by Nik Richie
It’s how the escort business works: sex for cash or jewelry or purses or shoes. Find a hot blonde on Twitter posting this shit and I guarantee you she can be yours for the right price, the right amount of coke, the right gift. In Vegas, everything’s for sale, and sometimes the post that’s meant to be a wake-up call serves more as an advertisement. Kina, unlike most other Dirty Celebs, embraced the fame just like I told her to. She used it for exposure, sometimes even hosting her own events in Vegas for cash under the Scooby Snack moniker. The problem is that by putting her in the spotlight, more of the wrong kind of people sought her out. People worse than the douchey club promoters that shell out drugs to these girls.
We’re talking guys with too much money and too much imagination. No morals. These dudes wire transfer tens of thousands of dollars to girls like Kina, flying them out to someplace in the Middle East or Dubai or Miami. The location isn’t constant, but the result is that they get these girls out of their element so they’re basically trapped. They either do what they’re being paid to do, or they’re fucked. Dead. Sometimes they just have to fuck some hairy Arab dude. Other times they have to get pissed and shitted on. This is the point some men reach: so bored with themselves and their lives that they fly out random girls from Vegas to pee on them. If the girl doesn’t cooperate, they either get shot or thrown off the side of a boat or smacked around.
The choice becomes, “Do I let this guy shit on me and make $25,000 or do I ask to go home and maybe get a bullet in the head?”
For these girls, it’s not much of a choice. A no-brainer, really. They degrade themselves for a day and get to live off the profit for months. I try to do my part by posting it on the site, thinking that maybe these girls will think twice before they get on that plane or boat or whatever. I fool myself into believing common sense will kick in, that they’ll stop selling their bodies to the highest bidder. They won’t listen. They ignore it. “The Dirty is just talking shit again,” they think.
It only takes one though. One crazy Arab or psycho rich dude, and it’s over. You’re done. Dead. The dream is over and you never make it back to Vegas.
The city has so many ways to kill you. Either the scene and the drugs get you, or the lifestyle takes a wrong turn. You either wind up twenty-seven years old and used up or shit on and shot in the head. It’s only a matter of time. And there’s always going to be a new girl. For every Kina, there’s another, newer version of Kina with a fake ID. A young Scooby Snack just waiting to be discovered by the right group of people. For every hot blonde with +2’s, there’s ten more waiting to take her spot at the VIP table in some club. There’s always another Dirty Celeb waiting to happen.38 They’ll die in slow motion and Nik Richie will be there to commentate. To warn. To speak the truth.
If you’re fucking up, you can always count on me to say something.
37Something I never minded because she’d usually bring a few of her friends from the Blondtourage, as they referred to themselves. They mooched off our bottles, of course, but I always liked having her around because her and Scooby together were like a power couple. It also got the rumor mill churning again that there was something between them, even though the three of us knew that couldn’t be further from the truth.
38The Dirty Celeb typically goes through three specific stages, hence, the revolving door nature:
1)Resistance: stage in which Dirty Celeb begs for their posts to be taken down. What they don’t realize is that for every one that’s taken down, about ten more come in, thus adding more fuel to the fire.
2)Acceptance: stage in which Dirty Celeb takes no action against the site or site moderators. They’ve reached a point where they’re comfortable being a topic of conversation, debate, and/or ridicule. The subject will even make mention of their status in a positive light or use it for personal gain.
3)Withdrawal: stage in which Dirty Celeb has declined in popularity, and therefore, is no longer a topic of discussion. The subject will then act out in one way or another to encourage another post and return to their former state of notoriety.
Ginger
I fall in love with Sarah’s picture.
Part of the confusion about the “Would You?”39 section of the site is that people think I’m rejecting or bagging on these girls to appear impossible to please or a jerk, and that’s not necessarily true. I actually am this picky, to the point where it borders on being a detriment. The flaw isn’t something I go looking for. They pop out and I lack the ability to ignore them. Of course, things like caking on too much makeup or a half-inch of black roots on blonde hair stick out to me just as they would to anyone else. I’m normal in that regard. However, I also notice things like symmetry and bone structure: one breast that’s bigger than the other, a jawline not cut quite right, or a nose that slopes at a curved angle rather than straight. Things like kempt teeth and body proportions matter to me. I hate tattoos. I hate body piercings and skin irregularities (scars, birthmarks, moles, etc.). Perhaps this is an actual defect or me just being superficial, but my views on women have always been this rigid. It’s not an act or some personality trait of the Nik Richie persona. I’m actually wired this way.
So to say that Sarah Wood is “my type” means more coming from me than it would most people. Out of all the models and strippers and escort girls that were being sent to me on a daily basis—the kind of girls that most men would dump their entire bank accounts on—Sarah is the one I find myself saying “yes” to. Yes, I would.
People start referring to Sarah as Nik’s Chick on the site because they know she’s my type, but that’s putting it lightly. I want Sarah. I want to date her and be with her. I want a relationship, and it has to be with Sarah because nobody else has what I’m looking for. It’s Amanda Reed all over again but worse. So much worse.
It comes to my attention that she works at Dolce Vendetta in Dallas and that she’s actually friends with Leper of all people, but I never put two and two together that she was the bottle server at my event. Even though Dolce Vendetta kind of sucked, I actually find myself plotting a Dallas trip just to see Sarah. That’s not immediate enough, though. I have this sense of urgency I don’t normally have with other girls, so I send her a MySpace message which basically says: I’m going to say that you’re my girlfriend because you’re the only girl I find attractive these days.
It’s kind of a joke, kind of not. Obviously, we aren’t really going to be in a committed relationship. This is more or less my way of flirting with her, letting her know that I am, in fact, interested without completely putting myself out there.
Sarah’s all about it. She changes her relationship status and I’m telling everyone that Nik’s Chick is actually my chick. Even though we had never formally met, as far as the Internet world is concerned, we’re an item. Then people start submitting her, saying things like, “You’re always judging other girls but do you have the balls to put your own girlfriend up?”
And I was like, Fuck, she’s not my girlfriend. I’ll put her up all damn day.
Her picture goes live: she’s beautiful, blonde, blue eyes, the kind of blue eyes that I like, and a shade of tan that looks natural. She’s pretty much all the physical attributes I look for in a girl, so I’m proud to put her up.
Some people talk shit.
Others are impressed.
Sarah and I are kind of laughing behind the scenes about the whole thing. She likes it, likes the attention, and I like being the guy able to give it to her. It’s how we connect: a very public relationship that was actually an inside joke between us. A secret. Something only she and I understood. It brought us close in a sense. Close enough that she agreed to fly out to Vegas to meet me.
Officially, this weekend is an event for The Dirty.
Unofficially, I’m here for Sarah. To see if it’s real.
We’re in Vegas, and all the top Dirty Celebs are here: Leper, 8-Belles, Elvira—all the good ones. Elvira is the only brunette I’ve ever had any legitimate interest toward, so it’
s kind of between her and Sarah, in my mind.
I’m at a table with eight girls at this restaurant called Company, which is outside of LAX (in the Luxor). Sarah is sitting next to me. Elvira is across the way. She’s from Boston, so I ask questions that girls like these can easily field. General ones like: What’s it like out on the East Coast?
Dinner with me is typically a revelation for some of these girls because I’m not mean or judgmental. In fact, I’m overtly polite and aware of their immediate needs. I ask if they need another drink, if they want me to call the waiter over, if they’d like more of a particular dish—things that a good date should do. A gentleman, like James Bond. I talk about Vegas because I know a lot (perhaps too much) about the city: gambling, poker, restaurants, but the girls find it interesting. And I make them laugh. These girls are so used to one side of Nik Richie that they come into the situation with their defenses up. They’re tense, and most of the time won’t eat more than some salad or a few bites of bread. These girls are afraid to eat in front of me, assuming that I’m mentally criticizing them already, so I have to be funny. Be a gentleman. Be the guy that makes it okay for them to relax, eat, enjoy themselves.
So these eight girls at the table think I’m nothing like I really am, because it’s all an act. A persona. They’ve seen Internet Nik Richie. This is date Nik Richie, the version that calls you Kelly instead of Elvira, the one that comments on your better features over the ones he finds displeasing. He is funny instead of sarcastic. He’ll allow you to speak instead of speaking for you. He is friendly, and by extension, a source of relief to these girls who have more than likely suffered privately to one degree or another for the sake of entertainment.
Sarah Wood a.k.a. Nik’s Chick (left) and Nik Richie (right) having dinner at The Company at the Luxor in Las Vegas, Nevada.
So I talk to Elvira—maybe more than I should, because I feel a hand smooth up my leg. It’s Sarah, tracing the inseam of my pants with her fingers. She settles on top of my cock and starts squeezing while I’m trying to carry on a conversation. I ask some question about Boston clubs or something and Sarah pretends she’s interested, squeezing, telling me with her hand: Hey, don’t hit on Elvira. You’re mine.
When I like a girl, I don’t fuck her right away.
I liked Sarah, and even though she moved out of Leper’s room to be with me—even though she threw herself at me—I didn’t give in. So Vegas basically ended up being me pampering Sarah, getting to know her, spending time with her. We did the event at Pure inside of Caesar’s, but it was mostly an excuse to meet Sarah. I became obsessed with this chick. She had a boyfriend.
The boyfriend fucks everything up, and I don’t mean that in the way of “oh, she’s got a boyfriend so I guess I’m out.” That doesn’t bother me. I’ve hooked up with plenty of girls that had boyfriends (both to and without my knowledge), so that’s not the issue. The problem with this dude, this Eduardo fucker, is that he’s in the country illegally and basically mooching off of Sarah. He’s an nineteen-year-old punk kid, so I’m thinking I can make short work of him.
Over the next few months I pursue Sarah: I get her Gucci shoes, LV purses, flowers. I write her love letters. I call her. It gets to the point where I’m on the phone with her three or four times a day. I buy her more stuff, more shoes and jewelry and anything else that I think she’ll like. A part of me wants her to have these things because I know it’ll make her happy, but another part, the competitive side, is telling this Eduardo guy: these are the shoes you couldn’t buy her…this is the bracelet you couldn’t afford. What Sarah wants, Sarah gets. She owns me. Sarah calls me all the time saying that she loves me, starts calling me Hooman instead of Nik. We’re making plans. Plotting a trip to Paris. I really don’t care where we go as long as I get to be with her. I’m done with the scene: the clubs and the bottle service and the empty sex. Sarah is the one. It’s all about her, and I’m setting up helicopters and private jets to pick her up, sending plane tickets. Most of the time she doesn’t get on. Sometimes I go out to her, out to Dallas, and I just sit in a hotel room waiting for her to call me. Waiting, watching TV in the suite for hours. If I don’t hear from her after a couple days, I text her and let her know I’m going back to Scottsdale. Thousands of dollars are spent this way. It gets old. Gets to the point where she’ll only meet me in Vegas, and even that has no guarantee.
Scooby and I started calling Sarah’s boyfriend Lester Diamond because he was like the James Woods character in Casino: a piece of shit scumbag who used girls for money, did coke, cared for no one but himself, and couldn’t provide. Despite all that, and despite me, Sarah always went back to him. Didn’t matter what I did or said or bought her, she always went back.
If he was Lester Diamond, that meant that Sarah was Ginger.
Ginger tells me she broke up with Lester.
I don’t ask for a bunch of reasons why. It’s not important. She’s mine now. Lester is out of the picture, so we can finally be together. It’s good again. We make plans, plot the future. Ginger actually lets me into her apartment in Dallas. I’m happy. I’m faithful to her. If Nik Richie has to do an event, he goes to bed alone. He sends a text to Ginger saying: I miss you…I love you. Ginger doesn’t want Nik Richie. For her, I get to be Hooman Karamian. He’s the romantic one, the thoughtful one. He’s the guy that wants to take care of her.
I try to persuade her to come out to Scottsdale. Ginger’s in Dallas listening to my pitch about us living together and giving this a real shot.
I tell her, “I’ll even get you a job out here. You’ll have work—or fuck it,” I say. “Don’t work. You don’t have to do anything. Just come out.”
So we talk about that and marriage and kids. We talk about love. I’m convinced that we’re a real couple going somewhere. I finally get to be the man that I’ve always pretended didn’t exist. For Ginger, I’m something more than a persona.
Ginger and I are waiting in an airport terminal.
I’m taking her on a surprise trip to Hawaii, so I’ve spent the last few days setting up spa and dinner reservations, locking down a suite. It’s our first official trip as a couple so I’m trying to make it good. Even though Ginger is still living in Dallas, going on a vacation together makes the relationship seem more real. It’s the kind of thing that real couples do.
Then Ginger tells me she can’t get on the plane.
I ask her why.
She sighs, looks at me and says, “I’m pregnant.”
At first I think she’s fucking with me, but her face is sincere, so I ask her, “How far along are you?”
She says, “Eight weeks.”
I do the math in my head, and the last time we had sex was three months ago. “It’s not mine,” I say. I want it to be mine, but it isn’t.
“I know,” she says. “It’s Eduardo’s.”
Ginger drops off the face of the Earth for two weeks.
Actually, she cuts communication with me specifically.
I try calling her, texting her, emailing her to let her know that it’s okay. I’ll help raise the kid. That’s how much of a fucking sucker I am. Ginger sold me so fucking hard that I’m actually trying to call her to let her know I’ll raise Lester Diamond’s bastard. Thing is, Lester Diamond was back in the picture, had been back for some time. Maybe he never left. I just hadn’t seen him, and I trusted Ginger enough that when she said he was gone, she meant it.
I’m crushed. I’m depressed, stationed on Scooby’s couch trying to make sense of everything. Ginger won’t call me back or acknowledge me. I’m frustrated, and it’s mostly because I don’t know where I stand anymore with her. The not knowing part kills me.
Scooby is no help. He asks me why I can’t just date a normal fat girl with a personality.
I say, “Because I want Sarah. I don’t want anyone else…and I don’t like fat girls.”
The first few days of this is me feeling rejected, bumming around Scooby’s place and not really doing much more than waiting by the
phone. The site continues to be managed, but it’s mostly just something to keep me occupied while I wait for Ginger to reach out. I drink, I post, Twitter-stalking Ginger every few minutes to see if she says anything. She knows I’m watching. When a guy texts and calls as much as I have, you know he’s keeping tabs.
Ginger posts a photo of baby clothes.
Lester Diamond is Tweeting shit like: just had the best sex of my life!
And: thanks for the head this morning baby.
He’s saying these things about Ginger, but they’re directed at me.
I’m thinking, What kind of fucking class does this guy have?
Lester Diamond is making shit up, saying the things that he knows will piss me off because I stole his chick for a minute. The fucked-up thing is that it’s working. I am pissed off. So I sink to their level. I play the game back.
Ashley Zarlin is the daughter of one of the chicks from The Real Housewives of Orange County. She’s your classic Newport Beach girl: blonde, wealthy, tan, big tits (real ones), but just a little thick for my tastes. She wasn’t fat, but my version of fat. It didn’t matter though because I was intent on getting back at Ginger. Depression mode had gone out the window right when Lester Diamond starting Tweeting about getting blowjobs and how good he just fucked Ginger. The little prick was rubbing my nose in it—that much was clear, and Ginger had yet to reach out to me or address any of what he was doing.
I had to accept that she was really going to have this baby and that Lester Diamond was in the picture for good. He won. That didn’t change the fact that I was looking for a little payback, so I start having this very public relationship with Ashley, or Z-List 40 as she was known on the site. I’m going to parties with this girl, taking Twitpics, and she’s doing @replies to me saying things like: just hanging out with my new boyfriend! We go out together, party together. I have no real interest in her, on either a physical or personal level. She’s got too many lesbian friends, which kind of weirds me out. Ashley isn’t relationship material, but she’s a pseudo-celeb and someone that can potentially make Ginger jealous, and I’m constantly refreshing both her and Lester Diamond’s Twitter to see if I’ve made any sort of impact.
