WARREN BEATH

It hurt so much when Mel Gibson thought of her sexually with another man.  It hurt when she said that she loved him and that he was special, but there was the evidence in human experience that she had been in love before.  She had feelings and been moved, and cried.  She had learned to love and to make love.  She had cared and crossed continents to be with her man of the moment.  She had given herself and withheld nothing.  She had told men she loved them.  She had told men she wanted to be held by them, she had been flirtatious.  She had allowed herself to be undressed, and there was not an inch of her that had not been touched.  And her mind likewise had been touched, and her feelings sounded.  And poor women get cornered and only can offer the protests that no this one is special or that one is the only one who and I never felt this—  but it was all the same and he knew it.  And there was a deadness to the knowing of that.  He had followed her into this deadend of feelings and all he wanted in return was to be special, and wanted her to love him at that moment in that special way.  What had she done?  She had fallen asleep while he lay there in fear and desire.   
         “. . . . . . And he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep, and saith unto Peter, What, could ye not watch with me one hour?”