Sex, Lies and the Dirty (14 page)

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.

It works. Ginger goes nuts.

Ginger blows up my phone:

“How the fuck could you cheat on me like this???”

“I can’t believe you betrayed me! Why would you do that?”

“That bitch is a nobody…she’s only with you because she wants to be famous.”

“I hope you like fucking a fatass!”

I don’t respond. I’m laughing my ass off over this, not because of anything Ginger says. It’s because I figured her out. I played her game better than she did. She’s not the one. She’s a fucking psycho, so every plane she didn’t get on and all the lies about Lester Diamond make sense now. It’s not my fault. It’s hers.

Ginger keeps texting me, talking shit on Ashley:

“I can’t believe you’re fucking Z-List, Nik. She’s a fucking cow.”

After enough non-responses, she calls Scooby up in an attempt to get to me, see what I’m thinking, to find out if the whole Ashley thing is a joke or something. The reality is that Scooby is the last person she should be calling. He hates her. When Nik Richie goes into shutdown mode, the fun stops: no parties, no girls, no Twitpics of being out or acting like you’re the king of the world at some club. No one gets laid. So when Ginger fucked me over, she inadvertently fucked Scooby over too.