I’ve had an inevitable unraveling. It started, as most existential moments do, in the back of a taxi. I was headed from my bed in New York to JFK. The driver was blasting EDM at 3:45 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I was blinking through tears in the back seat. I kept sniffling, embarrassed, until I remembered he probably couldn’t hear me over “I Took A Pill in Ibiza.”
“You deserve someone better.”
“I care about you enough that I want to protect you from me.”
Normally, I pride myself on being the confident one—the friend preaching about agency to girls a little younger than me. For the record, I would’ve made an excellent madame in whatever era brothels existed. But today, I’m resigning. I’m stepping down from my post as big-bad-know-it-all-bitch to talk about something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately but have not managed to resolve: the Madonna/Whore complex.
Somehow, it's become a buzzword (buzz-phrase?) in my life recently. The idea that women can only ever be one of two things: a delicate, untouchable saint (Madonna) or a depraved little plaything (Whore). Sigmund Freud, who originally coined the concept in the early 20th century (as he did most sexual theories—that horny little freak), described it as a division in men's sexual current. In one direction flows affection; the other, desire. You’re either untouched or overused—and only good for one of the two things.
I’m not blaming anyone. Not even you—yes, you, the boy who caused the unravel on a gloomy, wet day in Manhattan. What I’ve realized is that I Madonna/Whore myself. I announce my confidence before you can question it. I call myself a whore before you do. I don’t even let myself consider Madonna territory (as much as I love "Hung Up").
I have friends who play the Madonna intentionally—the girls who will marry early, who blush at the word “cunt,” who flinch at dirty jokes at dinner. But they’re doing what I’m doing: playing the game, owning a role. Picking a lane.
Of course, the game backfires. It always does. There was a man—of course there was a man—who was constantly shocked by my warmth. He is a begrudging fixture of your tabloids, a man you see photos of in between ceviche recipes on instagram. Every time I opened the door, asked how his day was, placed my hand gently on the back of his neck, he’d say, “You always surprise me.”
And that surprise lasted months. He couldn’t compute the switch in my eyes when I performed. That flicker when I became a version of myself that was curated. Controlled. When I decided to become the Whore, out in public. The moment you’re both warm and wild, you’re inconceivable. A monster. And what baffled him even further was when I dropped it. And I became equal parts Madonna and Whore behind the closed door of his Lower East Side apartment.
I watched myself lose the upper hand in one intense moment. A screaming match at Eel Bar. I stood up to leave, proud of myself for making the dazzling exit. I sat outside alone for a few minutes in freezing weather, wearing Frankies Bikinis short shorts. I’d done it—I’d been the actress, the madame, the big-bad-bitch. This girl wasn’t the whore. She was ugly and brutal and truthful.
But then, it crept in. I wanted to be the Madonna again. I walked back inside, placed my hand on his neck, and softly asked how his day was. I had put the mask back on, picking a clear side, despite the fact that he had seen me, both literally and physically, naked.
Even now, I’m not explaining this theory academically. I’m explaining it in lived experience. Very Whore of me. The Madonna wouldn’t dare mention hand placement or temperature.
If you’re looking to me for a solution—to feel soft and innocent and wear a red thong—I don’t have one. I think we’re all trying to strike some impossible balance. Between thirst traps and close-friends stories. Between deep-throating olives and brushing our cats. Between tequila-shot friends and coffee-shop friends. We’re dividing. Curating. Exhausting ourselves.
“You deserve someone better.”
“I care about you enough that I want to protect you from me.”
This is something you tell Madonna. It means: You don’t get a say. You don’t get to be the whore again. That softness is now your whole identity. Infantilized. Sanitized. Powerless.
Disgusting. So how am I regaining myself?
Well, after “I Took A Pill in Ibiza” faded out, I boarded the plane, accepted the complimentary prosecco, and started writing. I’m the only one who gets to label me.
I can tell you I went to Passover dinner and waited for my big moment at the table to sing the Four Questions. (I still know them by heart.) I can tell you that every night before bed, I list out loud everyone I love and say goodnight—including my hairless cat, my horse, and two elderly dachshunds. I can tell you that last week, I got drinks with a girl who hooked up with the man who dumped me in order to save me—not out of malice, just… curiosity?
These are all compulsions that come from the chest. As was the decision to leave him high and dry in a downtown bar. I can’t explain them. But I can embody them.
I can be untouched when I want to be. I can be frighteningly innocent and naive. I can be both.
