Sex, Lies and the Dirty (10 page)

Regardless, Chuck and I get to a place where I think we’re cool after an hour or so. We’ve all got a good buzz going. The scenery is nice. Chuck has stopped trying to be funny and now we’re all just chilling at Dirty Pretty like we’re boys. Perhaps it’s the liquor that makes me do the thing I do next, or maybe my instincts are wrong, but I finally lean in to Chuck and say, “Chuck, just so you know—no hard feelings, but I’m Nik Richie. I’m the guy that runs
The Dirty
.”

Chuck smirks.

He checks both ways to make sure no one is watching us, and then he leans in like he’s going to say something to me. I do the same, leaning my ear toward his mouth so I can hear whatever he says over the music, then—can’t breathe.

The wind is sucked out of me, and I see Chuck slowly lean back smiling at me. He just sucker-punched me in the gut, and the motion was so smooth it’s like he’s done it before. Hard. Effective. And no one notices. My lungs slowly unclench and take air. Hot club air, struggling into my throat, and Chuck is laughing. He’s drinking his beer, leaning back into the leather couch and smiling.

That was all he wanted. One hit.

I put up his daughter and that earns me one punch. So I take it, telling Charles, “Okay, I deserve that.”

Chavez is asking me, “Are you okay?”

And I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m good. I’m good,” trying to look like nothing happened, but this answers the question a lot of people ask.

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.

27
MLB Third Baseman/First Baseman (Oakland Athletics, New York Yankees).

28
MLB 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 boundary 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.

29
A girl at a club who will find a group of guys and drink off their bottle service the entire night.

30
NBA 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.