Sex, Lies and the Dirty

by Nik Richie

  I had gotten three. I post one and it’s everywhere almost instantly.

  Every news outlet and TV show is going nuts over this thing. People are demanding Carrie lose her crown because this is the exact kind of shit you’re not supposed to do. A state pageant spokesman is saying the Prejean photos violate the contract. It’s against the rules, they say. Add her whole Catholic and holier-than-thou angle and she looks like a double hypocrite.

  Via TMZ, Carrie responds to Co-Executive Director Keith Lewis: “This was when I was 17 years old. I was a minor. It was when I was first getting into the modeling world, being naive, and young. I shouldnt [sic] have taken the photo of me in my underwear. There are no other photos of me. This was the only one I took.”

  The next day, I put up photo #2.

  Carrie Prejean is officially caught in a lie.

  Meanwhile, Perez is milking this thing because he’s still pissed off about Carrie’s answer to his question at the pageant. He contacts me wanting to post one of the pics on his site 34, saying that he’ll link it back to The Dirty and send me some traffic. I decide to e-mail him one, thinking this may open the door to a professional sort of relationship between us. Perhaps in the future it could come in handy, I’m thinking, but like a true fucking scumbag, Perez fucks me over on that.

  He posts my Prejean picture with no link, no watermark, and no mention of where he got it. The guy puts it up, attempting to steal my thunder because he’s got a vendetta against this chick or whatever. The hilarious part is that Perez is going on about how Carrie needs to see this shit his way, calling her a dumb bitch one minute and then inviting her out to coffee the next–it’s confusing and about the worst way he can go about his advocacy.

  During this whole debacle, he not only shows the amount of malice he’ll dish out should you not agree with him, but he’s also not a man of his word. Carrie Prejean, as it turns out, has a problem with lying, too.

  Regarding the second photo, her excuse is that the image is Photoshopped and that she can’t remember the details of the shoot because it was so long ago.

  “Can’t remember” is just another way of saying “I’m playing dumb until you guys dig up more facts.”

  Then the cease-and-desist letters start rolling my way, stating that: “Using Ms. Prejean’s photograph or likeness without her prior consent, or without the prior consent of her parents when she was a minor, violates the law.”

  It says: “Moreover, the images of Ms. Prejean’s illegally displayed on www.thedirty.com have caused her emotional distress, and harmed her professionally.’

  I have my lawyer hit them back with a reminder of what the First Amendment is and that my ass is covered under it. In short, I refuse to meet their demands, and then I put up the third photo. Shit gets even worse when a video of Carrie masturbating is sold by the ex-boyfriend to TMZ for $10,000. Another tank of gasoline on the fire.

  That was the ebb and flow of it: Prejean made herself out to be this good little Christian girl, then something would come out suggesting otherwise, then she’d lie to the media, and then more dirt would turn up, and then she’d lie again, and then more dirt would turn up. It was a complete shit show that only came about because she couldn’t be honest.

  That’s why I stuck on the topic for as long as I did: she kept lying, and calling out liars is the bread and butter of the site. Carrie Prejean had the problem in that everything that came out of her fucking mouth was a lie, and the media took great pride in exposing every one of them.

  As with most things though, no topic can stay hot forever. There’s always another story, another scandal, right around the corner. Carrie got her crown taken away, wrote a book that briefly reignited the issue, but eventually moved on. It was an issue that was strung out for far too long, but was one of The Dirty’s few mainstream stories that resulted in a massive amount of traffic. Over 10,000,000 people.

  As for Perez Hilton, I fucking hate the guy. He’s a liar, but he’s also extremely delusional with his whole celebrity vibe he’s trying to put off. He’s a blogger. It’s not a big fucking deal. There are literally thousands of people that can do what he does. Perez has even admitted that he turned over his duties to his sister.

  Regardless of that, he paved the way in the market. I don’t like the guy, but there never would have been a Nik Richie if there were no Perez Hilton.

  322009.

  33Excerpt from Still Standing: My Fight Against Gossip, Hate, and Political Attacks (Regnery Publishing).

  34www.perezhilton.com

  Scooby Snack

  I meet Kina Tavarozi in L.A.

  I’m supposed to host Wonderland tonight, which is the new Lonnie Moore club, so he’s taking care of everything the way that Lonnie does. Scooby drives in from Orange County and meets me at the L’Ermitage hotel in Beverly Hills. I’ve known Scooby since high school. He’s a friend, probably the only guy who will reality-check me when I need it. Very few people are willing to do that for some reason. Scooby tries to catch a nap in the room, but I’m so amped up I find myself taking random videos on my phone, and eventually film myself smacking him in the face so I have something worthwhile to upload.

  We go to this place called Geisha House on Hollywood Boulevard, which is also owned by Lonnie. Everything is red and vibrant. Orient-themed. The hostess leads us through the crowd of mostly young girls, some Asians here and there, and then we’re in a room with an elongated table where Lonnie is sitting with a couple of his guys and thirty-five blondes. True L.A. girls: wannabe actresses and models, and they’ve all got the platinum hair with the fake tan and +2’s combo. Hot blondes, but they’re all so much the same that they’re copies of each other. Barbie clones. Geisha grasshoppers 35, I call them.

  We get acquainted, Lonnie and I, talking shop and passively flirting with these L.A. girls that the Geisha group has pretty much run through. The rumor going around is that Lonnie, JT, and Sylvain have railed out nearly every hot girl in L.A. because of their Les Deux 36 connection. Lonnie is the difference between being a fixture of nightlife and owning it. When you own the club, there are no boundaries. No rules. These little L.A. girls are candy to him. If all thirty-five of them walked out right now, Lonnie could have them all replaced within the hour. That’s what kind of pull he has. Les Deux made him like The Dirty made me.

  After dinner the group of us move from Geisha House to Wonderland. Nearly everyone in the club is craning their neck to see what’s going on because the ratio is one guy for every seven hot blondes. We’re surrounded by so many girls—so deeply immersed that we’re breathing their hairspray and fake tanner. Choking on their fragrances of Chanel and Clinique and DKNY, but we’re all smiling slightly drunk and soaking in the attention of the crowd. Lonnie leads us over to the owner’s table and the bottles start rolling out. Champagne and vodka and anything these girls want. Some are going to the bathroom to do a few bumps of coke or fix their hair. Pills are going around. The music is blaring, and we use that as an excuse to get close to these girls, pressing chest to chest as we lean in and ask if they need a drink or a tab of Molly or simply to compliment them on how good they look in whatever they’re wearing.

  I’m single and young and can have any of these girls—literally, any one… or two. I don’t know. There seems to be limitless opportunity here in Wonderland, in L.A., where the girls don’t know how to say “no,” or maybe they just don’t want to. My eyes finally fixate on Kina. She’s nineteen. Blonde and tan. She tells me she wants to be a model. She wants to make it out in L.A. Be somebody. Kina is from Seattle. I ask if her boobs are fake and she laughs and says “no.” She says everyone thinks that but they’re real, and I say I don’t believe her because I know what she’ll say next. These girls: L.A. girls, Vegas girls, models and actresses—they’re not hard to figure out. You can touch any of them. You just have to know how to ask.

  Kina grabs my wrist and brings it to her chest, saying, “Here, feel them,” and I squeeze, keeping my face neutral and not impresse
d by any of this. She says, “See? Totally real,” and I nod. Smirk. I decide I’m going to fuck this girl tonight. I turn and look at Lonnie who is sitting on top of the booth fist-pumping; he’s probably going to fuck five of these girls tonight. And Scooby is neck-deep in blondes. So many blondes. The drugs bring smiles to their faces and they’re dancing, sometimes kissing each other so people will watch. Kissing for attention. For feeling. There’s random flashes firing from the crowd catching these random moments of Kina and me flirting, blondes dancing, doing blow at the table in the hot dark of the booth. We fist-pump like assholes, enjoying the rush too much to care about appearances or consequences.

  We drink. And some of us do much more than that.

  Wonderland ends and I go back to Beverly Hills with Scooby and Kina, telling her that we’re going to the after-party. She doesn’t mention how weird an after-party with only three people is. In her mind, the night hasn’t ended so she’s not going to be picky. Her friend ditched her at the club, perhaps to hook up with Lonnie or one of his guys. She’s not sure, but she needs a bed to sleep in because she can’t drive.

  At the hotel, we have a casual nightcap. Talk about bullshit. Scooby crashes in a cot that’s at the foot of the bed. Kina and I finally hit that awkward moment where you’re about to sleep in the same bed as a stranger, but it’s mostly on her end. I assure her nothing is going to happen because that’s the line you say in these situations. To ease the person. Kina starts peeling off her clothes, asking me if I can set the alarm for six in the morning.

  “I’ve got to go to traffic school,” she says.

  It’s past three right now so I don’t even bother, and Kina doesn’t notice. She slips under the covers in nothing but her underwear, talking. She talks about nothing. Rambling off while the drugs keep her alert, so it’s only a matter of time. There’s going to come a point where she won’t have anything to say, but laying silently won’t be enough. She’ll need something to keep her busy, wear her out. She’ll want to fill in the quiet, but she’ll put up a bit of a resistance so she doesn’t look easy.

  Finally, one thing leads to another and we’re kissing: her on top, the weight of those tits sitting heavy on my chest. Kina pulls back and says, “We’re not having sex.” I roll her off of me, but not in a dejected kind of way. It’s slower. She knows I’m coming back. I go to the bathroom and put a condom on my Greg, and when I get back into bed we start fooling around again. I slide my hand down between her legs and finger her cunt. I’m kissing her, feeling her tits, squeezing her hard. I’m easing my cock between her legs, suggesting that she lets it in. Waiting for her to shift her legs that little bit so that we can start fucking, and she finally does. Kina is young and tight, moaning. She’s fucking me, and I see Scooby move on his cot through the dark. He’s up. I can tell.

  I make Kina get up on top of me, facing away in reverse-cowgirl, and she starts bouncing on my cock while Scooby watches. I’m squeezing her ass and tits and letting Kina do all the work, and Scooby says, “C’mon, dude, that’s gross,” even though he’s still watching. He does that thing where he pretends to cover his eyes, but he’s still looking at Kina. Her cunt. Her tits. I flip Kina onto her back and rail her out missionary style. She’s moaning, legs wrapped around my waist, and we both come hard and fall into a state of sleep.

  We wake up late in the morning.

  Kina is freaking out because the alarm never went off, so she missed traffic school, but she’s more concerned about the ten missed calls on her phone. She lays naked in the bed, checking voicemails and texts while Scooby and I brush our teeth and get cleaned up. I get back in bed and lay next to her, checking my own phone, which is mostly just bullshit texts and a couple things from Lonnie. A few fame-chasers.

  Kina leans over and says, “Your friend snores a lot.”

  “He’s just fat. It’s cool.”

  She leans closer, asking, “What’s his name again,” pointing at the bathroom.

  “Scooby.”

  “Awww, that’s cute.”

  A few seconds later, Scooby comes out of the bathroom and I wave him over, saying, “Dude, come here and tell me if these are real.”

  “What?”

  “Feel Kina’s tits and tell me if they’re real,” I say, pulling the sheet down. Kina doesn’t move it back. She moves her arms out of the way and gives Scooby a look like, “go ahead and check.”

  He squeezes one, keeps his hand there. Squeezes again.

  He says, “Yes, in my professional opinion, they’re real. Those are quite nice.”

  Kina and I exchange numbers. She puts last night’s dress back on and digs a pair of large designer sunglasses out of her purse. She says to give her a call whenever we’re out in L.A. or Vegas, and the three of us head toward the elevator. I joke about how Kina is on the walk of shame, turning around and taking her picture with Scooby in the frame.

  “Dude, I’m going to put this up on The Dirty,” I say with a laugh, but Kina doesn’t find it funny in the least.

  “You better fucking not,” she says.

  The thing about this random hookup between Kina and me is that the exchange was obvious. There was an implied trade. I had started to become aware of how people (especially women) would react to me when they found out I was Nik Richie, and Kina was no different in that regard. People tend to be nicer when they know you have public influence.

  Hugh Hefner, for instance, gets to bang any chick he wants because all these girls want to be in Playboy or move into the mansion. They want in the inner circle. I, on the other hand, have the opposite effect. Girls like Kina sleep with me to stay off the site. They fuck Nik Richie for protection or some kind of immunity. It’s about keeping their reputation intact, but I don’t operate that way. I expose. I stir the pot. If you’ve fucked me, chances are you already drank for free all night and got a dinner out of it. It doesn’t mean you’re safe from being posted, and that’s what Kina doesn’t understand.

  So I Tweet the photo to @DirtyScooby saying: “Scooby totally banged this chick last night!” and then for some reason, Kina retweets it. Now all of Twitter thinks this chick actually did fuck Scooby, and they start calling her Scooby Snack. The next morning, someone submits Kina to the site and I put it up even though I know she’s going to freak the fuck out, which she does moments after I publish it.

  She calls, screaming, “Take it down! Take it the fuck down! Everyone is saying that I’m a slut and that I fucked Scooby!”

  “Well, this is what you get for hanging out with people like Freddy Fags,” I say.

  “Nik, take it the fuck down. I don’t want this.”

  “No, you’re a Dirty Celeb now. Embrace it.”

  “I don’t want to be a Dirty Celeb,” she says.

  “Trust me, you’ll get used to it. They all do.”

  35So called because they would hop on any dick in L.A. to advance their career.

  36Was owned by Lonnie Moore and prominently featured on MTV’s The Hills. It’s now defunct.

  Escorts & Porta-Potties

  Girls like Scooby Snack die quicker than most.

  Although she would become a fixture in our operation by showing up to various events in Vegas 37, the reality is the city and the lifestyle will kill you. We slowly witness this through the various posts that are put up on the site of girls spiraling downward. Girls being weathered by the scene and drugs and too many long nights out in the clubs. It’s a trainwreck, but a trainwreck happening in slow motion over the course of many years.

  I slept with Kina at her peak.

  The problem is that Vegas ages you, wears you down quicker than most places, and Kina’s no exception to that. Compare the early photos to the more recent ones and it’s obvious the damage has already been done. These girls don’t see the warning signs, though. Either that, or they’re choosing to ignore them. They assume all these people in the comments section saying how much they’ve aged or how haggard they look are just “being haters.” They’re jealous. Liars. They
’re just being mean for the sake of being mean.

  “Keep talking shit, you’re making me famous,” they think, but that’s just denial washing over any possible state of introspection. It’s easier to not change, to keep doing the things that feel good at the time. Girls like Kina live in the moment, and the moment can become addictive when drinking Cristal in the VIP or doing blow in some guy’s suite at Caesar’s Palace. These moments overtake the reality that you’re dying just a little bit quicker than everyone else. Your looks will be gone just a little bit sooner. You peak at around eighteen years old and then it’s all downhill from there.

  These girls, the ones like Kina, most of them either work part-time as servers or make their money “going on dates.” In a place like Vegas, girls can get away with this kind of thing: the trade of company, which may or may not include sex, for cash and/or drugs. Most good-looking women are satisfied with having their drinks bought or their dinner paid for. The escort business is simply one level above that.

  And sometimes you’ll hear me say in interviews or on the site that I’m trying to save lives. I’m giving people a wake-up call. If you’re up on my site, whether you want to believe it or not, there’s a reason for it. Some part of your lifestyle is being called into question, and the Vegas escort scene comes up more often than anything. Girls like Kina.

  The public isn’t stupid: they see a girl (an attractive girl) who doesn’t work, yet they’re always posting photos of Louboutin shoes or pictures of them on some guy’s yacht. They’re openly showing the world their new LV purse or Tiffany earrings, and meanwhile the world is asking, “Where’s this stuff coming from, and more importantly, what is she having to do to get it?”