PONDERING THE MADONNA-WHORE COMPLEX

Sup ladies (and inquisitive male parties)? Since last week’s post you’re surely all—like me—five pounds heavier and undergoing pre-holiday financial panic attacks. I take gift-giving extremely serious, so already trying to figure out who I’ll have to borrow money from this year to top last year’s extravagances. Sigh. Anyway, today’s post has absolutely nothing to do with money or Christmas, thankfully, so let’s just get to it.

 

 When I was in high school I went through this few month period of being obsessed with Martin Scorsese. It was ultimately led on by an earlier infatuation with Harvey Keitel, triggered by seeing The Piano and, oddly, Bad Lieutenant. I’ve always been into the weird ones. But back to Marty. So I picked up some old biography about him which I only ever read about half way, but one of the things that stuck out most to me was this passage or chapter about the Madonna-Whore Complex.

 

Up until then I’d never heard of it and most people I mention it to haven’t either, so in a nutshell: it’s the inability for a man to be sexually aroused by the woman he loves, because he sees her as a saint, so sexually defiling her would make her a whore in his eyes. Stealing this from Wiki, because I don’t know Freud quotes off top, but he said: “Where such men love they have no desire and where they desire they cannot love." Interesting, no? So this (and the mother complex) was a recurring romantic theme in a lot of Scorsese flicks, like Raging Bull or Taxi Driver, and presumably his own life.

 

Personally, to me that’s some weird Catholic mamas-boy pussy shit from the Old Country, but I think deep down we all subconsciously carry a bit of that complex inside us. Perhaps you’ve even noticed it in your own relationships. I’ve certainly observed it—sometimes after you cross that threshold of being just a sexual partner to becoming full on, the sex goes from freaky and spontaneous to sweet and vanilla. It could be the typical pattern of monogamy, or it could signify the male’s reluctance to ravage you for fear of tarnishing your saintly image.

 

Regardless, this post isn't about male opinion either. Being with a woman, there’s got to be a delicate balance at all times of treating her like an angelic princess and your nasty, dirty little whore—sway one way too deeply and you’ll throw the whole shit off. If you’ve got too many weird mommy or Sunday School issues to handle that, tough fuckin’ luck and see you later.

 

What this post is about, however, is the internal Madonna/Whore struggle we go through as women individually. Like I said a few weeks ago, what makes a woman a whore is subjective, it’s a matter of opinion. Do I think I’m a whore? Absolutely not. In fact, I’d say I’m kind of an angel. OK, I wouldn’t go that far—but I have no qualms with who I am in that regard. I’m open about who I am; it’s not like my risqué selfies and love for lingerie and strong sexual themes are a secret. It’s all public information. My family sees it, my employers see it, my fifth grade teachers see it and hit me up like, “You go girl, always knew you were special!” So as you can see, I’m secure…and yet, that little complex still dwindles deep inside me sometimes. The little guilty corner of my brain that occasionally regurgitates its judgment.

 

Growing up, way before I even had sex, I always found it funny in movies when the girl would cry afterwards. That was like the big myth, women crying after sex, and it just seemed so ridiculous and dramatic to me. Like, why are you crying? It seemed like you were enjoying yourself. It wasn’t until that actually happened to me (how embarrassing, stop) that I got it. It’s this very bizarre woman feeling you can’t put into words, but if you’ve been there you know. Even if the sex was awesome—sometimes especially when the sex was awesome—you just feel like this empty vessel afterwards, like a discarded object that allowed itself to get thrown away. It’s a rare feeling, and it generally subsides, but it’s that complex creeping up on you when you’re most vulnerable. It’s that modern conditioning filling our brains with the contradictory thoughts: “Love your body, celebrate its natural beauty, embrace sexuality and rejoice in it” followed by “Nudity is dirty, sex is a sin, only talk about it in private.” Then they wanna go and call us bipolar. We’re not bipolar, just look at this juxtaposition of morals and shit that we have to juggle!

 

Sometimes I’m just baffled that we’ve put these weird emotional restrictions on ourselves as humans. Why do we feel guilty to be ourselves? If there’s any fucking New Years resolution to work on, I’d say it’s that—stop feeling bad about who you are. Unless you like to hurt kids or some other evil shit, like the true Madonna said—express yourself, don’t repress yourself. On that note, see ya’s next Wednesday!
 
 
4 comments

By lay, on

THANK YOU FOR THIS

By Nicole , on

You don’t even know how much I

By Exxo, on

Everything this girl writes is gold. Pure gold. I wish there were more magazines with articles like this instead of all that beauty and gossip shit.

By Deas, on

hey tabatha read this article and thought you might have some opinions on it. dunno if you’d wanna write about it on the blog but check it anyway http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/a-long-list-of-sex-acts-just-got-banned-in-uk-porn-9897174.html

Leave a comment