Sex, Lies and the Dirty Read Online Free Page A

of saying Thanks for fucking us over on an exclusive.
    They still go live with a post of their own: the mug shot, a synopsis of the DUI, a few snarky jabs, and the full police report. All of this goes up only a moment after I out myself on my own site. Then it starts spreading: first to Deadspin, and then it’s chained out over and over again down the line. Almost instantly, the world knows who I really am.
    True to form, everyone has an opinion.
    Everyone’s been waiting for this moment.
    Traffic on the site doubles, and most of it is because the comment boards are being bombarded with opinions about me. Remarks about my appearance. This time, I’m the one on blast. I finally get a taste of my own medicine.
    They say: Cheetah print collar? Come on, Nik.
    And: Ha! We should be asking average-looking girls “would you” for your ugly terrorist ass.
    Some people commend me for coming out. Others don’t.
    For the most part, it’s insults, teasing—all the stuff I do.
    “You are a tool, and your website sucks.”
    “Wow, the mighty have fallen.”
    “You are dead to me.”

    I’m terrified and paranoid for a good day or so. Most of the news outlets are spinning this as a karma piece. It’s Matt Leinart’s 12 revenge for that time I posted him with underage girls and got him benched. Or it’s just karma in general. Payback that was long overdue for all the lives I fucked with.
    Every time I go out I’m worried about getting jumped, spit on, or something equally not good. I’m not even talking about the clubs. Each person I walk by at the grocery store or gas station could be a person that’s been up on the site, only now they know who I am. So I’m constantly in a state having my guard up, but then something very odd happens.
    I’m getting emails saying that they’re glad I came out. I’ll go to restaurants and people are shaking my hand, smiling, telling me that they love my site. They love what I do. Nik Richie had always been popular, but now hewas tangible. People could meet him, talk to him. Suddenly, I was some kind of celebrity along the lines of a Zuckerberg or Perez Hilton. I was finally real. A public figure.
    I was one step closer to the American dream.
     
12 NFL quarterback and Heisman trophy winner.

Origins (Part 1)
    My parents immigrated to the United States with $1,000 to their name, and they would go on to raise myself and my two brothers in a strict Iranian fashion. We never cursed. We never talked back. Our career as American-born Iranians was to chase the American dream. That meant working hard, devoting yourself to academics, and pursuing fields that generated the maximum amount of income. According to my father, you could either be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. The plan was simple: high school would be followed by college which would be followed by a career.
    My father was an engineer.
    I was going to be a doctor.
    My uncle, who owned multiple medical practices, was a radiologist and my personal role model. He drove a Jaguar. Owned beachfront property. He had money and everyone’s respect. People were envious, and my father never missed an opportunity to point this out to me, if only to remind me what was waiting at the end of the road.
    “This is what you get when you become a doctor, Hooman,” he said.
    My plan to go premed, to follow in my uncle’s footsteps, was more about materialism than it was pleasing my father. The quality of work didn’t factor in much, either. It was all about money. If I had money, I could be like my uncle and have the things he had. This goal would be instilled in me around the age of five, and over the years, would become more of an obsession. I would graduate high school, graduate college, become a radiologist, and one day take over CIG 13 , which was the name of my uncle’s practice. My high school friends, especially the Caucasian ones, were not nearly as regimented when it came to their future. So I took a certain amount of pride in knowing