Cold War Goes Nuclearbyandtheend©
Mel Gibson and Oksana Grigorieva
It hadn't been a good summer for Mel. His relationship with his girlfriend, Oksana Grigorieva, suddenly soured. Call it a coincidence but the relationship soured, when Mel refused to marry her. After putting up with her lying, he had seen enough of her to realize that she wasn't a good match for him. Then, the final straw, what he thought was a private tiff was recorded and made public by her and her sister, Natalie.
"Those two never shut up," said Mel to his friend, Timothy Dalton, Oksana's ex-husband.
"I told you not to get involved with her, Mel," said Timothy. "She's nothing but trouble."
"By the way, Tim. You know she's lying when she said I pulled a gun on her. Right?"
"Mel, I was married to her. I don't think a day went by that she didn't lie to me. It started when she told me she loved me," he said with a laugh. "The woman is incapable of telling the truth."
Oksana and her sister were always talking to the media and the tabloid magazines and selling out his privacy for money, always for money. Mel suspected that Natalie was the one who leaked his private telephone tapes to the media. What began as a personal matter in the privacy of their home, inflamed by Mel's drinking and obscene telephone calls, quickly escalated and became a public spectacle played over the Internet and in the tabloids.
What started as an argument, ended as an alleged physical altercation, resulting in his pending criminal charges of assault and battery on a woman. It all began when Mel was lying naked in bed watching his girlfriend, the supposed new love of his life, his significant other, get ready to go out, yet again, without him. Hoping to dissuade her from leaving, normally, whenever he's naked, she gives him what he wants, a blowjob, and he gives her what she wants, money. Only, this time, she didn't even look at him. He stroked his cock to a semi-erection, whenever she left the room. He wanted her to notice him and his cock. He wanted her to suck him.
"What are you doing lying there naked? Puts some clothes on," she said finally acknowledging his nakedness with a sour look, as if he were a stranger and had just flashed her. "I don't want to see that limp thing."
There she goes insulting him again. She knew how to push his buttons but hoping to get a blowjob, he let her remark slide.
"I was hoping you'd--"
"You were hoping I'd what? That I'd suck you? That I'd give you blowjob?" She gave him a disgusted look that she'd give a beggar in the street, but without giving him any money. "That's all you want is blowjob, while you play with my tits. If America knew what phony lover you are wanting only blowjobs, while playing with tits, they'd ask for their money back from your movies."
He remembered last summer, an entire summer of summer lovin', when they were first together. They spent an entire summer season making love to one another. Now, a mere year later, as if they are an old married couple, they do nothing and go nowhere together. The woman that he thought he knew, the woman that he loved and thought loved him, changed from a caring and kind lover to an evil, miserable, vengeful bitch. All they do is argue.
What happened? When did it all go sour? How could it fall apart so quickly? What did he do wrong for her not to love him anymore?
Surely it's all his fault. She tells him it's his fault every day. Yet, when he tries to fix what's broken, she tells him to either go fuck himself or to talk to her lawyer. When she's really mad at him, she tells him to go fuck himself and to talk to her lawyer. What does the law have to do with love?
None of it made any sense to him. Then, finally, after talking to those who know her and were used and abused by her, he confronted the truth. It was simple. She played him. Sure, that's it. That must be it. She never loved him.
Someone who loved him could never do such a complete turnaround. Someone who loved him, just months before, after their baby was born, couldn't treat him with so little respect and regard. Just as was falling in love, falling out of love is a gradual thing. Now he was certain that her interest in him was all just a scam to ride his coattails to get his money. Her attraction to him was never about him. Fame and fortune was all she wanted.
This was the woman he left his wife, Robyn, of nearly 30 years for and now he regretted every moment of his stupid, sexually charged decision. Thinking more with his penis than with his brain, how could he have been so stupid, so trusting, and so vulnerable to give up a diamond that he had in his wife for this lump of coal?
This was the woman he thought he loved and he thought loved him. It went bad, as soon as she got what she wanted from him, his money and then their baby. Now, she had him by the balls and was squeezing him dry, knowing she hit the jackpot.
"Jackpot, my ass. I'm nobody's sucker. I've worked too hard for all that I have," he said out loud in his drunken stupor for no one to hear.
He should have stayed with his wife. The only woman who loved him, really loved him, she was the only woman loyal to him. Why did he do that to the one person who sacrificed so much for him and to the one woman who helped him see the light when his days were so dark? She gave him seven children. What kind of man is he to do that to the woman he loved and who loved him for so many years?
Financially secure, she's set for life. He made sure of that, before he left her. Yet, the thing that pains him the most, now that he's alone and lonely without Robyn by his side, is a big chunk of his history is gone when his librarian, the keeper of his memories, his ex-wife is on the other side of the world in Australia getting on with her life with someone else. What comes around goes around, and it served him right for abandoning her for Oksana. He was wrong to have wronged Robyn like that for this Ukrainian whore, this no good, evil bitch of a woman. Blaming it on the excessive drinking, always happy, he never knew he had it so good then, until he had it so bad now.
When Oksana opened the mirrored closet door, he could see himself in the mirror. A heartthrob to millions of women, once, he was now old, 54-years-old, way past his prime, and fat. Even after stroking himself, he was unable to maintain an erection. His cock was as dead as this relationship. Already on his way to being an old, bitter, drunken man, except for some loyal fans, who were just as old as he was, he no longer received the accolades that made him feel special.
Now, he had a pot belly from drinking too much beer and a shrunken dick from drinking too much of the hard stuff. He needed his Jew doctor to check his testosterone levels, as he was no longer able to satisfy his 40-year-old girlfriend in the way that she pretended he did. Maybe, after he stopped drinking again, there was something, a hormone supplement in a pill or a cream, that his doctor could give him to raise up his testosterone levels and make him feel more like a virile man, again.
For sure, he knew that one of the reasons for his drinking and for his violent rage in striking out against Oksana was his inability to perform and the way she made him feel, when he couldn't. Without a shred of compassion and understanding, she didn't help matters any. Criticizing him, making him feel like less of a man by laughing at his inability to perform sexually, she made matters worse. She made him wish he were dead.
She made him angry. She made want to drink more. Once angry after drinking more, knowing which of his buttons to push and when to push them, he became enraged. With her fingers poised on his buttons, their inability to get along was a vicious cycle, a cold war turned nuclear.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six..."
Always, usually, most times, sometimes, rarely did he take the advice of his anger management therapist and count to ten before making matters worse and opening his mouth to say something he'd regret later. A vicious cycle, the more he drank, the more he couldn't get and maintain an erection and the more he couldn't get and maintain an erection, the more she made fun of him and the more he drank.
He couldn't believe she was going out again. Where was she going at this late hour? Dressed like a high priced call girl, he looked at the way she was dressed in her Armani dress, the one he bought her, with her tits so exposed. If she moved an inch the wrong way, everyone could see her nipples. She's such a slut.
"I bet you're not even wearing panties, you slut," he said forgetting to count to ten again and reaching out his hand to feel her ass, as she walked by the bed.
"Don't touch me," she said slapping away his hand and pulling away from his grasp. "You filthy pig laying there with your limp cock. You disgust me."
Robyn never dressed like that. Robyn always dressed like the lady she was. Robyn never disrespected him like that. He never should have left her for this slut. He was so stupid. He had it all, when he was married to Robyn. He threw it all away for what, for some Ukrainian pussy? He's such a fool.
Where was she going this time? Who was going to meet? For sure, someone like her, never went anywhere alone. For sure, someone like her was never without a man. Always there was some horny man waiting in the wings to fuck her and for her to blow him.
"Go ahead, call me names. My lawyer will fix you."
She could suck the chrome off a bumper, only she hasn't blown him in months. There was no need to give him sex anymore. She got what she wanted. She got the key to his heart that opened his treasure chest. The baby was the last thing she needed to cement his connection to her forever.
The baby, the baby, it was all about the baby. He was such a fool. Only, he loved her. She had him twisted around her evil finger. Men are such dopes and he was the dumbest of them all. No doubt, she played him and he was an eager contestant in her little game.
That's how she found him. He was ripe for her aggressive moves. More than flattered, she took advantage of him with her good looks, sexy body, and charm. An aging celebrity feeling vulnerable when the younger women no longer wanted him, he was no match for her, so sexy and so young. Now, done with him, she's off looking for someone else, another victim, no doubt. Maybe he should hire a private detective to follow her and report to him on where she goes and what she does.
"Where're you going?"
"Out with your gay fucking gook, lesbian fucking dyke, and spook fucking friends, no doubt?"
Having grown weary of his foul mouth, she ignored his racial slurs. He was always making them. He made fun of everyone. He hated everybody. It didn't matter if they were gay, lesbian, Jewish, black or Asian. There was always something to hate about someone who wasn't just like him.
"My friends warned me about you."
"Friends? What friends? You have no friends. For your information, Oksana, if I gave your so called best friend the opportunity, she'd suck me off in five seconds. Just like you, she'd suck me dry. In five seconds, she'd be on her knees blowing me and telling me she loved me and wanted to have my baby."
"Fuck you. The big movie star, fat, fucking Mel Gibson thinks everyone wants him and everyone is out to get him." She looked at him, as if he was road kill. "No one wants you."
"Your best friend wants me. That's the kind of friend that you have. Yeah, ask her about that. Ask her about how she propositioned me or did you set her up to do that, hoping that I'd cheat on you. You'd do that, wouldn't you? You're such a cunt."
"I'm hungry. I'm going out to eat."
"You could cook something here," he said suddenly softening and hoping and needing to spend some alone time with her. "We could--"
"You could go fuck yourself," she said turning from looking at him in the mirror to see how her words hurt him and they did, hitting him as if they were bullets fired at his heart at close range.
You haven't been told to go fuck yourself, until you hear the words from an angry woman with a Russian accent. You haven't been fucked, until you've had sex with a Ukrainian woman looking to make it big with a rich man, a famous movie star to jump start her no talent career. He wondered why he was with her, but he knew. She was young, she was beautiful, and she was willing. She played on his vanity and the sex was good for a while, that is, until it stopped as fast as it started.
Where his wife suddenly made him feel old, she immediately made him feel young. His cock hasn't been as hard, since she's been sucking on it and fucking it. Yet, she hasn't sucked him off in a while. Now, with all the drinking he does, he can't get it up anymore, anyway. He knows he drinks too much and takes too many pills to sleep and too many pills to stay awake. He's a mess.
"Wait, I'll go with you. Just let me get--"
"No," she said giving him a look that if her eyes were a gun, he'd be dead. "I want to go alone."
"Do you mean," he said with a smile and a chuckle, "you want to go alone or you want to be alone?"
The obvious language barrier was an endearing quality for him and he was always correcting her English.
"Does it matter, so long as you're not with me?"
"Sometimes I have a hard time understanding you," he said playing his typical Mel role, while showing his trademark smile. Your English is--"
"Fuck you!" There's a word in English she had no problem pronouncing. Then, as if shooting him, she pointed her finger at him with a face full of rage and fired off a volley. "I can't stand to be with you. I need to be alone. I need to go alone without you staring at me, touching me, and groping me. You make my skin crawl."
"Go fuck yourself!" He responded back in kind. Hurt by her words making him respond in kind the way he did, he was sorry, as soon as he said it. This is the woman he still loved and now he was telling her to go fuck herself.
Another fruitless argument filled with expletives. What a way to live. You'd think with all his money, he'd be happy, but he was miserable, a miserable, old, fat, drunk stuck with a Russian whore of a woman, who has quickly grown to hate him in the way she hates all Americans, no doubt. Only, even though he was born in America, having lived in Australia a good part of his life, he felt more Australian than he did American.
"I want to be anywhere alone away from you," she said wiping her hands down her arms and then wiping her hands together, as if she was trying to rid herself of something or of someone, him. Now that he gave her everything she needed, now that she didn't need him anymore, she hated him.
The way she said asshole prolonging the l, as if digging a hole with an auger in his ass, he physically more felt the vulgarity of her word. Her accent used to be cute, now it's just irritatingly annoying.
If she could have fired a nuclear missile at his ass, she would, no doubt. That's how she made him feel, hated by her stare, as if she wished he were dead. She'd kill him, if she could get away with it, no doubt. She'd be the rich mother of the baby of Mel Gibson and everyone would be by her side mourning her loss. She gladly grab whatever money he left her in his will and whatever she could steal from his bank accounts and private stashes, before his family kicked her out of his house for good.
He wouldn't be surprised if she showed up one day with a Kalashnikov, Russia's version of the AK-47, and shot him full of holes. Only, she was smarter than that. She's the type of woman who'd wait, bide her time, and bait him. She didn't need a gun to hurt him. She didn't need bullets to mortally wound him. Other than he beauty and her charm, she didn't need a weapon to get what she wanted, just her attorney.
Her weapon was her soullessness. She had no soul. She was evil. Just like the move, The Devil Wears Prada, this devil wears Armani.
She'll wait until he's had too much to drink. She knows which buttons to push and when to push them, especially when he's been drinking. It was so much easier to get to him, when he'd been drinking, which is all the time, now, that he can't get it up and that he's stuck with her constantly belittling him.
She'll wait until he's good and drunk and then, she'll make him good and angry, by saying what she knows will hurt him the most. She'll attack his manhood. With her disparaging words, she'll belittle him. She knows how vain he is. She knows just what to say that will hurt him the most that will throw him in a rage to make him look like the crazy one that he becomes, when she makes him so mad.
"You gonna go and flash your fake boobs to someone hoping to catch another rich American?"
"You liked it when I flashed my boobs to you and you liked it when I flashed my boobs to men, before. Pillow talk, that's all you want to make, while I suck you," she said putting a hand to her hip and flipping her hair, as if ridding herself of him. She turned away from him, while still talking. "You said you liked to watch and now I know why you liked to watch because you can't get it up anymore. The great Mel Gibson, you're nothing but a fat, old, drunken man. Besides, I don't need another rich American. I have you and when my lawyer is done with you, I'll be rich and I won't need--"
As if pushing the big red switch that launched the nuclear warhead in an unprovoked first strike, she pushed his button. He was up from the bed in an instant and before she could react, he spun her around, made a fist, and held it in the air. He imagined punching her hard, twice in the face, but he didn't. He imagined he felt her teeth break and he imagined she held her hand up to her mouth to stop the gushing blood. Only, even though he wanted to, he didn't do any of that.
What he did do is to rip her dress from her body. In one quick pull, he ripped her dress down the entire front and exposed her breasts and her pussy. He was right. She wasn't wearing any underwear, the slut. Where was she going dressed like that, Ukrainian's version of Paris Hilton?
The dress fell from her shoulders. Now, she was standing before him naked and holding her face, as if he had punched her, but he didn't. She even shaved her pussy, the slut. Why did she do that when he told her that he preferred her having a trimmed patch of pubic hair? Maybe her new boyfriend is another old man who likes his woman shaved, so as to look like a young girl.
Why did he do that? What kind of man is he to imagine punching a woman in the face? Too drunk to know. Not sure if he did or not, he looked at his hand and it wasn't bloodied, thank God. He saw his own reflection in her eyes and he hated what he saw, a bitter man. He was angry. He was so very angry. She had a way of making him so insane with anger.
Lately, he was always so very angry. Why was he so angry? He's an angry man and he's angrier when he's been drinking and angrier when he's with her. She's poison. He's been drinking for two days, and he's angrier when he's alone with her.
She ran in the bathroom and slammed shut the door.
"You made me want to do that. You made me want to hit you. I hate you for making me want to do that. I hate you, you fucking bitch," he said through the closed bathroom door and banging his fist on the door, when she didn't answer.
He heard himself say the words, listening to them, as if someone else was in the room saying them. As soon as he heard them, he couldn't believe he was the one who had said them. What happened? He was so happy last year, just last summer, and now he wants to punch her in the face. What a difference a year can make? This time last summer he was happy that they were going to have a baby and now, this summer, he wants to punch her in the face.