Sometimes, she thinks about being a man. She always wanted to be a boy, but no one asked her about her desires. She tries to hide her perfect breasts, but it is very hard. It’s hard to hide who you really are. She thinks about her blond and curly hair. Maybe she will shave it, just like boys do, when they go to the army. Her mother taught her how to make up, which she does perfectly. Her soft skin disturbs her, when she thinks about those big, dry, rough hands of her father, back to the times when they lived in the farm. She loved that harsh man, though he was not her real father. She usually stared at him for hours, watching him cut firewood. She followed him to the barn, and helped him take care of the animals. Two cows, three sheep and a white horse called Starlight. She waited for the big man, as he washed his sweaty body, filled with strong muscles. His arms were darker than the rest of the hairy body. Usually he spoke very rarely, preferring the silence, and she accepted it. But sometimes, when the day had been good, he would look at her, a small girl, happy as the free wind, with a strange, yet intense look. Some years before, her mother had fallen from the old well by the river, and her spine had broken like a dead leaf when it is bruised. Since then, she had spent all her days in bed, like a forgotten vegetable, till it rots. She was a rotten woman. So, when the man looked at her, he would see a poor girl, similar to her rotten mother. The hair was similar, so were the eyes and the mouth. Even the voice reminded him of her. He was getting old, but still felt the strength in that forbidden zone, below the navel. And there she was: always curious, always smiling, and always happy. He was kind to her, like a father cares about a daughter. She didn’t know that his warm body against her had a name. She didn’t know that his male breath, a mixture of grass and chewing tobacco, was forbidden. She didn’t know that there were names for all those things he taught her, for the world she discovered in him. Not until someone saw them, and called him a rapist. Not until her neighbors called her witch, and accused her of enchant that poor man. Not until the policemen took her, and that old judge forced her to live in an orphanage, as if she were alone in the world. The old nuns accused her of witchcraft and wanted to purify her. They beat her with strong wooden sticks, leaving scars of the size of snakes. They said that girls should not show up like that, that women are sin. All that she wanted was to be a boy, free like those boys which swan naked in the river, on those hot summer afternoons. Now, the boys say she is like Norma Jean, when she became Marilyn. And that is painful to her. Sometimes she thinks what it would be like to have been born a man. All that she wanted was to be a boy.

SEX IS NOT LOVE . LOVE IS NOT SEX

When I saw the recent photo shoot that Lady Gaga was in for Vogue Hommes Japan, I almost instantly remembered Madonna. I thought: “Are we creating a new Madonna?” But then I answered myself: “Of course not. Yet. These photos are only a small part of Madonna, as Lady Gaga is.”

When I was young, Madonna frightened me. When I saw her performances, her photos, her dates, or anything else, I just felt uncomfortable, even without knowing why.

When I turned 10 years old, my father came home with the new photo-book Madonna had done, simply called SEX. The photos shocked the world and, above all, they shocked my world.

For some time I knew the book existed (my father never hid it from me), but I didn’t know how what it was like. The first time I saw it, it had to be secretly, as it was not suitable for my age. I could not get past the first pages. That was something I never imagined could be done! But a few days later I had recovered from the shock, and I saw it for a second time…and for a third time…and then a weird feeling of discovery took over me. Yes, I had discovered something new, bizarre, and, therefore, interesting.




As time went by, Madonna and all those people in the book did not frighten me any longer. They even began to create in me a strong curiosity. I started to relive all those images inside my head, and I became a voyeur of those strange beings. And I was afraid someone might notice it. Would I be sadomasochistic if those images were appealing to me? Would I be a homosexual if I wasn’t disgusted to see those men and women kissing each other? Could I ever look at Madonna, Naomi Campbell and Isabella Rossellini in the same ever again?

“This book is about sex. Sex is not love. Love is not sex. But the best of both worlds is created when they come together.” This is how the book begins. And I would add: our main problem is that we don’t know how to deal with them, precisely when they come together.

I do not consider myself an expert in sexology. I leave that to Freud. But I do know how to talk about myself. And I know the mess I made for years, between sex and love. And I fell in love with people I could not have sex with, and I had sex with people I could not fall in love with. And sometimes it was good, and others not so much.

I think the greatest confusion arises by the lack of honesty. “A lot of people are afraid of what they want. That’s why they don’t get what they want. I could not say it better.

When we like someone we cannot be honest regarding our true sexuality, as to what we actually like. We are afraid that other people might find us weird. And we are honest only to those we don’t feel so close to, because we are not afraid of what they might think of us.

This is the reason why we develop a profound and, therefore, intense admiration, for people who can express themselves sexually, with an open mind. We find it strange, but, with time, we get used to it. We despise, but secretly become fascinated. They set us free, in an act of exorcism.

Madonna has been testing us since she appeared, sometimes in a bizarre, almost forbidden way. That’s why we like her. And that’s why Lady Gaga posed for Vogue.

The complete book is here.