Sex, Lies and the Dirty (8 page)

I ask, “You promise not to tell Hillary?”

Leper stops kissing me, stressing how serious she is, telling me, “It’ll be our secret. I want you so bad. I want to fuck you so bad.”

I get the condom. Leper fucks the shit out of me.

Her cunt is a little loafy, a little lippy.
Not cut quite as tight as most girls I’ve been with, but I’m writing that off to her having so many partners over the years, and I can’t deny she’s incredible in bed. Actually, too wild, like maybe she has to really show off because of who I am or who she thinks I am. She’s screaming and pummeling her body on me, saying, “Daddy, daddy, daddy—fuck me good, daddy! Oh, you’re fucking me so good, sweets!” in that slurred-out Texas accent, and then I feel like I have to play the game back: do something crazy. Do something that these girls, these pseudo-porn-star coke-whores are used to, so I slide an arm between us and wrap my hand around her neck. Fucking. Squeezing. Choking her. Squeezing hard so her face starts to deepen. My other hand slides under, into her ass where I jam two of my fingers inside her and she’s screaming harder as I choke her, saying, “Oh sweets oh sweets oh my fucking God, daddy!” but it’s obscured through the booze and accent and pressure I’m putting on her vocal cords. I fuck her, and she starts holding her breath so that she can come harder and then I come inside her, gripping my eyes shut. Tight. We come, and then I roll off of her because I need to catch a plane, grabbing the nearest articles of clothing I can find. An awkward silence has already begun to set.

Then Leper says, “I betcha Hillary Duff never fucked you like that.”

I say, “You know what, Kelli—she hasn’t.”

From the bed, Leper is watching me pack.
Nude. Relaxed. She asks me if she can use the phone sitting on the nightstand.

“Kelli, this is your room,” I say, packing jeans, shirts, socks. “Sleep in. Wake up. Be safe. I don’t care.”

“Can I have your number?”

“Nobody has my number. I never give out my number.”

“Well…how do I get a hold of you?”

I tell her, “E-mail me.”

“What’s your e-mail?”

“Nik@thedirty…N-I-K at the dirty,” I say, packing—just throwing everything into the luggage in no particular order. I don’t even have time to shower, so I’ll be boarding the plane stinking like booze and Leper. Meanwhile, she’s raiding the minibar, pulling out every tiny bottle of Crown Royal that’s in there. Leper gets back on the bed, unscrewing one and picking up the phone out of the cradle.

She dials the front desk, maybe for more room service, but then I hear her say, “Yeah, uh, I’m looking for Dwayne Carter’s
²⁴
room.”

I stop packing and shoot Leper a look like,
Are you serious right now?

She goes, “No, it’s fine. I just want to meet him…take pictures. That’s all.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.”

The Monday I get back,
there’s a submission that comes in titled: “Leper bangs celebrity after Dolce Vendetta event,” and I’m thinking,
Oh great, not even a week and the bitch has already told everyone that we hooked up.
It’s not like I’m going to post it, but I’m annoyed that after all her “it’s gonna be our little secret” bullshit that she can’t keep her mouth shut.

So I open the submission, and in the text body it reads: “Leper bangs the shit out of Lil Wayne,” and then there’s a bunch of pictures attached of her and Lil Wayne holding each other and whatever while Leper is wearing the “Cocaine Kills” T-shirt. No underwear. They’re making out, probably stoned out of their minds.

I’m not the least bit jealous though. Or mad.

If it ever comes back to me that Leper and I hooked up, I’ll have the pictures to prove that I didn’t just fuck around on my wife.

16
Douche + retard.

17
Gay or feminine.

18
She + him.

19
Ugly slut.

20
Blonde + donkey.

21
Girls with huge teeth and/or gums. Typically, their faces are terrible but they have incredible bodies.

22
This is not a rumor. Alien has fucked on camera more than a few times under the alias Lacy Holliday.

23
This is sort of an inside joke. On the site I’m constantly being asked whether I would or would not hook up with a girl, and my response 99% of the time is some variation of, “No, I wouldn’t stick it,” and this is actually something I’ve said referring to Leper directly.

24
Lil Wayne’s real name.

Split

After I get back from Dallas, my wife invites me out to lunch.

This is unusual for her because we’re so distant from each other that she can barely stand the sight of me. She hates Nik Richie. Hates the site. It’s a mixture of disapproval and professional jealousy. When my identity leaked out, there was a moment where she tried to be reassuring and supportive—perhaps because she thought it was the beginning of the end. Amanda might have been under the impression that
The Dirty
was going to have to shut down. Close shop. Now that I’m getting booked for celebrity appearances, she’s back to her old self: distant, cold, and unfriendly. Ever since the incident she’s been like this.

So the lunch invite is unexpected.

I meet Amanda out at Kierland Commons, and I can’t help but be reminded that it’s the same place where I invented the formula a couple years ago. The Nik Richie equation that got me to where I am now, but Kierland is about to take on a whole new meaning. We sit down, make a little small talk about the menu. The way we communicate is more like acquaintances now, and not long after our waters are delivered does Amanda say those magic words: “I want a divorce.”

For the record, I don’t want this. I’m unhappy, have been unhappy for a while, but divorce was never an option for me. In my family, or any Iranian family for that matter, when you get married, you stay married. Divorce is considered an unforgivable epic fuckup. It’s shameful, and even though Amanda and I have clearly lost our connection, my intention was always to stick it out. Hope for the best. Maybe time would bring us back together, a few years from now when she got over the idea of Hooman Karamian and Nik Richie being the same guy. My plan was always to stay underground, get some investors, have them flip the site for $100M, and I’d wash my hands clean of everything. It was never my goal to be Nik Richie forever, but maybe being outed removes that as an option. That may be
why Amanda is asking for a divorce, crying. She’s crying in public, but I don’t feel empathetic or any sense of compassion. And I sure as fuck don’t feel sorry for her.

What I know is that she’s lured me out to this place, a public place, and she purposely brought this up so that I couldn’t do anything. I can’t react. In this situation, all I can do is nod quietly and give her what she wants.

I go out of town for an event.

When I get back, all my shit is packed up. My clothes are in boxes. This is Amanda’s way of circumventing the awkward moving-out process. All I have to do is put this stuff in the back of my car and leave.

Amanda and I have to go to the courthouse to fill out the divorce papers, but instead of acting all cold and distant, she’s actually playing up the relationship we’re going to have.

“We’ll be best friends,” she says. “We’ll still hang out and it’ll be cool.”

I’m a bit relieved because the last thing I wanted was to be on bad terms or anything like that. Getting a divorce is one thing, but going through one where the two people can’t be amicable is another issue. The last thing I need is my ex trying to fuck up my life, especially at this stage in the game. So this makes me happy, her finally attempting to get along with me. I don’t want to hate Amanda. Trashing all those years seems like a waste, so I want us to be friends. I’m optimistic that we can accomplish that much even though the marriage is about to be dissolved.

So I sign what she wants me to sign at the courthouse. The papers get filed. I tell Amanda that I’m going to be there for her. I’ll send her money so she can keep up with the bills. It’s not like I have to do this, but I let her have everything: the car, the house, and all the shit that comes with it. I’m left with nothing, but I’m okay with that.

Amanda is driving the white Lexus, giving me a ride back to Nik Richie headquarters, and that Pink song
²⁵
comes on. It’s such a gay fucking bullshit song, but Amanda’s singing it. She’s actually singing it at me, turning in her seat and saying, “
I’m still a rock star, I’ve got my rock moves
,” and she’s acting like she’s trying to be funny but she’s being serious. It’s her way of saying to me, “I’m going to make it and you’re not,” because that’s what Pink is talking about in the song. Amanda is rubbing it in my face that
she’ll come out of this on top and I’ll fail. Even after signing our divorce papers, Amanda is still competing with me.