I don’t have the movie star hots for Tom Cruise. I don’t even like him much as actor. He seems like a shiny little alien. But a while back, in a crowded line at the grocery store, I read about his controlling behavior toward his now ex-wife, Katie Holmes.
Apparently poor Kate was stuck in a “Cruisian prison.” And her husband possessed special mental powers that made her comply with his wishes. A Tom Cruise mindlock.
As I struggled with my groceries one winter night, I dreamt of becoming a fellow captive with fragile, frightened Kate where her extra-terrestrial husband is in complete charge of my life too.
Certainly I wouldn’t have to fumble with all these bags if under Tom’s spell. Nor would I break out in a cold sweat as the cashier processed a credit card that’s just about tapped. It’s easy street with Tom and me. He tells me what to eat, when to bathe, what to wear, how to cut my hair. He tells me how long to sleep, whom I can talk to and where my eyes can fall when he’s not around (like the life-size oil painting of his image in our spacious living room).
When Kate pulls me aside to plan our great escape, I break free of her bony grip and run back to Tom, asking him what he wants me to do next. He tells me, firmly and with authority, how to manage a number of annoying situations in my life, like my health insurance denying a recent claim or my chronically leaking toilet. He tells me why my car is making a weird whistling sound and the best way to get that wine stain out of my carpet. What doesn’t Tom Cruise know? He knows everything and frankly, my stress-addled brain needs a serious break.
Sure there’s the Scientology issue. This could be a problem since I can’t stand having religion shoved down my throat. But Tom embraces the challenge. Everyday, he tries to convert me and every day, I’d be this close to letting him. Then I’d say coyly, “Let me think about it, Tommy.” He’d give me a firm slap and remind me that he does the thinking for us now.
So I reluctantly convert to Scientology and act the part for a while. Then I’d purposefully do things to upset him, like wearing scantily clad outfits and acting trashy in public. He lectures me, punishes me. He even grounds me for two weeks. And I’m not mad. I think it’s high time I was grounded for a little while. Put me in my place. Give me some time to think about my behavior.
Of course, I’d love this controlling behavior to translate into hot, steamy sex but unfortunately, it doesn’t. He withholds sex for me. It’s part of his master plan (or so he says. Not sure if I quite believe him.)
On the sly, I have sex with my suave, bronze personal trainer Paulo. But Tom catches me in the act! I’m grounded once again, this time for a whole month (!). I lay facedown, crying poolside. Tom walks by. “I’m sorry, Tom Cruise. I’m sorry!” He marches away abruptly and I surreptitiously pull out the cocktail stashed under my lounge chair. (It’s an organic peach margarita. My personal chef Kenneth makes them for me. Delish.)
My Crusian fantasy life is ruthlessly cut short when one of my grocery bags splits open, the contents spilling all over the ice-laced cement. (And of course the effin’ eggs have to be in that bag.) As I chase a rolling apple, I look up to the heavens and whisper, “Tom Cruise, help me now. Please!”
And you know what? He appears by my rusty Toyota truck, that eerily dazzling smile of his. Tears of relief fall from my eyes. He says mellifluously, “The struggle is over. I’m here now.”
A bodyguard grabs the bags from my arms and leads me into the passenger seat. Tom takes my keys and starts the car. The whistling sound is gone. It’s gone! Tom Cruise’s mere presence has fixed my car. As we drive home, he tells me to cross my legs. I look like a slut.
My pleasure, Tom Cruise. My pleasure.