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 wife at the time, 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 Crusian mindlock.
As I struggled to manage my bags of groceries, I dreamt of becoming a fellow captive with ol’ Kate. Her alien husband can like, totally be in charge of my life.
I wouldn’t have to fumble with all these bags if under Tom’s spell. I wouldn’t 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, who I can talk to and who my eyes should fall on when he’s not around. 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 leaking toilet. He tells me the cause of the weird whistling sound my car is suddenly making and sends it in for repair. What doesn’t Tom Cruise know? He knows everything.
Sure there’s the Scientology issue. This could be a problem since I avidly dislike having religion shoved down my throat. But Tom would like the challenge. Everyday, he’d try to convert me and every day, I’d be this close to letting him. Then I’d say, “Let me think about it, Tommy.” He’d remind me that he does the thinking for us. Then he’d slap me. Hard.
So I convert to Scientology. (What choice did I have? Cruisian mindlock baby.) I purposefully do things to upset him, like wearing scantily clad outfits and acting trashy in public. He lectures me. He 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 couple of weeks. 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 rough, 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 and militant personal trainer Paulo.
My Cruise-based fantasy life is ruthlessly cut short when one of my grocery bags breaks open, the contents spilling all over the icy cement. (And of course, the effin’ eggs have to be in that bag.)
As I chase rolling eggs around the parking lot, I look up to the heavens and whisper, “Tom Cruise, help me now. Please!” And you know what? He appears by my rusty 1990 Toyota truck with that eerily dazzling smile of his. I begin to cry with relief. He says, “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 the keys from my coat pocket 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, he says.
My pleasure, Tom Cruise. My pleasure.