Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (14 page)

Each thrust felt orgasmic. I could barely differentiate between when I was coming and when I wasn’t. I didn’t ever want it to stop. This was next-level fucking. I was more present in that moment than I’d been in any meditation, yoga class, or sweat lodge experience.

After at least an hour of unwavering intensity, as I was about to climax for the fifth time, I felt Cal’s body rhythms begin to shift. It felt like we were syncing up to each other. Our breath was matched, our movements choreographed, our bodies communed.

“OPEN!” Cal shouted.

I opened my eyes and stared deep into Cal’s soul as we came at the exact same time. He had saved the best for last. It was the orgasm to shame all other orgasms.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!”

“Well done,” Cal said as he looked me in the eyes and cracked the slyest smile.

“Well done to you. I don’t know what to say. You literally opened my eyes . . . to a lot of shit.”

Cal laughed, kissed me gently on my neck, my collarbone, and my breast. Then he rolled off me and hopped off the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” he said as he walked out completely naked.

“Me too.”

My legs were so weak as I stood. I wobbled back to my bathroom and it occurred to me that I had never had so many orgasms during one sexual encounter. Usually I don’t even climax until the second or third time I’ve slept with someone. My body was in shock, I felt at least a pound lighter, and I was sure that I’d finally achieved sex hair perfection.

I walked into my bathroom and looked in the mirror. I was glowing. My cheeks were bright red, my hair was major, and I felt like I was on top of the world. I grabbed a towel and took a short thirty-minute shower. Once I was all cleaned up, I put on my robe and went into the living room, where Cal was sitting on a couch with an open bottle of white and two glasses.

“Babe. This is what we are going to do: You and I are going to get dressed, leave all of our luggage here, and walk out that door. We are going to spend the night on my yacht, which is moored just over there,” Cal said, gesturing out the window. “Konstantinos and Dimitris will gather our belongings and meet us on the boat later in the morning. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, please.” I really feature a yacht scenario, and I had brought a bunch of nautical looks from Paris that were going to be thrilled to make their debut on a shipping tycoon’s yacht.

Before I knew it, Cal and I were alone in a tiny little dingy, speeding out to his yacht. It was midnight and I was freezing. As we approached the ship I realized that it was completely dark and not one crew member came to greet us. The whole thing was odd, but it was an unexpected visit so maybe the staff didn’t know we were coming.

The yacht was spectacular, tasteful, spacious, and there was something very familiar about it. Almost as if I’d seen it before. Cal quickly showed me to our room.

“We are not staying in the master suite, because they are in the midst of refinishing the wood. I hope that’s okay with you. Chemical fumes are disgusting and not good for the skin.”

“Cal, it’s fine. I can’t thank you enough for everything tonight. This has been really special.”

“To me as well. Let’s have another adventure tomorrow.”

I was exhausted. It had been an amazing day. I hadn’t even thought about my stalker once. I curled into bed with Cal and fell asleep as soon as I put my head on his shoulder.

The next morning I was awakened by a maid who barged into our room. She looked right at me, her eyes widened, and then she quickly left. It was a very strange encounter, but I guess she assumed the room would be empty. Cal wasn’t in bed, so I got myself together and headed to the deck to get a cup of coffee and see what he was up to.

As I passed a few more of the yacht staff on my way to the kitchen, they all seemed unreasonably icy. No one was acknowledging my presence or saying good morning. They actually seemed weirded out by my presence. Maybe Cal never brought girls onto his yacht? Then, rounding the corner, I recognized a distinct male voice that was very distinctly NOT Cal’s. I’d heard this voice before. It was slightly nasal and boyish, but undoubtedly sexy, and it very distinctly belonged to Leonardo DiCaprio.

“Could it be?” I whispered softly to myself. I looked over the deck and confirmed what I had suspected. Sitting at a table, eating breakfast, was Leo. “NO!” I gasped to myself, turning
away and pressing my body against the wall. It took me five whole seconds to register that this was not a dream, and when I looked back around the corner, he was still sitting there with four incredibly beautiful blond women, three of whom were topless, (and Jonah Hill) but whatever, not important.

So, this was happening. I was on a ship with Leo. I’d thought so much about this moment but never thought it would be like this. He was clearly Cal’s friend. Why else would he be here? I had become the real-life Rose DeWitt Bukater, except not a redhead or fat. This was my
Titanic
moment. It was going to be messy telling Cal that I chose Leo over him, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

I grabbed the closest deckhand I could find.

“Where is Calisto?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am?”

“You know, Cal? Tall, handsome, Greek. The owner of the yacht?”

“Ma’am, this is Mr. DiCaprio’s vessel.”

I wasn’t clear.

“Wait, I was with a man last night named Cal. Where is he?”

“There is no one named Cal on this boat. Who did you say you were again?”

Something was gravely wrong with the entire situation. Cal was missing, my bags had never arrived from the hotel, and I was somehow trespassing on Leonardo DiCaprio’s ship. As I was putting all of this together, the deckhand radioed yacht security to make them aware of my presence. Everything was happening very quickly, but it dawned on me that Cal and I had illegally boarded Leo’s yacht, and he’d left me there to deal with
the aftermath. I refused to meet Leo for the first time as a dirty stowaway, so I had to get his security team off my ass. I grabbed the deckhand again and smiled warmly.

“I’m soooo sorry. I took a ton of ecstasy earlier and had no idea where I was for a sec!” I pulled my dress over my head and handed it to him. “I meant to ask where Leo was, not Cal. Who’s Cal? I don’t even know a Cal! Hahaha.” I undid my bra so that I was topless and wearing just my black panties. “But I just saw Leo and Jonah and the rest of the girls having brunch, so it’s all good.” I handed the deckhand my bra. “That was scary! I should stop doing so many drugs. I’m gonna go for a swim. Will you put these in my room for me? Thanks a mil.”

He seemed to have bought my “confused-druggie-model-girlfriend-of-Leo” act and walked away with my clothes. Then I ran as quickly as I could to the back of the ship, and jumped off of the deck and into the Med.

It took me about forty-five minutes to swim back to the beach, which was plenty of time for me to realize that this whole trip had been a setup. My suspicions were confirmed when I got back to the suite. Cal had robbed me. He was gone and had taken all of my possessions with him. My clothes, my Birkins, my phone, my iPad, my computer, my jewelry, my cash, my credit cards, and my dignity. Gone. Well, almost gone.

Whenever I’m out of town, there exists the possibility that I might leave my travel Birkin in a restaurant or on a yacht, or have it stolen by a creep like Cal. That’s why I stay prepared by putting photocopies of my passport, British passport, and driver’s license in a plastic bag, along with a travel-size Evian mist spray and a handful of raw, sprouted almonds. Then I ziplock it
shut, fold it into a tight packet, and tape the bag and its contents to the bottom of the mattress in my luggage room. That Greek assface might have thought he’d gotten everything of mine, but he was wrong.

The police confirmed that Cal was a modern-day Thomas Crown. Apparently he’d done this to other unsuspecting women throughout Europe. The police were really nice about helping me get to the American embassy in Athens. Once everything had been sorted, I was fine to go on my merry way. My dad wired me some money, I had a massage, and I bought some new clothes.

As hard as I tried to be mad at Cal, my body remained in such a relaxed state from our incredible sex session that the whole thing kind of seemed like a fair trade. Sex with Cal was better than with Robert, it was better than that super expensive G spot stimulator I’d bought in 2009, and better than any fantasy sex I’d ever imagined having with Ryan Gosling. But Athens was kind of a dark place. It was not as island-y and definitely not as peaceful as Mykonos had been. Plus, my sex-tasy was wearing off and I was starting to be insanely shaken by not only being stalked in Paris, but also being Bling Ringed by Cal. The only thing that could possibly revive me after this elaborate debacle was a good, strong joint. So I booked a one-way flight to Amsterdam.

I
t was around ten a.m., and I was soaking in a huge tub in my hotel room watching some bad Nicki Minaj video (that probably only came out in Europe) on the little TV built into the mirror, when I realized I was actually relaxed. I’d let myself saturate in the bath for two whole hours (as opposed to my dermatologist’s recommended thirty minutes), so it was time to get out. As I stood naked and wet in front of the mirror, Nicki in the background, I caught a glimpse of a strange sparkle in my eye. I have, like, really pretty eyes, but they don’t sparkle. They’re not sparkly eyes, never have been. Charlize Theron has sparkly eyes. Cameron Diaz has sparkly eyes. I guess Babe Walker had that same sparkle in her eyes now, and it was an amazing thing to see. I couldn’t tell you why I suddenly had
A-list eyes, but I chose to believe that I was being rewarded for the immense strength I’d been exhibiting over the last few days.

The last time I was in Amsterdam was for a Kylie Minogue concert in 2002. I came with my dad (who has done work for Kylie) and Mabinty. We only stayed a night and I was fifteen, so I stayed off the heavy drugs. I mean, I obviously smoked several joints with one of the roadies at the after-party, but my aforementioned chaperones indulged in some of Amsterdam’s finest offerings. Long story short, my dad puked on Mabinty’s boobs, which caused her to puke on my face. We were in an elevator and they were on too many mushrooms. It’s shocking I’ve ever touched that shit since.

Something I remember very clearly from that trip is my dad telling me not to “ever spend more than forty-eight hours in this fuckin’ city, it’ll bloody melt you.” So I wasn’t planning on sticking around for a long time. I simply needed a moment in a petite, urban European environment where no one would recognize me, including hopefully whoever had followed me to Paris and threatened to kill me. I needed to be somewhere where no one would judge me for sitting alone at a coffee shop with a lit joint in one hand while sketching pictures of my third eye in a Moleskine notebook with the other. It was time Euro Babe got a bit of much-needed relaxation. So I got a room at the Conservatorium Hotel, which was chic for the Netherlands, and had Mabinty ship me three suitcases of weather-appropriate garb.

I
made my purpose in life to focus on Babe, get stoned, lose focus of my purpose, refocus, and forget about the fact that the world seemed to want me dead, or at least completely fucked over.

Once I was dried, dressed, and hydrated, I headed down to the lobby. When I asked the cute little Dutch lady at the hotel’s concierge desk if she could recommend a “safe space for getting stoned and drinking Diet Coke,” she suggested a coffee shop a few blocks away called Friends and Family. Sounded perfect.

The café was just what I was looking for. It reeked of pot, and there were chic little antiques everywhere, dim lighting, and zero dreadlocks in sight. I was safe. The guy at the counter was super hot in a Jack Nicholson kind of way, which is disgusting, but also kind of not if you think about it.

“Hi, can you help me find my spirit joint?” I asked.

“Hallo. What is it you like?” he said in a deep, husky tone. Dutch accents always make me laugh, so I laughed a little bit, but he didn’t notice. I wondered how high he was.

“Well, it’s been a trying few months. I’m just starting to get back on my feet,” I said. “LA is weird right now, my mom told me that my whole crazy alter-ego thing is kind of her fault, then I was burglarized and basically soul-raped, but I’m okay. I’m getting through it. Forward motion, you know? So, I guess I’m looking for something inspiring and de-stressing.”

Without a word, he turned around to the cabinet behind the counter and pulled out five perfectly rolled joints in plastic test tubes.

“These are good for girls. This one is the strongest and this one a little less, and so on,” he said as he pointed to each tube.

“Perf, I’ll take six of these super intense guys. And a Diet Coke. And a sparkling water. And a still water.”

“Okay. I will bring to the table.”

“Thanks. Oh, and are you married? Just wondering. I’m on vacation, so . . .”