Hunter Moore: The Most Hated Man on the Internet

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Before going to sleep at night, Moore brainstorms interesting things to ask people to do the next day, such as rubbing salami on their phallus or sticking certain things up their vagina or spider-pooping (Google it). And the next day people will gladly send him pictures of themselves doing such things in order to receive a free T-shirt and/or increase their number of Twitter followers. Some girls have gotten very lucrative porn gigs from being on IAU. Some have met their spouses. With all this creative energy flowing, the current question is what will become of the IAU brand now that the website is gone for good: "I was basically bought out to shut Hunter Moore down, you know." But Hunter Moore believes that he can brand Hunter Moore, that enough Internet mayhem is now associated with his name that he can ride that wave on to greatness. In the meantime, he's been approached about writing a book of his sexcapades ("If Snooki can have a book, anybody can"); he's pitching a reality show; he's planning a new website that may bring revenge porn back, while also having a social­networking component "for networking, like, really fast, so people can have sex way faster than normal"; and he's traveling the country hosting IsAnyoneUp parties, where he very nominally DJs ("I literally taught myself on the plane two hours before my first set in Toronto") and persuades people to do things such as lick each other's butt holes when the beat drops.

Naturally, Moore wants to show me just how good a party he can throw. But before doing that, he wants to drive to San Francisco to have dinner with his girlfriend. By the way, he has a girlfriend. It may strain credulity to think that any young woman would submit her heart to one to whom so many others submit quite different parts of their anatomy, and I was fully prepared for this purported girlfriend to never quite materialize. But I was wrong. We picked her up at an actual house. We went to an actual restaurant. We ate sushi. She has a name, Kirra. And here's the thing: There seemed to be an actual boyfriend­girlfriend vibe going on between those two, Kirra and Moore. They call each other "babe." When hanging up the phone or parting ways, Moore tells her "I love you" in the preoccupied, instinctual way of someone who says that to her all the time. But despite Kirra's blond, sex-kitten appeal, they haven't consummated this love in a long, long time. Moore knows that having casual, meaningless sex is part of his job description, and he doesn't think it's fair to be sleeping with strangers and with Kirra, too. For her part, Kirra lets Moore do what he wants as long as she doesn't have to hear about it. As she tells me, "It's not your typical relationship, I guess."

What happened in Poughkeepsie – well, let's just say it started off well. In fact, the night before, in Rochester, New York, was a real peach – one of those nights that makes Moore believe in the promise of his future. He was hosting a party at the Dub Land Underground, and had arranged to meet a girl from Buffalo he'd had his eye on and who'd just turned 18. "I'm gonna have sex with her and take a bunch of pictures," Moore happily announced as another Internet fan who'd appeared in the flesh that night – the first one, speaking of flesh, to ever get an IAU tattoo – started passing out shots. And within 20 minutes, he was doing just that. Not only did he have condomless sex with this girl – a tiny black-haired thing in an even-more-tiny, hot-pink dress – but she was even so accommodating as to allow him to pour vodka in her vagina and lick it out. She was a real sweetheart that way. So much so that he decided to ignore the other two girls who were waiting outside the greenroom hoping to have their go at him next. The only downside about Pink Dress was that he didn't get off, but these days, he rarely does. It's an occupational hazard, he thinks, becoming "desensitized" like that. "I gotta be on something," he says, "to even be in the mood."

It wasn't always so. When he lost his virginity to a ninth-grader during lunch period in seventh grade, he was appropriately psyched about it. Two years before that, when he first masturbated, he thought he'd broken his penis, but then he kept breaking it again and again. But now? "The only reason I do shit is for content for my site."

Anyway, it wasn't long before he had to perform. Onstage, with DJ Android Rights, otherwise known as Ryan, and a very gracious go-go dancer named Kat, he set things off by announcing that "I just fucked the shit out of a girl in your greenroom, so thank you for the hospitality" and by offering free shots of vodka, which Kat began administering from the stage with the patience of a nurse doling out some gentle tonic. It was a Tuesday. One-hundred sixty-five people had paid at the door and were now dancing aerobically, including the guy who would later tell Moore, "It's a shame about the site 'cause that was my daily news feed." It was a good time.

But it was an even better time back in the greenroom, which an hour later was hotboxed with pot smoke. Moore will deign to smoke pot in a pinch, but that night, he was able to score cocaine, and the key bump sure worked its chemical magic: "Holy shit, I can't feel my lips!" And then Pink Dress was back there again, with another girl whose own tiny garment kept riding up over her panties and who was clearly less attractive, but also substantially more fucked up. Moore bounced Panties on his knee while Pink Dress looked on, slit-eyed, from the sofa.

"You gonna show me your butt?" he asked Panties at one point. "Oh my God, you're so hot. You're so fucking hot."

"No!" she protested.

"Just show him your butt," Pink Dress yawned.

"If all of you show him your butt at the same time, I'll be down," Panties slurred. "I want it to be mutual."

Pink rolled her eyes, but still hoisted her slinky frame up from the sofa. They did their mutual butt-showing.

"Dude, would you have sex with us?" Moore asked Panties after she righted herself.

She considered for a moment. "I probably would."

Then Pink's killjoy friend barged in, insisting that they leave – it's a long ride back to Buffalo, and the friend had a baby at home. And Moore didn't really want to sleep with Panties: What he really wanted was more cocaine, and so did Panties. Boy, did she ever. Later that night, back in his hotel room, she agreed to do her line off his erect penis as he snapped a photo of this and uploaded it to Tumblr. But he still didn't want to sleep with her. She wasn't that hot. And seriously, he can't sleep with just anyone. At some point in the early morning, he sent her on her way.

So, that was Rochester. On to Poughkeepsie, where, after a six-hour drive and a ticket for an obstructed rear window, the crowd at the Loft is just not that cool – more on the fratty side of things than Moore usually has to deal with. Still, by the end, he has five girls up onstage with their shirts off, dancing so hard their mascara is running. He seems to be having fun. So it's sort of difficult to explain what happens next. The set is over and Moore and Ryan are in the darkened theater behind the club and Ryan is smoking a little pot when Moore mentions that he might possibly start working with the same company that books Daft Punk and therefore might possibly start touring with them. (Says Moore, "I was basically bullshiting.") At this news, Ryan expresses either pleasant surprise or utter disbelief – depending on whom you ask – at which point Moore punches him square in the face. Stunned, Ryan shows up at the merch table with blood gushing from his nose and down the front of his T-shirt and someone calls the police, who arrive several minutes later with sirens blaring to perform a rather cursory search of the club before announcing that Moore is nowhere to be found. Ryan asks them how to press charges.

At 2:47 a.m., after a trip to the hospital to determine whether Ryan's nose is broken, I'm back at the Days Inn when I get a text from Moore: "Are you at your hotel can we talk?" I call him. Am I OK, he wants to know. He's so, so, so, so, so sorry. That guy Ryan was threatening him, and he's got a family to support, not just himself, but his parents, his grandma. "Let me come to the hotel and just talk to you in the lobby, just for a few minutes," he says. I decline his offer and go to sleep.

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