006 to 2010 on MTV. Preceded by Laguna Beach.
3The huge gap between a woman’s fake breasts that is so huge they should ask their doctor for a refund.
4Prostitution.
5A person, usually a woman, that is featured on the site so often and so prominently that they become well-known amongst the users, and by extension, throughout the nightlife scene as a whole. A Dirty Celeb becomes official when they’re given a moniker by Nik Richie. Traditionally, this is a name that references or alludes to their worst physical feature.
6An individual whose goal in life is to become famous. Typically, this person will have no remarkable talent or skill.
7Putting someone in the spotlight and/or exposing them; talking crap about someone.
8www.thedirty.com
9Slang vernacular for “penis.”
10Refers to: fake breasts. The idea is that by having them they automatically add two points to the traditional one to ten scale of attractiveness. For instance, if you were a six you’d automatically be an eight.
11Stands for: Dennis Rodman Disease, so called because everyone in Newport says Dennis Rodman is the dirtiest guy around.
A Call From Justin Levine
Everyone in Vegas is still buzzing over the Leper and Alien show, going on about how psycho and crazy these girls are. The strip shows and public make-out sessions and all those rumors about drugs and fucking, most of which I believe. However, these people, the spectators, only see a fraction of what they really are. They had the luxury of remaining at a safe distance whereas I was the one responsible for getting them on airplanes and keeping them from jumping out of hotel windows. If Vegas taught me anything, it’s the difference between how someone is perceived on the site and having to be around them, dealing with their bullshit. Keeping them alive.
So it’s about two weeks after our premiere event at the Hard Rock; traffic is up. Everyone is commenting on the pictures we put up of Leper, Alien, and G-Girl out at Body English. The whole thing was considered a resounding success, but I’m glad to be done with it and away from those girls. Away from Vegas.
This is when Justin Levine reaches out. He introduces himself over the phone, telling me that he’s one of the managing members of Opium Group, which is out of Miami and a pretty big fucking deal in nightlife. The guy is connected, so I’m really listening to what he has to say now as he talks about a club called Privé, which is out of Planet Hollywood.
I ask, “Wait, which Planet Hollywood?”
Please, let it be any of them but the one I’m thinking.
“The one in Vegas,” he says.
My heart sinks. I just promised myself I wouldn’t be going back there, so whatever this Levine dude says had better be convincing.
He explains, “Vegas is buzzing, and we want to book the next Dirty event…the exact thing you did last time but at Privé.”
Already I’m thinking, Fuck that, I just spent $25,000 on the last event.
Then Levine tells me the one thing I don’t want to hear. He says, “We want you to bring Alien and Leper back.”
No, there’s no fucking way I’m going to pay money to hang out with those psycho bitches.
He asks, “Does seven grand work?”
We’d still be paying, but that’s considerably less than the 25K we had to shell out to the Hard Rock. I tell Levine I have to speak to our financial guy and that I’ll call back. The whole deal gets pitched to my partner, and considering our shaky finances, he says that we have to do it. In his mind, he’s probably thinking that if we’ve cut event expenses by $18,000 in only two events, maybe by the third one we’ll start making money.
I get Levine back on the phone, and as much as I hate the idea of having to pay money to be around Leper and Alien again, I tell him we’ll do the event. It’s another opportunity for branding, to get the name out there. Just another part of paying my dues.
“Great,” Levine says. “Do you want us to wire the money or send a check?”
It finally clicks that I’ve been misunderstanding the arrangement the entire time. He wants to pay us. This is when partying officially becomes part of our business model, the moment just before everyone finds out the truth about me.
Exposure
I had gotten busted over eight months ago for a DUI.
That was my dirt, but it had been so long that I had pretty much stopped worrying about it up until The Smoking Gun contacted me through e-mail. They want to know if Hooman Karamian and Nik Richie are the same person. There’s been rumors going around that I’m the guy, but up until now, it’s all been hearsay. Speculation. The arrest report The Smoking Gun has pushes it one step closer to confirming who I really am: the guy that anonymously puts people on blast, teases them, pokes fun at their lives. I’ve been doing this for years, and because Nik Richie has never extended beyond the confines of the Internet, Hooman Karamian has never been at risk. I never had to worry about my personal life. Until now. The Smoking Gun wants to publish this story, but they don’t want to pull the trigger until they confirm everything’s accurate. All it’s going to take is one reply from me saying they figured it out. I’m him. I’m Nik Richie.
And I’m freaking the fuck out.
Even if I don’t confirm the story for them, they might decide to run with it anyway. I talk to my advisors, explaining the situation: The Smoking Gun is ready to out me. If I’m outed, I’m fucked. All those people that said they were going to kill me can actually do it now. There’s no protection. Even if I hide out in my apartment, it only takes one pissed-off psycho to track me down and put a bullet in my brain. It only takes one.
The advisors tell me to calm down.
They say, “You need to take the mug shot and put it up. You need to make fun of yourself. And you need to do it now.”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Yes, you need to post yourself before they post you. Embrace it. Run with it. There’s not a lot of choice in the matter.”
The Smoking Gun emails me again saying that they’re going to publish the story with or without my consent. I do exactly what I was advised to do.
I write up the post.
I expose myself to the world.
Is Hooman Karamian (nice name) the Real Nik
Richie?
Posted in The Dirty | September 4th, 2008
What a tool bag… if you are going to take a mug shot with your cheese-grader face at least look sexy?
Nik Richie: If you were gay and had to be the top for this DUI Douche
Bag, Would You?
Answer: No, he has $2.00 waxed eyebrows, a taliban beard, a nose that is as large as my Greg, needs Botox, was set up by Scottsdale PD for posting a picture of the Cheif of Police’s daughter, has a homo skunk trail that only D-Nazi would be proud of and his chest hair is for the Gays! Dude what were you thinking? Shave that fern gully down! Also, I don’t bang dudes with weird names… not my style.
I beat The Smoking Gun to the punch and they’re pissed.
They even send me an e-mail calling me a coward and asking why I would out myself, which is really just another way of saying Thanks for fucking us over on an exclusive.
They still go live with a post of their own: the mug shot, a synopsis of the DUI, a few snarky jabs, and the full police report. All of this goes up only a moment after I out myself on my own site. Then it starts spreading: first to Deadspin, and then it’s chained out over and over again down the line. Almost instantly, the world knows who I really am.
True to form, everyone has an opinion.
Everyone’s been waiting for this moment.
Traffic on the site doubles, and most of it is because the comment boards are being bombarded with opinions about me. Remarks about my appearance. This time, I’m the one on bl
ast. I finally get a taste of my own medicine.
They say: Cheetah print collar? Come on, Nik.
And: Ha! We should be asking average-looking girls “would you” for your ugly terrorist ass.
Some people commend me for coming out. Others don’t.
For the most part, it’s insults, teasing—all the stuff I do.
“You are a tool, and your website sucks.”
“Wow, the mighty have fallen.”
“You are dead to me.”
I’m terrified and paranoid for a good day or so. Most of the news outlets are spinning this as a karma piece. It’s Matt Leinart’s12 revenge for that time I posted him with underage girls and got him benched. Or it’s just karma in general. Payback that was long overdue for all the lives I fucked with.
Every time I go out I’m worried about getting jumped, spit on, or something equally not good. I’m not even talking about the clubs. Each person I walk by at the grocery store or gas station could be a person that’s been up on the site, only now they know who I am. So I’m constantly in a state having my guard up, but then something very odd happens.
I’m getting emails saying that they’re glad I came out. I’ll go to restaurants and people are shaking my hand, smiling, telling me that they love my site. They love what I do. Nik Richie had always been popular, but now he was tangible. People could meet him, talk to him. Suddenly, I was some kind of celebrity along the lines of a Zuckerberg or Perez Hilton. I was finally real. A public figure.
I was one step closer to the American dream.
12NFL quarterback and Heisman trophy winner.
Origins (Part 1)
My parents immigrated to the United States with $1,000 to their name, and they would go on to raise myself and my two brothers in a strict Iranian fashion. We never cursed. We never talked back. Our career as American-born Iranians was to chase the American dream. That meant working hard, devoting yourself to academics, and pursuing fields that generated the maximum amount of income. According to my father, you could either be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. The plan was simple: high school would be followed by college which would be followed by a career.
