TRACK 3
Burning Up
“Your sexual identity is so important. The more you pay attention to it, the more you realize that just about everything in the world is centered around sexual attraction and sexual power.”
—MADONNA

Madonna Is Down With the Swirl

Tamara Lynch
 
 
 
 
 
MADONNA’S BOOK WAS large and black, with SEX embossed on the front. The coffee-table book of all coffee-table books was an enigma to me, sort of like Madonna herself. One day she was telling you to “Open Your Heart” and the next she was telling you to open your legs, but whatever her message, people were listening. To Brad, my new gay friend, Madonna’s book was the Holy Grail. To me, a tough biracial girl from a small town in Pennsylvania, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Hadn’t we seen her naked already? But I stood next to him in his freshman dorm room itching for a glimpse; there were rumors of bestiality and naked pictures of Vanilla Ice. Cradling the book on his forearm, Brad opened it to a random page and the words “I like my pussy. Sometimes I stare at it in the mirror” burned up my retinas. My face got hot and I smoothed a hand over my brittle straightened hair.
Reaching across Brad, I turned the pages for more.
“Dude, this is porn,” I said, transfixed.
“It’s not porn, it’s art,” Brad shot back. “I waited in line for hours at the record store downtown to buy it.”
I thought this was extreme for naked pictures and a CD, but Brad loved her, wanted to be her. A magical spell glued us to each lust-filled scene as we flipped through depictions of S&M, prostitution, and orgies. I was about to walk away when he literally squealed.
“Look at this!” He held up the book.
I blinked; then blinked again. There was Big Daddy Kane, one of my favorite rappers, in a threesome with a black woman and a fully naked Madonna. It was a Madonna sandwich, giving new meaning to the word “Oreo.”
“What is he doing in there?” I barked.
Girrrrl, you know she likes the chocolate.”
Grabbing the book, I brought it to my chest for a closer look. Kane was cupping Madonna’s vagina and giving her a “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you” look, while her upper body twisted to give the black goddess behind her some tongue. I went from mortified, to intrigued, to kind of turned-on.
It wasn’t the sex that gripped me, it was the interracial sex. I was raised by my white grandmother in a dominantly white town and had endured years of racial taunts for being half-black. The worst of them was being called an “abomination” by my high school humanities teacher, who had preached to my class that mixing races was wrong. My defense was to straighten my curly hair in an attempt to look like everyone else, but my tan skin was like a permanent smudge on the Caucasian canvas of my high school class. The only other kid who was tortured more than me was Reggie Johnson, a black kid adopted by our town’s white reverend. If I had wanted a date, he was my only option, but he was two grades below me, and I didn’t want him. I wanted Jeremy, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed basketball player in my class, but that crush stayed a secret. By the time I was a freshman in college, my hair was fried from straightening it every day, my self-esteem was bruised, and I was ready to go from blending in to being invisible.
Closing the book, I handed it back to Brad.
“I didn’t know Madonna was down with the swirl,” I said.
“The swirl?”
“Yeah, black and white love; like a chocolate and vanilla ice cream cone.”
“Well, then she’s the Dairy Queen,” Brad laughed. “You remember ‘Like a Prayer?’”
“Yes, I do,” I said with a sigh. I remembered it well—controversy about Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” video had roared through the halls of my high school. She was kissing a black Jesus. To me this was major—and totally unexpected from a pop star. Although I had appreciated Madonna as an artist and could sing along to several of her songs, I had none of her albums. N.W.A, Janet Jackson, and L.L. Cool J had dominated my boom box. Madonna was blonde, boy crazy, and did everything she could to stand out from the crowd. I was brown, shy, and did my best to blend in.
To catch the video one night, my grandmother and I had assumed our living-room positions: me curled up on the Lazy Boy while she sat knitting in her rocking chair.
“Tsk,” my grandmother sucked her teeth. “Why is she kissing him like that?”
“Like what? It was a peck. You watch simulated sex on Days of Our Lives,” I said, thinking it was the kiss she objected to.
“She shouldn’t be kissing a black man.”
My eyebrows shot up.
“Gram, you do realize I’m half black . . . ? Your daughter did more than kiss a black man.”
Her knitting needles raced.
“Well, you’re half white too,” she’d said.
008
Hours after I left Brad and the SEX book, I couldn’t get Madonna’s scenes with Big Daddy Kane out of my head. I found myself questioning what she was trying to say with those pictures. Sure, they were shocking, but I didn’t think it was just about sex. The pictures of her crawling from the ocean with wavy, golden extensions trailing over her breasts made me think of Aphrodite, offering mortals a taste of enchanted love. Could she be healing the gap between black and white through her vagina? She was a pop sensation and an advocate for homosexuals and women’s sexual freedom. He was a lyrical genius and a hip-hop icon. Maybe she was melding not only race, but also cultures. Whatever it was, she was giving herself freely, gender and race be damned.
Later that night at a popular off-campus bar, I spotted Billy, the six-foot-two, 220-pound senior wide receiver I had been hooking up with for a few weeks. We were both mixed, which made me think he was the perfect guy for me, so I stuck around even though he treated me like a booty call. He winked at me as I squeezed through the crowd, but he didn’t talk to me. His arrogance was exasperating. Moving past him, I glimpsed a cute white guy wearing a driver’s cap in the corner. His eyes caught mine and he smiled, but I quickly looked away and found my friends.
With Billy across the room ignoring me, it was hard to enjoy myself, and my beer went down too quickly. I walked to the bar for another.
“Hi,” I heard behind me.
From over my shoulder, I saw the white guy in the driver’s cap leaning toward me. My gaze set on his wide chest before locking onto his green eyes.
“Oh, hi, sorry . . . am I in your way?”
“No, but it would be okay if you were.” He had a deep voice and a nice smile. My skin tingled, but I clamped it down. White guys didn’t flirt with me. He probably has a blonde girlfriend somewhere, I thought.
I grinned and turned toward the bar.
“I’m Hank,” he said over my shoulder. “I’ve seen you here before.”
“Yeah, I come here sometimes with my friends,” I said, sliding a glance at Billy, who was frowning at Hank and me. I gave Hank a full smile.
“You’re cute.”
“Actually . . . I’m Tamara,” I said nervously.
When my beer appeared on the bar, I grabbed it, waved a goodbye, and ran back to my friends. But as I sipped my beer and snuck glances at Hank, I had a nagging feeling that I had missed out on something. Could he have been flirting with me? Should I have stayed and talked to him? My high school hang-ups drowned me. I remembered my constant senior-year daydream of having sex with the blonde basketball captain, Jeremy. I’d wanted him to take me to prom, but he had asked a redheaded cheerleader with milky white skin and freckles instead. As the prom had grown closer with no invitation, I’d started a list of guys to ask.
“Are you going to ask Reggie Johnson?” my best friend Nici had asked me during chemistry lab. Nici had dyed her hair blonde and hair-sprayed her bangs into stiff ringlets. I had straightened my hair that morning and donned a black T-shirt over my black acid wash jeans.
“Ewww. Are you serious?”
Reggie was fifty pounds overweight, wore Coke-bottle glasses, and had a lisp. Contrary to stereotypes about black people’s natural abilities in sports and music, Reggie rode the bench in football and his rendition of Run DMC’s “Walk This Way” during our talent show was God-awful.
“Well, he’s black,” she’d said.
My head snapped up.
“So I can’t ask a white guy, Nici?” I’d tried to study her face, but she wouldn’t look at me. She just shrugged and dipped her litmus paper in a beaker. I didn’t pursue an answer.
009
As I finished my beer at the bar, Kane and Madonna came to mind, and I imagined Hank and I in the same positions—sans the extra woman. The dream me was a caramel-colored goddess enveloping a white knight with green eyes. Madonna would have made that guy her bitch, not run away like a scared rabbit.
I had let fear keep me dateless in high school; I couldn’t let it happen again. I knew what I needed to do. It was time to “express myself.”
Penning my number on a napkin, I gathered my bag, hugged my friends, and walked up behind Hank. Shoving my napkin in his back pocket, I held my breath as he turned and grabbed at his butt.
“My number,” I smiled as I started to move past him.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I gotta be up early,” I lied. I just wanted to seize the moment and get the hell out of there. “Give me a call,” I said, with more confidence than I felt, and then I jetted without a backward glance.
Instead of going back to the dorm, I wandered the campus, hoping I hadn’t made a jerk of myself, hoping I’d read his signals right, and hoping he was as interested in me as I was him. Arriving at my dorm an hour later, I read a message from my roommate scrawled on our dry erase board.
“Hank called. Call him when you get home. Any time.” His number was written just beneath it.
It worked! As I read and reread the message, a confidence I had never felt before shot through me. That’s when Madonna’s photographs all made sense; I didn’t have to live by anyone’s rules but my own. It was time to be whoever I wanted, with whoever I wanted. I didn’t need to be white or black. I just needed to be me.
Hank and I ended up dating for the rest of the semester, then I moved on to a Latin guy, then a Filipino guy, another black guy . . . my swirls were endless. Finally feeling free, I let my naturally curly hair go wild; no more straightening. No longer was I invisible or trying to blend in. Whoever wasn’t down with my swirl really wasn’t down at all.

Madonna Speaks Sexual Truth to Power

Gloria Feldt
 
 
 
 
 
FESS UP, LADIES. Is there anyone among us who has not used the power of her sexuality to get something she’s wanted? From the time we discovered around age one that flashing an adorable smile got us that extra cookie, or when we learned at, oh, age three, that showing the neighbor boys how a girl peed got us our preferred sandbox toys, we were off and running.
My father used to call me a prima donna, but I’m so pre-Madonna it isn’t funny. As a girl from the so-called “ungeneration”—the small cohort born during World War II who grew up among all the Rosies who’d Riveted during the war and then returned to kitchen and kinder of their own volition—I experienced adolescence in the no-choice and low-aspirations (for women, that is) 1950s. There was little or no sex education—no one even said the word “sex” aloud in polite company, and polite company was a rather important concept at the time. It was pre–birth-control pill, too, and according to the British poet Phil Larkin, “Sexual intercourse began in 1963.”
But I have a secret: Sex and its power were around even then. I’m pretty sure that’s how I became pregnant at fifteen, married to my high school sweetheart, and genuinely thinking I’d be living happily ever after behind our neatly painted white picket fence.
In 1958, the year Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone, the third of six children in her fairly traditional 1950s Catholic family, was born in Michigan, my eldest daughter, Tammy, was born a few thousand miles away in west Texas.
Madonna was just a kid during my early years of marriage and motherhood, but I think her essence was there as a nascent but gestating metaphor for the social ferment of the times, when women were just beginning to break out of our girdled, socially prescribed post-war roles.
I was not the first of the second-wave feminists, but I did become an early adopter in the 1960s. There were several triggers that pushed me in that direction. First were the practical ones: those “Help Wanted: Female” ads that kept me from applying for the higher-paying “men’s” jobs I wanted, and how I found that even after I was gainfully employed, I couldn’t get a credit card without a man’s cosignature. I was ticked off! Like many in the burgeoning feminist movement, my “click” moment came when the personal experience of injustice converged with popular culture, such as the new Ms. magazine and the television sitcom That Girl, which illustrated another way.
Initially, I experienced my indignation alone. Then other young wives timidly whispered similar thoughts. When I saw emerging feminist leaders like Gloria Steinem and Florynce Kennedy on the evening news protesting the status quo, I felt they were giving political voice to our inchoate personal desires to break free of the old molds. Women began shedding more than girdles in our quest to live less constricted lives. I searched out the five other at-large members of the new National Organization for Women who lived within a one-hundred-mile radius of my Odessa, Texas, home. And I became fueled with a passion to make sure my daughters would have more options and more opportunities than my peers and I had.
Sex and sexual power played a central role in my newfound activism, too. First of all, the average age of marriage for women then was nineteen. Like me, most women married young, either so we could have sex “legitimately” or because we’d already had sex. We realized en masse—and a little late—that this wasn’t the healthiest way to start a lifelong relationship. The divorce rate shot up. Though my ex-husband and I made a brave eighteen-year try, we simply didn’t have the emotional maturity to sustain a marriage during those times of roiling social change; we split in 1976.
I was like many other women who joined the 1970s sexual revolution after a divorce. We were chafing against the long-held cultural archetypes—still in place today—that viewed women only along a sex-saturated continuum that incorporated:
The whore, who needs no definition. Like Mary Magdalene, she sometimes has a heart of gold despite her morally fallen state. Hers is the most straightforward power transaction, and if she’s a smart businesswoman, she makes sure to get paid before delivering the goods.
The evil temptress, like the iconic character Matty, as played by a sultry-voiced Kathleen Turner in the 1981 film Body Heat. Her lover Ned, played by William Hurt, says that Matty “shouldn’t wear that body,” by which he excuses the intensity of his desire (he smashes windows to get to her and murders her unwanted husband at her behest).
The eyelash-batting manipulator, who might even be noble if her manipulations were in the service of others, such as the Biblical Esther who saved her people through her feminine wiles. Another example is Scheherazade, who kept her king mesmerized night after night to save other women’s lives and end his brutal practice of getting a fresh wife every night and then killing her the next morning.
The clueless incompetent, personified as the dumb blonde hyper-sexualized Marilyn Monroe model that seemed to define most of womanhood in most men’s eyes most of the time. “In men’s eyes” are the operative words. The Barbie doll was born in 1959, a year after Madonna; her tiny waist, big boobs, and long shapely legs represented the objectified feminine ideal—sexy but not too overtly sexual.
The virgin, a.k.a., Mary, the original Madonna, morally pure because she is sexually untouched. The paradox of the very concept of virginity, as authors like Hanne Blank (Virgin) and Jessica Valenti (The Purity Myth) have demonstrated convincingly in their books, is that the idea of virginity itself is socially constructed, with no objective meaning of its own. If you think about it, the belief that a woman’s hymen is what gives her value to a man is among the most ridiculous in human history. I think that’s why I have always loved how the ironic humor in Madonna’s lyrics: “Like a virgin . . . touched for the very first time” punctures such ancient notions.
Madonna challenged every one of those female archetypes, complete with shocking costumes. She did it by taking on elements of each character at various times and twisting the stereotypes into ironic pretzels. For example, her signature bullet bra seems to me a perfect caricature of those chastely sweatered pointy breasts that bedecked 1950s movie stars—the ones who were never filmed sleeping in the same bed with their on-screen husbands. And the fact that she broke out with such a blatantly aggressive sexual persona during conservative Ronald Reagan’s presidency in the 1980s, when the political right wing was beginning to mount its crusade for sex-negative abstinence-only education, made me love her all the more.
The song “Like a Virgin” exposed the hypocrisy of American attitudes toward sex, especially about women’s sexuality and sexual pleasure. “Sex is nasty and dirty; save it for the one you love,” we were told in messages both overt and subtle, much as today’s abstinence-only zealots still give to youth. Madonna seemed to retort, “Sex is beautiful and fun; love the one you’re with, and make damn sure you get your fair share of pleasure while you’re at it. Oh, and if he (or she) doesn’t give it to you, give it to yourself. Ha, so there!”
As “Jbnyc” on the blog Madonnatribe.com writes, “Madonna sings of sex making her stronger, bolder, as opposed to sex . . . making her a possession of the man in question . . . [She] has publicly said that she was interested in holding up a mirror to society to show them that a woman can be intelligent, powerful, and sexual.” You can’t get more feminist than that.
Sexual power has always been the universal engine that drives human activity, whether we have been able to acknowledge it or not. Madonna is universal and timeless in that same way, a throbbing life force that makes powerful men fear the loss of control over everything they’ve held sway over for centuries.
Like many other women, I feel a kinship with her, despite the gulf between our eras. While she was producing sexually boundary-breaking music that encouraged women to embrace their sexual power and pleasure, I was busy breaking boundaries—both sexually and socially—that had enslaved women for millennia. Separating sex from childbearing and biology from destiny—to free women and give them the power to be whomever they choose—became my life’s mission. That includes Madonna’s freedom to be her amazing, authentic self.
While Madonna worked through the medium of pop culture, my work took me from political campaigning to three decades of leading Planned Parenthood, which provides essential reproductive health services for women, from pap smears to birth control to abortion and prenatal care. For nine years I was its national president, during one of its most politically challenging times. And that led me to study, write, and teach about women’s still-complicated relationship with power in this unfinished revolution, for few of us walk as comfortably in our own power as does Madonna.
The quest for power—for agency over our own bodies and, by extension, our lives—is essential to human development. We all use whatever gifts we’ve got. When women haven’t had formal power (which has been throughout most of the long arc of history), we’ve found other, informal ways to extract mastery, however small, over our lives. And if men are gifted with greater brute force than women and have, through most of recorded time, been in the ruler’s seat, women have used their sexual attractiveness to effect the results they desire.
Only when you already have some formal or political power can you challenge the entire system and expect to live to tell the tale. Madonna could speak sexual truth to power because of how far the women’s movement had already come. When “Like a Virgin” debuted in 1984, birth control had separated procreation from recreation. It was just a short step from there to women demanding the right to sexual pleasure, and to flaunting their sexual power to get what they wanted—“shiny and new.”
It’s also not surprising, considering the era I grew up in, that my own inner life’s work has paralleled my professional career, and that although she is much younger than me, I learned a great deal from Madonna.
By the way, back as a child in my grandmother’s backyard, a girlfriend and I actually got the three-year-old boys to show us how they peed. And we didn’t have to give them anything in exchange, except promise that we wouldn’t tell their parents. Sometimes speaking sexual truth to power just takes a big bluster.

My Pocket Madonna

Laura Barcella
 
 
 
 
 
MY FIRST LOVE, John, was a Holocaust denier. Of course, I didn’t know this at the time we were together. If I had, I never would have dated him. What can I say, I was blinded by college naiveté, his Buddy Holly glasses, and his well-worn Smiths T-shirt. I only discovered his penchant for bigoted delusion many years after our breakup. Looking back, I should have known something was off. Why? Because he never liked Madonna.
Not that most straight men I know do like Madonna. They just don’t seem to “get” the Material Girl—her mercurial style changes, her outspoken nature and penchant for weird sexual power dynamics, and her enduring resonance with modern women. But John was much more vehement in his distaste; he seemed to downright resent her, calling her nasty names and making ludicrous proclamations about her “setting feminism back hundreds of years.”
Whenever we’d “talk” about Madonna, we’d inevitably end up in a fight. Of course, I was twenty and desperately in love for the first time. Back then, love meant drama (underlined, italicized, with a capital D): roiling, over-the-top passion, fire, and . . . fighting. Lots and lots of drunken fighting, about the state of us, the world, other people—and Madonna.
010
When I first met John, I was a college junior and a recently self-proclaimed feminist. I was immersed in writing, literature, and women’s studies. I screamed along to riot grrrl mix tapes my friend Karen had made me as I tooled around Amherst, Massachusetts, in my little white Honda Civic.
I’d dabbled in pro-choice activism since I was twelve or thirteen, attending rallies and sending the occasional $25 membership check to NARAL (I loved their cool purple bumper stickers). But this—this was different. Those riot grrrl bands, like Bikini Kill and Bratmobile, reached my rawest places, offering a direct retort to all the shitty cultural messages I’d internalized: that I was nothing without a guy; that I could never be too pretty or too thin; that sex was a sinister, scary forest where every woman was forced to play either Virgin or Whore. Add those crappy cultural cues to the fact that I’d been clinically depressed since I was a teenager, and the message I got was that I had no agency over my own life. That I would never be happy, serene, or free from the bondage of my own mind. Riot grrrl rhetoric spoke to my angst, dismantled the negative messaging, and fed me empowering ideas in their place. Music gave me hope—suddenly I wanted to reclaim my sexuality, scream about systemic oppression from the nearest Berkshire mountaintop, make zines, and write letters to the editor.
If riot grrrl was the AP course, Madonna had been the 101. My obsession with her started young; I was age six when she first flounced onto MTV, and I latched onto her instantly. I was a burgeoning music junkie, into everything from Tears for Fears and Samantha Fox, to Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam, but there was something about this twenty-six-year-old new girl on the block that hooked me in a different way. After hearing my very first Madonna song (“Borderline”), I became a bona fide wannabe. She was just so . . . cool. (And supposedly she had a genius IQ! Not only was she cool, she was smart as hell.) It was love.
I memorized every lyric to every song, and I used my friends’ birthday parties as an excuse to dress like her. (I still can’t believe my mom let me out of the house in some of those outfits: black lace headbands, fingerless gloves, mesh tank tops, neon socks; I was a full-fledged Madonna mini-me). My obsession faded a bit as I grew up and my musical tastes changed, but I continued to follow her career and her personal life. I kept her in my back pocket like a little guardian angel, and I turned to her for hits of strength and inspiration when I needed them. She always delivered. When I felt scared or anxious, I’d think, What would Madonna do? She seemed to handle life with such assurance, swagger, and self-respect. Of course there were insecurities in there somewhere (there must have been) but she never showed them; she maintained a perpetual air of invincibility, and I admired her for it. Whenever I felt weak or depressed, she radiated strength and self-reliance. Particularly in high school, when I was not only swamped by insecurity, but drawing little to no attention from quality guys. I constantly fought off feelings of inferiority because of my sheer lack of experience in the dude department. Like lots of teenage girls, I’d given the idea of romantic love too much weight, too much power (aren’t American girls taught, even encouraged, to think this way?). By the time I hit college—Madonna still in my back pocket—I understood intellectually that a woman didn’t require a romantic relationship to be happy, but I found it difficult to apply that notion to myself. I believed other women were fine on their own, that their single status indicated nothing lacking about them, but it was different when it came to me and my perpetual single status: I felt lost and unlovable.
And so it was that when I first saw John standing outside a bodega on St. Mark’s Place one muggy summer night in New York City, I was ready. I’d waited a long fucking time to fall in love. It was his Smiths T-shirt that first sold me—I was a longtime lover of the Smiths and Morrissey, and I was attracted to fellow fans. They tended to be like me: a bit socially awkward, maybe, but also tender-hearted misanthropes who thought too much, analyzed everything, and wanted love but had absolutely no effing clue where to find it (or even how to flirt).
Something tugged me toward him. I liked him immediately—his lankiness, his pasty blondness and his blue eyes behind hip glasses. (I was pasty and blond and wore glasses, too.) I got his number and called him two days later. Within a few dates, I was falling for him; it was mutual and heady and beautiful. We looked like brother and sister, which felt somehow sick and sexy at the same time.
Speaking of sex, that aspect of our relationship was . . . interesting. John was a virgin, for all intents and purposes, and had a long-standing aversion to masturbation (yes, really). Hence, he knew very little about, well, anything when it came to pleasure—his own or other people’s. This made things a bit tricky (to say the least), but I also found his bedroom inexperience weirdly exciting. I liked the idea of being his first, and of helping guide him through the dark and delightful world of naughty exploration.
My memories of that summer are vivid but spotty snapshots. I remember making fun of the way he organized his CDs—they were all displayed face-out on his shelf, like he was showing them off. I remember the heavy, ornate bright-red door of his apartment building on St. Mark’s. I remember the swelter and humidity, drops of sweat rolling down my chest, down my stomach, as we walked the streets hand in hand. I remember sleeping over at his dark, cramped railroad apartment, how my fine hair would tangle up into crazy bed-headed knots overnight, and how in the morning I’d sit in front of him on the bed while he brushed the tangles from my hair, so gently I could have cried. I remember when we held each other one night and his face broke out in a sudden swath of giddy happiness, and he squeezed me and murmured “you’re mine.” I’d never felt truly wanted or protected before; not like this. It felt innocent and perfect, like words I’d been waiting to hear all my life.
I didn’t need my pocket Madonna; she wasn’t even the spark of a flashpoint in the new-couple bubble we inhabited. Instead, we were full to bursting with inside jokes and stupid pet names. At the end of the summer, I returned to college in Massachusetts. He stayed in New York, where he was raised, and we continued our relationship long-distance.
But things changed, as they tend to. The fighting started. It would usually happen when we were drinking together (which happened frequently during our monthly visits). I’d watched one too many artsy foreign films, and I thought real love brought constant pain and turmoil. So I picked fights. About everything. I was young and dramatic, craving—no, demanding—more reassurance than one person could ever be reasonably expected to give me. But in those fights, I learned some things. Things about John, things about me, things that weren’t always pretty.
I began to glean that beneath his goofy Morrissey-loving shell there lurked a darker John—insensitive, intolerant, possibly even bigoted. I learned this when he began to mock the riot grrrl music I loved as “bratty chatter.” When he said that every nail-salon owner was an aging Korean woman who couldn’t speak English. (Yes, we once fought about nail salons.) When he described, during our eventual breakup phone-call, “not knowing how to tell his girlfriend”—um, me—“that her butt was getting big.” (Those times he read my diary, went through my computer files, and hid my makeup from me didn’t help, either.)
But oddly, I learned about our differences most glaringly from John’s outright, unabashed loathing for Madonna. We probably fought about her more than anything else—more than about our own relationship, even. I’m not sure why, but there was something about the venom he reserved for her, his cruelty in dissecting what he perceived as her “slut factor.” In saying she set feminism back hundreds of years (which he enjoyed saying often), he was dismissing everything I loved and admired most about her: not just her sexual agency, but her ballsiness, her self-possession, her boundary-pushing, and her never, ever giving a crap what anyone thought of her. She was the golden rebel-girl icon of my childhood, a shining example of everything I wasn’t (yet), but wanted to be. Seeing her do all the things she did (strike a pose, lash a whip, wear corsets and collars and bustiers—oh my!—change her hair color, publish books, have babies, find God) showed me that if I wanted to, I could do those things. Watching her live without shame allowed me to believe that I, too, could live without shame.
John’s rejection of Madonna felt much deeper than just some petty distaste for a pop star. OK, I might have been a smidge biased—she had been my idol. But his perspective on Madonna felt like nothing short of derision—for her, for me, for women as a whole. His inability to accept Madge for all the complicated intricacies of who she was indicated that when it came down to it, he couldn’t accept me, either (hello, big-butt comment). And it did us in, just shy of a year together.
Now it’s been thirteen years, and I can’t lie—I still feel a twinge when I think of him. It’s probably just rose-tinted memories of our early days, getting sweetened by time; that impossible nostalgia many of us inadvertently hold onto for the intensity of our first loves (which may have been all wrong, but felt so Big, so Irreplaceable). I don’t think John and I should have ended up together, and I don’t envy the woman he’s married to now. In fact, it was just last year that I realized the full extent of his issues (I found, buried in my Gmail archives, a paper he’d written that asserted his strident belief that the Holocaust never happened). But the early days of our relationship were some of the happiest times of my life. For an anti-Semitic Madonna-hater, he sure had a hold on me.
I’m still single. I’m still a feminist. And I still crave a romantic relationship (I’m human!), while knowing, deep down, that it won’t cure my struggles with depression and self-doubt. Love won’t magically “fix” me. It won’t make me serene or content or self-confident. Only I can do that. I realize now, more clearly than ever, that I owe it to myself to practice patience. I owe it to myself to wait for someone who accepts me wholeheartedly, variable butt size and all; someone who looks at women’s self-expression as what it is: self-expression, not “bratty chatter.” Someone who respects women with swagger, drive, and adamant sexuality.
And if I feel lonely during the wait, I can still turn to the Madonna in my pocket to remind me to keep my head up and keep moving. She grins defiantly and reminds me—my childhood idol, my shining beacon—“absolutely no regrets.”

Safe Harbor

Stacey May Fowles
 
 
 
 
 
I WAS PROBABLY about six years old when I first displayed an interest in domination and submission.
Of course, at the time it wasn’t about sex. I didn’t know anything about sex or how it worked, other than what the tomboy down the street had sloppily taught me about kissing boys on our brown corduroy couch. A lonely only child with an overactive imagination, I was the puppet master of bizarre and complex Barbie-land scenarios in our suburban rec-room. While my stay-at-home mother was busy with household chores, Ken would kidnap an unwitting Barbie and tie her plastic wrists and ankles with ponytail elastics. Blindfolded and gagged, Barbie would be driven aimlessly around in her pink Corvette for Ken’s (and my) amusement and pleasure.
When I was old enough to have bath time by myself behind a closed door, I was again mentally enacting an elaborate kidnapping fantasy. In the midst of my bathing, pirates would sail though the soapy water and savagely abduct me from the tub. They would then force me to choose—what part of my body would I conceal with the square foot of terry washcloth available to me? I never questioned my need to be their imaginary captive.
When playtime was over—in and out of the bath—the pirates would sail off, Barbie’s clothes would go back on, and I’d have a bowl of chicken noodle soup and clean my room, just like any other kid. You could blame this sort of imaginative storytelling on the seeds of a writing life, but an interest in “surrender” that roots early is impossible to remove entirely. These memories are now a comfort to me in a world (both progressive and traditional) that occasionally looks upon my desires with disdain and judgment.
My childhood was healthy, normal, and supportive, and yet still, I turned out “wrong.”
Those first juvenile inklings of submission were completely harmless, but writing them still fills me with a twinge of embarrassment and a compulsion to explain. It would never have occurred to me to think they were anything but innocuous fun until the world of adulthood rushed in with judgment, disappointment, and the notion that “nice girls don’t.” With age comes a desperate need to define desires, catalogue them, compartmentalize them, and sometimes even forbid them. With age comes shame. We learn that our sexuality is only acceptable when it’s in a quiet, culturally sanctioned form. Certainly never when desire asks our lover to hurt us.
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In American television broadcasting there is a specific term for the late-night hours during which broadcasters are allowed to transmit material deemed indecent. Referred to as “the safe harbor,” it is a time slot generally reserved for material that falls outside the sexual norm. Subsequently, a large part of Madonna’s music video canon was slotted to air here. In a culture where we are so often asked to hide our fringe desires, I find this term strangely reassuring. Those of us with a secret identity and a compulsion to hide it, those of us who engage in something forbidden, can find reassurance and protection from storm or attack.
My awareness of the forbidden began to coalesce around the time of the 1989 release of “Like a Prayer,” a song and video that, at its core, contradicts any doubt that sexuality can be sacred and sublime. While I was a preteen learning how to be complicit in a culture of shame, Madonna delivered a triumphant pop anthem that successfully brought sickly sweet romantic love and euphoric lust to holy status. The video literally sent a scantily clad, confident, and self-sexualized Madonna to church, and the controversy that followed was my first mainstream taste of a woman’s sexuality being relegated to the realm of the forbidden. When Madonna is “down on her knees” promising to “take you there,” she’s providing a lyrical ambiguity that forces us to question whether or not she’s articulating holy devotion or sexual satisfaction. The reality is that she’s coyly articulating both, gleefully spitting in the face of those who would question that they can’t be one and the same.
The true art of the music video is, much like Barbie bound and gagged in that pink Corvette, fantasy reenactment. Madonna videos were my earliest exposure to BDSM imagery and the transcendent possibilities of power exchange, however watered down and MTV-friendly those early nods were. When I was no more than ten, Madonna was urging her listeners to “express themselves” in a glossy, uncomplicated version of sex-positive feminism. Visually that expression was dressed in nothing but white bed sheets and a metal collar on the end of a chain, making Madonna a consenting “pet” to the sweaty, hulking object of her desire. “Express Yourself ” was, at the time, the most expensive music video ever made, and Madonna’s feminism put her in both a pinstriped suit and black lingerie crawling cat-like under a dining room table to lap up milk from a bowl on the floor. The conclusion? Her paramour, a well-built steelworker oppressed by “the man” and fresh from a fistfight, comes to her and takes immediate control before falling to his manly knees in front of her. It was the first visual representation that I, a sexually confused preteen, had of the statement that “the submissive has all the power.”
A year later, The Immaculate Collection brought with it “Justify My Love.” The grainy art-house–style video, now laughably tame compared to Christina Aguilera’s assless chaps and Britney Spears nude in the steam room, features a distressed Madonna breathlessly wandering the halls of an “alternative lifestyle,” partner-swapping hotel. Every open door reveals gender-ambiguous couples exploring fetish, clad in leather and latex. Madonna proceeds to have a tryst with a mysterious and presumably recent acquaintance in a flurry of voyeuristic, gender-bending, and general gleeful eroticism. “Justify My Love” sparked international controversy and was banned by MTV, outraging Madonna and provoking her to publicly defend it. The mainstream’s rejection of the video confirmed that fringe sexuality was thoroughly unwelcome. Although nudity was cited as the reason, the only actual nudity in the video is a topless dominatrix with suspenders strategically covering her breasts (an obvious homage to The Night Porter’s Charlotte Rampling.) It is far more likely that the dominatrix’s rough treatment of a bound man, among other Dominant/ submissive (D/s) and androgynous imagery, was responsible for the argument that it was unsuitable for public consumption.
With every bold step in Madonna’s career, the mainstream reaction made it clear that any sexuality that fell outside the sanctioned norm—like mine—would be forced into hiding if it reared its “ugly” head. Though that knowledge is difficult to swallow for someone coming into their first desires, Madonna had a bestselling video single driven by the hand-wringing and slut-shaming of public curiosity. In a Night-line interview about censorship, it was suggested that Madonna was set to earn more money from the video being banned than if it hadn’t.
Her response? “Yeah, so? Lucky me.”
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When I was thirteen, and sexuality was delivered to me via cable television’s midnight blue movies when my parents were out for the night, Madonna donned a mask, raised a riding crop, and proclaimed that “only the one who hurts you can make you feel better.” While I was accustomed only to boisterous, bawdy, and generally misinformed schoolyard talks of sex acts, her “Erotica” video is five glossy minutes of unadulterated BDSM bliss, a collection of images I’d never seen before but was immediately drawn to. Mainstream entertainment showed featured clips of the video in prime time while proclaiming it obscene and again banned it from the airways.
Whatever this was, it was wrong—and I desperately wanted to be a part of it.
The mainstream condemnation of the “Erotica” video, “Justify My Love,” and the Sex book were the first times I realized that my desires—the very same ones that had sprouted innocently from play and bath-time—were contraband. Depictions of consensual sexual practices by empowered women were censored and relegated to “safe harbor,” while news of Canada’s Scarborough rapist, Paul Bernardo, and his countless female victims screamed from local dinnertime airwaves. At the same time, a reluctant female teacher took me and the other girls at school aside to explain, in a stern voice, how afraid we should be of sex, and the inevitable disease and pregnancy that came with it. While Madonna and her nearly naked friends cavorted around fearless in blissful black-and-white bondage, celebrating their capacity for pleasure and pain, I was being indoctrinated into a post-AIDS sexual education that taught me that pleasurable urges led to death, and that the possibility of sexual violence lurked in every bush and at every bus stop.
For these reasons, the teenager with sexual inclinations outside of the mainstream is rarely a happy creature. Sexual awakening coincides with indoctrination into shame and fear, young women in particular bearing the burden of their potential victimhood (and sluthood). This reality was emphasized to me once I started writing openly about sexual submission. I received letters from teenage girls lamenting not only a puritanical status quo, but an oft-judgmental school of feminism that looked down its nose at any woman’s desire to consensually subjugate herself. We find our fearless heroes where we can, and for those whose puberty coincided with Madonna’s fierce challenging of sexual norms, her defiance was an obvious choice.
For me, those teenage years devolved into the kind of relationships one might blame on a penchant for submission. Date rapists and domestic abusers littered the landscape—a shiner here and the questionable consent of a drunk fuck there. By the time I was legal to drink and vote, I had latched firmly on to feminism, which made me feel a desperate need to shelve the submission in order to “pass” and carry the card. Third-wave feminism promised sex-positivity, as long as the focus was female pleasure and not pain, even the consensual variety. I hid my private daydreams and dramatic reenactments while I fumbled fruitlessly with cautious men raised on antisex rhetoric. The desire to be dominated needed to be relegated to a metaphoric “safe harbor,” a place in the dark where it was understood that these things weren’t discussed in daylight.
Madonna didn’t seem to feel the same need for that “either/or” scenario I felt suffocated by every day. When it came to female empowerment and sexually submitting, her words and imagery suggested the two could coexist peacefully and powerfully. When I was sixteen and on the cusp of losing my virginity, she was unapologetic about her behavior in “Erotica” and Sex, quite literally saying “I’m not sorry” while raising that signature riding crop in the video for “Human Behavior.” Clad in black leather and latex, she was more jovial, playful, and defiant than ever before. She even went as far as to ask, “Would it sound better if I were a man?” and it became impossible not to wonder.
For all its good intentions, “express yourself, don’t repress yourself” was liberating in theory but proved to be difficult in practice. When I finally escaped suburban expectations of acceptable femininity and sexuality by going to university, I desperately tried to liberate myself from the same judgment that banned Madonna’s videos from “good society.” I met a very nice boy who tied me up with silk scarves and called me a “cunt” when I asked him to. His love for me grew until it bordered on obsession, and his need to dominate me bled outside our playtime until it was intolerable. He eventually ended up on my doorstep, brandishing a scalpel and yelling “you fucking bitch.”
While hiding your sexual self is damaging, sometimes yanking it out of the closet and subjecting it to experimentation can be even more painful. My desire to be demeaned by my lovers grew with every new sexual discovery, but the idea that “nice girls don’t” continued with every disappointed look I received when I asked to be tied up and called a whore. Those early filmic representations of unabashed BDSM celebration and the holy nature of submission were all the more clear to me, but the possibility of enacting them seemed further and further away. It turned out that the fantasy reenactment was just that: fantasy. It failed to translate well into real life and left a loneliness within me that refused to leave regardless of how hard I tried to fake “normal.” Coming out as submissive is difficult in both the white-bread normalcy of suburban culture and the faux-progressive siren song of modern feminism.
I failed to fit anywhere.
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The 2001 video for “What It Feels Like for a Girl” also failed to fit the rules of daytime programming, relegated to “safe harbor” by the fear that its violence would offend. Unlike previous controversies, the Guy Ritchie-directed creation is largely sexless, depicting Madonna and an elderly companion on a reckless crime spree in a stolen Camaro. Its “violent” content is almost laughable when compared to the violence and sexist torture-porn of modern prime time. Madonna herself called the contents of the video “fantasy and doing things that girls are not allowed to do,” and having it banned only furthered her point. The song itself is a condemnation of double standards, the extreme burdens women are forced to carry via their sexuality, the quiet suffering they endure while balancing expectations and personal authenticity. It is an anthem for frustrated dismay, delivered sweetly.
At the time I first heard the song, my post-university boyfriend was telling me how “nice girls” were allowed to act, and I was complicit in that burden of inauthenticity by desperately attempting to be “normal.” I was doing all of the things good girls were supposed to do, baking pies in false domestic bliss and polishing my exterior in an effort to pass. The video was an extreme representation of what I longed for; something unexpected, something denied to me, something outside the false norm—Madonna’s character is a victim who suddenly, gloriously, refuses to be victimized.
Most importantly, the release of “What It Feels Like for a Girl” marked a time of personal realization that my desire for submission was not about sex. It wasn’t about sex when Ken practiced bondage techniques on Barbie and it wasn’t when a boy tied me up with silk scarves in his dorm room. Of course the acts included sex, but the need for it was more about disposing of an artifice that was suffocating me—the binaries of what good girls can and can’t do, want and can’t want. Submission was Holy Communion with my authentic self, a self that the rest of the world had tried to keep me from, a self that was relegated to “safe harbor” by social moral obligation. Submission was a moment where my identity, and the necessary armor that comes from a life lived female, was stripped bare. In private submissive moments exist a real yearning free of cultural projection, a moment that subsequently terrifies mainstream mores. The ability to share that vulnerability with another person and strip it of supposed shame was, for me, the only real way to transcend sanctioned and restrained sexuality.
For someone grappling with the notion that submission can reflect our authentic selves, watching a very public icon play so fearlessly and defiantly with the roles thrust upon her can bring a sigh of relief. Whether it be her dancing exuberantly in front of a gospel choir, or embarking on a crime spree that defies the norms of what “good girls” do, Madonna strategically does what she wants and raises a middle finger to those who condemn her.
When it comes to the many depictions of subversive desire that Madonna has constructed over the years, I would argue that it’s not really about sex for her either. I realize that statement is laughable, given how sexuality infuses almost everything she does, that the imagery she puts into the world is dripping with it, but submission and dominance are just items in the unlimited toolkit of her persona. Much like the submissive sexual act, the sexually charged music video is her way of saying “Here I am, stripped bare, and I’m sharing it with you,” even if that vulnerability is nothing more than temporary performance.
After twenty years of Madonna videos, I am now in a place where I am open about and even proud of my private desires. In so many ways, over so many years, it was Madonna that gave us a mainstream window to a place where we could feel comfortable with ourselves, a safe harbor to explore those desires we most feared being exposed. Perhaps her greatest cultural contribution is her ability to make us feel normal.

And I Feel

Laura M. André
 
 
 
 
 
MADONNA HIT ME in the gut every time I stepped into the women’s bathroom at Pepper’s Pizza in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Given my early graduate school dining and drinking habits, this happened frequently. She instilled a certain fear in me, so at first I tried to ignore her. I knew she’d bring up the same old nagging issues I didn’t want to acknowledge. But (especially if I was alone) I’d eventually be drawn to her, so I stopped and reluctantly met her gaze. And in those fleeting moments, my hands started to sweat, my knees weakened, my heart pounded, and I’d once again have to acknowledge the fact that I was a depressed, emotionally cut off, deeply-closeted lesbian who was living a lie and paying the price for it.
The “Pepper’s Madonna,” as I like to call it, is a life-sized poster featuring Patrick Demarchelier’s well-known photograph of Madonna dressed in a black leather biker vest, with a chauffeur’s cap perched on her head and a lit cigarette hanging from her lips. Her crossed arms indicate a pose that is slightly protective, but more emphatically intimidating. While the cap shades one eye, the other is narrowed almost completely, rendering her gaze either languid or piercing, depending on how one interprets it. I prefer the latter, since I’ve never considered Madonna to be passive. For me, the Pepper’s Madonna is an icon in the truest sense of the word: an image that not only pictorially represents an important figure but also possesses symbolic power as an object. Like the icons popular in Eastern Orthodox churches, the Pepper’s Madonna instilled in me equal measures of fear and reverence for the looming issue that was my sexuality. Truth or dare? Madonna pulled both out of me, just like an icon should.
The placement of the Pepper’s Madonna was brilliant. In the dingy women’s bathroom, the BDSM-inspired, Tom of Finland–style image suggested illicit homoerotic encounters between Madonna and every woman who entered that room. In that guise, Madonna’s confrontational pose and gaze pointed explicitly to my own coming-to-terms with my sexuality. It wasn’t that I desired Madonna sexually, and it wasn’t that I desired to be her. What I found to be irresistible was her sexuality itself, and the easy way she seemed to express it. I wanted that confidence, that sense of power that comes from not giving a shit about what people might think of you. It seems ironic that the queen of reinvention would have prompted me to become more real and to live my own truth, but over the course of several years, that’s exactly what she did.
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I was in high school when Madonna first hit the music and fashion scenes—her first single, “Borderline,” is still one of my favorites. I was at the perfect age to fully appreciate her—old enough to understand her savvy brilliance, and yet young enough to go childishly crazy over her particular brand of pop. I was never a wannabe Madonna; she never influenced my sense of style (I was, and still am, a strict prepster), yet she provided the soundtrack of my teens and college years. But as much as I loved her then, it’s the later Madonna who really influenced me.
Beginning with 1989’s Like a Prayer, Madonna shifted toward becoming the mature artist that she is today. Alongside her, I was transitioning out of college and into a more grown-up phase in my own life. I had graduated from college with one degree (in art history), but was embarking on another, more serious, career-minded degree in architecture. And I was slowly coming to terms with my sexuality. I never seriously dated anyone in high school, and by my early twenties I still hadn’t had a sexual relationship. It was beginning to dawn on me that part of the reason for this was that I just wasn’t attracted to guys. Women were much more appealing, both physically and emotionally, yet growing up in the conservative Midwest I had few role models of alternative sexualities and a strong cultural bias against homosexuality. My crushes on women were secret and forbidden—in a few cases I was truly in love—and I was miserably depressed as a result. Madonna, on the other hand, was exhorting me to express myself, and echoing my deepest wishes in the songs “Like a Prayer” and “Cherish.”
The Pepper’s Madonna photograph was used for the cover of the notorious single “Justify My Love,” which caused quite a lot of controversy when it was released in 1990. I remember how MTV banned the video, mostly due to nudity (one shot reveals a woman’s nipples—gasp!), but also because of its (oh-so-fleeting) portrayal of homoeroticism between both men and women. Watching the video today, it’s hard to imagine what all the fuss was about—a couple of frames reveal two shirtless men snuggling on a sofa, and two androgynous women draw mustaches on one another (while Madonna giggles in the background). The song’s rather benign lyrics were also inexplicably slapped with a warning label. I clearly remember the first time I heard the song, though—it aroused in me the same feelings the Pepper’s Madonna would incite several years later: the promise of erotic potential mixed with an undeniable desperation. I was a sexually repressed twenty-four-year-old woman who had never so much as gone to second base with anyone, boy or girl.
Those feelings also surfaced when Madonna was on her Blonde Ambition tour. I was living in Italy, participating in a study abroad program through my university. I had developed a deep attraction to a woman back in the States who seemed to have similar feelings toward me, and we were exchanging increasingly suggestive letters. I was sexually ready to burst, but had no outlet. I spent that summer fantasizing about her and rebuffing a guy who kept making passes at me. Meanwhile, the Italian newspapers were full of front-page headlines about how the Pope called for a boycott of Madonna’s appearance in Rome, but I was obsessed with the possibility of traveling to Turin to see her perform. Ultimately, I couldn’t convince any of my friends to go with me, and I was running out of money, so at the last minute I decided not to make the trip, which I regret to this day. I was able to watch the HBO broadcast of the tour’s final night in Nice when I returned to the States in August. While the show horrified my conservative mother and sister-in-law, I was riveted. The athleticism of the performance amazed me; I was enthralled with the spectacular Gaultier costumes, impressed by the art direction, and most of all, intrigued by Madonna exuding such raw sexuality dancing and cavorting around suggestively with her female dancers, Niki and Donna, as well as the male dancers.
I could no longer resist or deny my sexuality to myself, and it was time to take the leap. The woman I was in lust/love with and I moved to Los Angeles that month and began a serious, committed, and sexual relationship. For a brief period (maybe a year), I felt like my problems were solved. However, I was still closeted to my family, friends, and coworkers. Again, Madonna was way ahead of me, carousing with Sandra Bernhard and Jennifer Grey, hanging out at lesbian bars, and generally stoking the gossip about her sexuality. Publicity stunt or not, Madonna’s Sapphic flirtations in the early 1990s gave rise to an unprecedented wave of lesbian chic that started to make it more acceptable, socio-culturally, to be gay. That meant something to me, and helped crack open the closet door, if just a little.
By the time I entered graduate school in 1995, my first girlfriend and I had broken up, and a brief rebound relationship was on its last legs. By this time I was out to a few friends and to my parents, who were not at all supportive, and I was mostly unhappy. It all began to change after I embarked on my third relationship. It lasted almost ten years, and during that time I fully embraced my sexuality, my parents grew to accept and love me for who I was, and I earned a PhD. After that relationship ended in 2006, I became depressed again.
Then, in 2008, I met the love of my life, and I found that even on my darkest days, it was impossible not to dance to “Music.” I healed. It’s only in retrospect that I have gained insight into the significant influence Madonna has had on my life, especially my growth over the past few years. I think I’m finally catching up to Ray of Light—I now live my life to the fullest, I am completely open about my sexuality, I am in touch with my spiritual side, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been—and I know I owe a debt of gratitude to Madonna.
Although I’ve worshipped the Pepper’s Madonna, I can’t call myself the world’s biggest Madonna fan. I’ve never seen her perform live and there are entire albums I’ve never heard, but she’s been a constant source of inspiration, as an artist and an entrepreneur, over the course of my life from high school on. I have a tremendous amount of respect for her, and as she gets older—as I get older—I look forward to the ways that she will model what it means to be a vibrant, sexual, spiritual, strong woman over fifty. She’s come a long way from the curvy, under-depilated, post-Punk, East Village Italiana she was back in the day. I’ve come a long way, too.
And I feel like I just got home.