Sex, Lies and the Dirty (18 page)

You send me a guy in Orlando using his daddy’s credit card for bottles.

You send me a Midwestern model that sucks dick for drugs and booze.

I’m not a fact-checker or investigator. There’s no contact made with the subject in order to verify if they really contracted an STD from a certain professional athlete.
The Dirty
is simply the other side of the coin.

Your Facebook photo of you holding up a bottle of Grey Goose in a club is intended for the public to think you’re wealthy and important. On my site, we find out how well the façade holds up, and it usually doesn’t hold up well.

The media and talk show hosts are always asking me why I’m the guy:
What gives Nik Richie the right to put these people up? What makes him qualified to judge?

Perhaps I’m not qualified, but I’ve been to these places. Have seen the people. I’ve witnessed the worst and understand it more than most. These TV personalities like Dr. Phil and Anderson could never hope to understand girls like Leper and Alien. They can’t comprehend a person that trades their body off for drugs. They’re sheltered and out of touch and lack the point of view that a Nik Richie has. They understand celebrity, but they haven’t witnessed the celebrity-minded, the fame-chasers, all those people trying to appear more than what they actually are.

Maybe it’s a sign that we’re in the middle of a vanity epidemic, but as I’ve said before, if there was no market for this
The Dirty
would be dead. There would be no site and no Nik Richie.

Without you there is no me.

47
Terminology referring to bad (usually discounted) plastic surgery.

48
A person who makes roughly $30,000 annually but spends money like they’re a millionaire, typically on clothes, dinners, cars, and bottle service in an attempt to look important or rich.

31

I’m in Vegas again.

We’re inside the Hard Rock at a club called Vanity, and it’s really no different than the hundreds of other times I’ve done this: girls dancing or doing blow in bathrooms, girls approaching me to get their photo taken so they can post it online, either directly from their phones or days later once they’ve had a chance to Photoshop themselves thin and tan and whatever else they can’t afford to pay a cosmetic surgeon to do. These Pepsi-heads
⁴⁹
and bottle rats
⁵⁰
come by in steady waves all wanting a photograph, a drink, or my suite number so we can hook up later for an after-party or “some fun,” as they say. Most of the time that means sex, but occasionally (especially in Vegas and L.A.) that means doing a bunch of powder or pills, or at the very least, smoking some weed. Despite what everyone thinks, I’ve never been into drugs and have lately been saying “I’m too old for that shit” when they’re offered, and they’re offered nearly every time I’m out.

Nik Richie birthday event at Vanity Nightclub, Las Vegas, Nevada. The never-ending drug-fueled night climaxing into a cocaine carousel.

It’s my birthday celebration—my 31st, actually, and Clinton Sparks is spinning some kind of hip-hop/Top 40 shit from the DJ booth as I fire off another text to this USC girl I met in the lobby earlier by the Peacock Lounge. Megan, a junior I think, she’s skinny and blonde with +2’s. I tried to get her to come out, playing “the birthday card,” but she and these two girls from Arizona State had already made plans to go to XS, so I took her number and mentioned that I’d be doing some kind of after-party in my room later that night since I got comped the Orange Suite
⁵¹
inside The Palms.

I’m texting this chick between drinks and all the short conversations that end with a photo or someone saying “Happy birthday,” asking Megan things like “how is XS?” and other bullshit to keep her on the hook. Jason Giambi (baseball player, club owner) keeps stopping by with shots of Patrón, so I’m doing those on top of Grey Goose and water, texting the USC chick that I might swing by XS even though that’s a blatant lie. The reality is that all the girls at Vanity are beat except for the bottle servers, but I’ve already fucked them before—maybe a year ago when they didn’t look so old and run-down from being out every night, drinking, doing drugs and constantly being underslept from fucking clients all night. It’s made them age in reverse dog years. This city will suck the life out of you if you let it.

AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” starts to play and one of the servers (brunette, +2’s) brings out a store-bought birthday cake with gold flares jammed into either side. Other servers wearing the same black corset uniform hold sparklers, cheering while a shady-looking photographer with a ponytail keeps shouting for me to look his way. Cameras flashing. Strobe lights flashing. Phones taking video. I pour Cristal on the cake, thinking that it will make it taste better, but that’s still a total mystery since I never actually eat any of it.

Megan and I keep texting, and eventually it gets to a point where we’re supposed to meet up but because it’s Vegas I’m assuming it’s bullshit and not happening. They’re probably already hanging out with a bunch of rich dudes at XS who are paying for all of their shit in junk bond money or whatever, and I can’t really blame them. Girls like that typically have their Saturday planned a couple days before their flight even takes off. Regardless, I tell her to meet up with me later on at my suite, which is inside the Fantasy Tower and requires a special key for the elevator. I’m still not completely sold at this point that she’s actually going to show, mostly because Vegas is a place to break commitments, not make them.

I text:
It’s my birthday…please don’t flake because I need to have birthday sex LOL.

Make another vodka/water as I wait for a response, checking out J.T. Vegas flirting with some girls who are actually trying to get to me. Their phones are already pulled out, ready to do that thing where we awkwardly push shoulder-to-shoulder as an arm sticks out and up. Then flash. Then they say something about drugs or hooking up later. It’s just a couple of cakers
⁵²
anyway, so I let J.T. do his thing. I’m drinking, starting to regret adding the “LOL” to the end of that last text because it’s so fucking forgy
⁵³
, but Megan hits me back after less than a minute with:
Yum Yum!

Then:
My friend really wants to fuck you so we’re really coming it looks like.

Since Megan was the best-looking one out of the three, I reply back:
Well tell your friend she needs to wait in line because you’re mine tonight.

I finish my drink, telling a couple of the guys that I’m going to head back to my room even though it’s only 1:40 in the morning, which is early in Vegas time. Too early for anyone to want to leave the club with me, and that’s kind of the point. The girls at Vanity are starting to hit the right amount of drunkenness to make some bad decisions, dancing sluttier and flirting harder. Sweating their makeup off. Some of them are making out with random dudes already, and I text Megan again to let her know I’m leaving and to hit me up whenever.

I sneak out of my own party, alone, Yankees hat pulled low so I don’t have to do another photo, and Megan says they’re leaving right now. Megan, petite and blonde, a young USC girl that has probably been legal for a few months at most, asks me:
Are there any party favors at your place??

And I’m thinking, Fuck.

I say:
I don’t do that stuff. If you do it that’s fine I guess. I won’t judge but I don’t know anyone that can get you that stuff.

She asks me:
Well is it cool if we make a few calls and then come over?

One of the first things you learn about Vegas is you can’t trust it, and I don’t know if I fucked over one of these girls in the past or if this is all some kind of setup. You can’t trust random hot chicks asking you for drugs, and you especially can’t trust them in Vegas, so I cool off with the responses and head back to the room: an oversized suite with a skyline view that Clooney or Brad Pitt stayed in, so says one of the help who might’ve been trying to stroke my ego for a bigger tip.

It’s about 2:30 in the morning and the buzz from Vanity is slipping; fading over to the bed is seeming like a more viable option than Megan and the ASU girls. Their little hunt for blow could take all night, and it’s completely possible that if and when they find it, the guy—the dealer—he’ll size these girls up for what they are and take advantage of the situation. They’re young and stupid and looking for the wrong thing, so I’ve already written them off as no-shows right up until I get the text saying that they’re downstairs. Five of them are waiting in the lobby. All girls. No dudes. Two of them are already rolling, touching each other, touching me (jokingly, flirting), on the elevator ride up. Hands smooth down each other’s arms, around the ribcage and waistline, and for about a second I think about jumping on the bandwagon. Thinking:
maybe I could dabble
, but it’s short-lived and I decide to stick with alcohol even though they keep pushing for me to take something, snort something.

Back in the suite I try to play host, but entertaining five girls (even if they’re moderately sober) is a fucking shit show. It’s almost impossible: girls running around, maybe stealing my shit, pocketing anything that’s left out on a counter or a nightstand, and there’s no clear line of conversation. It’s mostly drug chatter and saying whatever pops into their head at that particular moment, but the constant between the five of them is that they’re all young and out of control and wanting to get obliterated. We’re sitting on a semi-circle orange couch in the living room, and I had just assumed that these girls had got what they needed to get (their coke or E or whatever) and did it beforehand. Then one of them reaches into her purse—a white Louis Vuitton that an ex or current boyfriend probably paid for—and pulls out a quart-sized Ziplock bag packed with blow. Two pounds of the stuff.

She drops it on the table and I ask, “Is this fucking Colombia? Where the fuck did you get that?”

These five girls edge forward on the couch, taking out credit cards and rolling up dollar bills, winding them tight. “All you girls are doing this?” I ask.

One of them shrugs, chopping up a line for herself and saying, “Well, this lasts us about a week.” She says this like they’ve been doing this for years, and maybe they have. If it’s because coke is a social drug or they’re a little weirded out that all I’m going to do is watch, I’m not sure, but they keep begging, pressuring me to join them, saying, “Try it. Just try a little,” as Visa Platinum cards go
chop-chop-chop
on the table. They bow their heads, a manicured finger plugging one nostril while the other sucks white lines off the table.

Chop. Snort. Repeat.

Sometimes they’ll lick a finger and dab it into the pile, rubbing it like a toothbrush across their teeth and gums. Another one says, “C’mon, just do one with us,” and I play the age card again, telling her I’m too fucking old for that shit but they can do whatever the hell they want. I’m not judging. But I’m not participating either.

Chop. Snort. Repeat. I’m 31.

The girls go through half the bag in about an hour, snorting five or six lines apiece, hocking up coke-spit (the drip) from the back of their throat and swallowing. Swishing vodka around in their mouth and swallowing. Snorting
seven…eight…nine
lines—I’m waiting for one of them to overdose and die inside my suite, and they’re still asking me, “Won’t you try just one? Try one, and if you don’t like it then you can stop.”

Chop. Snort. I’m older.

Repeat. I’m 31 and I’m going to get busted with an ant farm of coke.

The jets in the balcony spa are firing up, and every girl has a pair of sunburned nostrils from the drugs, and there’s a lot of casual touching and flirting—especially from the ones on E who I notice keep clenching their jaws, grinding their teeth between smiles or coke chatter. There’s no conversation, just words that don’t add up to anything other than them being high and unaware of their own future. Then one of them asks me, “So, what do you want for your birthday?” in this timid way I didn’t even think was possible when you’re on the amount of drugs that they’re on.

“What do you mean?”

I play the game. I’m 31.

Chop. Snort. Repeat. They giggle, laugh the way young girls laugh, telling me, “Well, this is going to be the best night of your life.”

“Girls,” I smile. “There’s nothing you can do that I haven’t done before,”
and they pause for a minute. No chopping or snorting. I explain that I get this kind of suite just for coming into town, that I’ve had fifteen supermodels at one time (
Maxim
and
FHM
girls, vodka models, Playmates, porn girls, pay-for-play girls, any girl that’s ever been paid to get their photograph taken), so this, these five twenty-somethings on daddy’s credit card from USC or ASU or whatever—they’re rookies. Amateurs. A bunch of coke doesn’t change that. This is nothing.