Psychic Junkie

by Sarah Lassez

  Porn. Stacks and stacks of magazines hidden at the very back, all reassuringly heterosexual and not obscurely kinky, but nonetheless all of women who weren’t me. I was completely thrown. Wilhelm had no sex drive, what did he need this for? Had the former tenant maybe left these magazines behind? Perhaps, upon finding them, my poor delicate boyfriend had been too afraid to touch them and had left them where they were? No, Sarah, that’s ridiculous. No guy would leave behind his porn. Along with the TV, porn would be the first thing packed and ready to go.

  But why would Wilhelm employ one-dimensional women and his hand when he had a three-dimensional girlfriend pretty much raring to go at all times? In a frenzy, I ran to my purse, grabbed my cell phone, and returned to the porn. Settled in on the linoleum floor, I flipped through pages and waited for Gina to pick up.

  She sounded distracted as she said “Hello,” but I charged forth.

  “Ask your boyfriend, as he’s now a representative of the male species, why my boyfriend, who has no interest in sex, would have a stack of porn magazines in his bathroom.”

  “Hold, please.” I heard her adjust the phone, then yell, “Honey, Sarah’s losing her mind. Will you come here for a sec?”

  Once she’d explained the situation, Mark offered his opinion, which I heard, followed by Gina’s word for word repetition. Masturbation’s different. “He says masturbation’s different.” It’s quick and easy, a way to relax. “He says it’s quick and easy, a way to relax.” It doesn’t compare to having sex with a real woman. “He says it doesn’t—”

  “Put him on the phone.”

  She handed over the phone, and Mark, sounding a tad nervous, came on the line.

  “Okay,” I said. “So if it doesn’t compare to having sex with a real woman, tell me again why he’d do that and not have sex with me? I’m a real woman.”

  He took a deep breath, clearly ruing his decision to go over to Gina’s house that day. “Well. There could be lots of reasons. I mean, first, it’s habit. Ever since he was twelve, he’s probably been doing it every day. At this point it’s routine. You just do it; I don’t know. Then there could be all sorts of psychological reasons, like performance anxiety. Maybe sex with a real woman is stressful? You gotta remember, centerfolds don’t bitch—”

  Gina snatched the phone back. “That answer your question?”

  “Performance anxiety,” I said with wonder. “I bet that’s it.”

  “Okay, glad to help, but I’m in the midst of a Virgo moment and have to finish alphabetizing my CDs, DVDs, and books. Gotta run.”

  We hung up, and I stared at the girl on the cover, a girl whose skin looked plastic and whose boobs looked so filled with helium that it would’ve made perfect sense if the picture were of her spiraling in the air, passing pigeons and treetops and kites. Of course. Wilhelm was nervous. I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of that! Early in our dating I’d made the mistake of revealing that I’d had flings with a couple of rather famous actors, and though my objective had been honesty—while also attempting to instill an I-am-so-lucky-to-have-her feeling—the disclosure might have backfired. He could be worried he didn’t measure up! Poor Wilhelm!

  I vowed not to pressure him anymore. In fact, not only would I not pressure him, but I’d also try to build his ego, compliment him, make him feel like a manly man. Briefly I considered hiding all his pink shirts, but then told myself no, I love him the way he is—my masturbating, sex-hating, pink-shirt-

  wearing, discount-store-window-shopping, balding, self-punishing, pretty boy chef of a boyfriend.

  I also vowed to stop snooping, which, once I’d completed the search of his entire apartment, I did. The only other curious thing I found, besides the pictures and the porn, was a plastic folder from the FBI. How the hell he’d gotten it, I had no idea. Momentarily I entertained the idea that Wilhelm was in the FBI, was perhaps actually here undercover and on assignment, but even that didn’t bother me. As long as Nadja wasn’t the requisite partner he was in love with, the thought of his deceiving me was not a problem.

  I was good. I was trusting. I believed in Wilhelm and knew better than to invade his privacy. I was proud of myself, of how well behaved I’d become—until one day I had a little slipup and put spyware on his computer. Well, actually, it was my computer, the one he used to check his e-mails when at my house, so my reasoning was that it was my property and in truth it was smart to know what was happening on one’s own property. If I happened to come across his e-mail password, that wasn’t my fault, was it? I know, I know. If there were ever awards for Most Outlandish Justification, I’d certainly take the prize with that one.

  So, in a state I dare not describe as sane, I installed the spyware, sat back, and waited for him to check his e-mails. To be perfectly honest, I’d actually been trying to crack his password since I’d learned of the Aryan Goddess’s existence, and the effort to do this the old-fashioned way, by educated guesses, was exhausting. I was tired. I just wanted to know. Essentially, I wanted to trust him, as one should be able to do when about to get engaged, but in order to do so I needed to search through all his belongings and break into his e-mail account. It made perfect sense.

  It was only a matter of time till the plunder of my plot materialized. One bright sunshiny morning, a day when our only plans involved an expedition to Ross and T.J. Maxx, followed by a nice dinner of beef bourguignon and a seductive, velvety pinot noir that Wilhelm wouldn’t shut up about, he asked if he could check his e-mail.

  “Absolutely,” I told him. “Please. Take your time.”

  Whereas normally I’d agree, let him use my computer, and then somehow manage to hover in the vicinity—dusting the picture frames on the desk, sweeping around the chair he was sitting in, helpfully wiping off the computer monitor—this time I made myself scarce. I went outside to cut roses. Leisurely I selected the fullest blooms, the prettiest shades of pink. I realized that a well-thought-out plan of attack and deception lends a sense of serenity, a feeling of peace and accomplishment. It was a truly beautiful day, and I was happy. Tiny bouquet in hand, I headed back indoors.

  Wilhelm was standing in my living room, a look of abject disappointment on his face. “I have to go in to work.”

  “You do?” I asked, trying to hide my delight.

  “Yes. There’s a crisis with a private party tonight. They vastly underestimated the amount of—”

  “Shoot. That’s too bad. Well, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  He nodded, no doubt longingly envisioning the cluttered aisles of Ross. “I know. It’s true. But I was looking forward to our day together. I hope tonight I can join you, that I can come back. Though, I have a feeling today is going to be bad. Nothing at work goes as it should.”

  I shrugged and headed to the door. “That sucks. Well, call me later and keep me posted.”

  Once I’d herded him outside and stood by the window to make sure his car had started and that he was indeed reversing from the driveway, I turned and faced the computer, staring it down as if it were a hostage I was about to interrogate. In truth, all I had to do was press a few buttons. Voilà. I had his password. I must say I was pleased with my detective skills, as Hugo Boss, his favorite designer, had been one of my first guesses. But, being the sneaky Kraut he apparently was, he’d changed it to “HugBoss.” “HugBoss” being like a cry for help from a man whose employees had vandalized his car.

  I paused. It was rather disconcerting that he knew people would naturally guess that his password was his favorite designer, which, I was learning, wasn’t normal. Just recently Gina had asked for advice on what to get Mark for his birthday, and when I’d replied, “Well, who’s his favorite designer?” my words had been met with a heavy sigh.

  “Oh, my poor Sarah,” she’d said. “The way it works with most men is like this: They don’t have favorite designers. They don’t talk about collections or bold new color schemes, and they don’t go shopping for fun. When they need something, they get it. The only thing
I’ve been able to tell about Mark is that he often buys his clothes at Banana Republic, and even then—when I asked if it was his favorite store—he said, “I go there because they have one at whatever mall you drag me to.” Other than that, I know he likes the color blue. That’s it, and that’s how it should be.”

  I recognized this as a good point. Still, I loved my metrosexual. He gave amazing and hip gifts, like the Burberry scarf he’d recently bestowed on me, one he’d had to buy me because it was all the rage. Of course, I’d known it was a fake, but no one else could tell, because a true metrosexual also possesses the ability to discover and acquire amazing knockoffs. So being with a metrosexual had its perks, and one, I now saw, was the ability to almost correctly guess passwords. Sitting there, about to break into his e-mails, I found his little attempt at being sneaky rather adorable. HugBoss. It made me smile.

  And then I got to business.

  There before me was Pandora’s box, otherwise known as Wilhelm’s e-mail account. I felt my hand slowly moving the mouse, watching the cursor inch its way to the word “Inbox.” Was this really me? Was I really doing this? Was I really so untrusting, so brimming with trickery, so sneaky? I paused only momentarily. Hell, yeah I was. Click.

  I was in. I leaned forward and instantly stopped breathing. Nadja. And the date received was today.

  There are times in one’s life when borders, boundaries, and lines become clear. You know if you take one more step, life will be forever and irrevocably changed, and you can actually identify the moment as you exist in it, feel the weight of its significance, the sharpness of the edge on which you are perched. This was one of those moments. I stared at her name. If I opened this e-mail, there would be no going back. My life would never be the same. My relationship would never be the same. I felt it. I knew it. People often utter consolations like, “You poor thing, you couldn’t have known.” Fine, I’m sure that’s true in many cases, but not in this one. I was aware. I knew it was bad, and I knew if I crossed the line, there was no going back. Though really there was already no going back, not now that I knew of the e-mail’s existence. Short of a lobotomy, there was no way to forget it.

  On the other hand, it could be nothing. Most likely, I tried telling myself, it was nothing. She’s probably just saying hi again, talking about shoes and cupboards, in which case I’d be needlessly torturing myself with the idea that it was something. Whatever. There was no way around it. I had to open the damn thing. So I did.

  Of course it was in German. Irritated that the Aryan Goddess couldn’t at least write in English and hence make my job just a touch easier, I went to the site that offered translations, cut and pasted, and sat back. Bam, there it was. I started reading. All pretty much harmless drunken Shakespearean chitchat: A mutual friend of theirs was “a mountain without a tree,” for everything “stout ales dilemma fixed,” she also was quite sorry because she’d had no idea his “treasure was over thirty, quite a burden doubled,” how to deal with such “an old basket of eggs,” and “niceness was seeing him day other.”

  Oh, no. No, she didn’t. An “old basket of eggs”? She called my eggs old? My eggs might have been aging, but they weren’t old! They still worked, I was pretty sure. And I am not over thirty! I am thirty! I wanted to kill her. She must be a baby to view thirty as ancient. A baby with no wrinkles, no cellulite, and no flippin’ clue. This was what I got for getting involved with a twenty-five-year-old. Of course his recent past involved children. Wait. I read that last part again. Niceness was seeing him day other?

  Amid my confusion (What day other? How had she seen him if she lived in Germany? What was she doing here? Could he have gone to Germany? Why hadn’t he told me he’d seen her? Why in secret? What had happened?), I felt the overwhelming urge to puke. Puking is my natural response to any kind of anxiety or emotional turmoil and, in addition to my neurotic need to act, was one of the main reasons I could never be a paramedic or a cop or in any other profession that deals with stress. While others valiantly step up to the plate and perform heroic rescues and feats, I would arrive on scene, promptly keel over, puke, and for the rest of the day need to be fed saltines and ginger ale at hourly intervals. And now, having just read that my boyfriend had seen the Aryan Goddess the other day, keel over was exactly what I did—just as soon as I’d hurled myself into the bathroom. Congratulating myself for having bought such a soft bathroom rug—my best and most appreciated purchase—I stared at the water in the bowl and cursed myself, Wilhelm, the Aryan Goddess, spyware in general, and, for good measure, Hugo Boss.

  After a while I regained my composure. I had to deal with this. I couldn’t curl into the fetal position, play dead, and later awake to find none of this had happened. No, this involved action. Unfortunately, Wilhelm had said he might return that night, once he’d saved the day at work, so there was no telling how much time I had. Lord, give me strength, I implored. Give me the strength I need to read the rest of his e-mails.

  I took a few severely deep breaths, almost passed out, and then returned to the computer. Heart racing, I searched through more of his recent e-mails, but found nothing that would explain the Aryan Slut’s existence or intentions. This situation, I knew, was why one should never snoop. No matter how I spun it, I was pretty much guilty. I couldn’t exactly phone him at work and say, “Hi, honey. So, with the best of intentions I managed to get your e-mail password and was checking your e-mails to, uh, see if I could get any hints for what to buy you for your birthday in eight months, when I came across an e-mail from some sweet girl in Germany who mentioned she saw you the other day, and I just wanted to know WHO THE FUCK SHE IS AND WHY YOU FUCKING KEPT HER A SECRET.” Nope. I could safely rule out that approach.

  Naturally this was a job for psychics. I had to hand this over to the professionals. So I called Erlin, who smoothly told me not to worry, she was just a friend. At first I felt better, but then something inside me clued in to the fact that “Don’t worry” was all he ever said. In order to believe someone when they say you shouldn’t worry, they sometimes need to tell you that you should worry. At the very least you need to know they’re capable of telling you to worry. Was “Don’t worry” what he told everyone? A stock response? Was he not paying attention here? My boyfriend’s got an Aryan mistress!

  After spending almost forty bucks to learn that Erlin would most likely tell me not to worry even if I were sobbing about a man in my living room with a maniacal glint in his eye and an AK-47 in his arms, I knew I needed a second opinion. My trusty “Psychics I Like and Why” document in hand, I scanned my options and picked two more. Of course, both had vastly different takes on my future. This, I noticed, tended to be a trend when I was freaking out: Every answer was maddeningly different. It was almost as if the universe couldn’t concentrate with me down here on earth being such an entertaining mess, perhaps couldn’t come up with a straight answer because my moaning or crying or wailing was just too flipping funny. And alas, if there weren’t a psychic consensus, I was pretty much on my own. I had to think of something.

  And that, of course, was right when Wilhelm called to tell me he was on his way back. I surveyed the living room; the couch’s pillows haphazard and flung around, tissues crumpled and scattered, my list of psychics spread out on the floor to allow for easy viewing. Everything was a mess. I didn’t want him to come over. I was nowhere near done freaking out. I had at least another two or three hours left in me.

  And then inspiration struck. “Hey, Wilhelm,” I said casually. “I was just on the phone with Gina, and she mentioned she saw you driving the other day.”

  He laughed, oblivious. “Really? It’s amazing what a small town L.A. is.”

  “Yeah, totally. Anyhow. She said you were in the car with some girl.”

  “What? What girl?”

  I must say, he sounded genuinely surprised. Shit. “I don’t know. That’s what I was wondering. You know, I was just curious. It’s not a big deal. It’s just funny.”

  “I have no idea. I
wasn’t in the car with anyone. Are you sure it was me she saw? Or was it someone like me? What was I wearing?”

  Oh, for crying out loud. “Never mind. I’m sure she was confused. She gets like that. What with being in love and so happy.”

  He told me he needed to stop at the store for some baby potatoes, and that was it. He was on his way, and I was at a loss. For damage control I called Gina and brought her up to speed. “I saw him driving with another girl?” she asked.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Okay. Just in case he wonders, what’d she look like?”

  “Like your typical Aryan whore.”

  “And that would be six feet tall, blond, and gorgeous?”

  “That would be it.”

  “Got it. Hey, know what you need to do?”

  I said nothing, since I did know what I needed to do. I needed to fly to Germany, find this girl, kidnap her, and enlist some CIA-type tactics—no, scratch that; Republican Guard-type tactics—to figure out exactly what she was up to with my boyfriend. That and I needed to hook Wilhelm up to a lie detector and start the inquisition. Oh, and while I was at it, I needed to forever ban him from the Internet, the postal service, and the telephone.

  “You play psychic.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You guys have talked about this stuff; he believes in it. So you pretend like you had a dream about him, about him and some other girl. You tell him all about it. Pretend you’re really upset—”

  “I am upset.”

  “Fine, so be upset and make him think you psychically knew of Nadja’s—”

  “Don’t say her name.”

  “Of the Aryan Goddess’s existence—”

  “No. She’s no longer the Aryan Goddess. She’s the Aryan Whore.”

  “Okay, okay. So you essentially bring up the Aryan Whore without admitting what you did. Which, I must say, was very bad.”