She made her way in discreetly, yet prominently. That was her manner. She had been in L.A. for several months now. Far longer than she was accustomed to in recent years. Years when she had favored Lisbon before moving back to New York. The place she predictably (and they say she’s unpredictable) returned to despite enduring so many traumas there. L.A. had its own set of traumatic memories, of course, but they were nothing like what happened to her in the Big Crapple. Where she had endured more physical and emotional beatings than anywhere else—and that includes her time spent living in Malibu with Sean Penn.

Coming back to L.A. to work on a screenplay about her life was more triggering than she thought it would be. More than thinking about how she “got her start”—something she talked about often enough in the media—Ms. Ciccone found herself thinking instead about her years with Sean. The proverbial “great love” of her life. For perhaps only in one’s twenties can such an intensity required of true love be fully felt and exhibited. And oh, how the new Mrs. Penn felt it. If she hadn’t, she never would have agreed to marry him. Not so young, and not just after she had finally achieved the level of fame she had been craving for so long—only to be tied down by someone as misogynistic and traditional as Sean. Some said that Madonna was jumping on the bed naked in a hotel room when the two simply locked eyes and intuited what the other was thinking, with Madonna nudging, “Whatever you’re thinking, my answer is yes.” But who knows what’s real and what’s lore in celebrity history anymore? Let alone the celebrity in question themselves. The bigger you become, the harder it is to objectively see yourself. That’s part of what made Madonna wanting to write and direct her own biopic so absurd. And yet, slightly endearing at the same time. Her desire to defy expectations and shatter boundaries blinded her in so many regards, including her love life.

That’s how she found herself with the latest boy toy in her rotisserie. Though this one stood apart for lasting longer than most of the other ones. Of course, that was to end practically as soon as the year did. But “A” (that’s how we’ll refer to him) didn’t know that yet. Maybe even Madonna herself didn’t yet. Not until arriving in L.A. and posting up in The Weeknd’s old house (which she bought and later flipped for a profit, as is her business savvy way). Except that, despite owning this Hidden Hills “retreat,” as it were, she still saw fit to rent out an abode Somewhere in Beverly Hills and do most of her “powwows” with her co-writer, Diablo Cody, there. Many of which were filmed and posted to Instagram (though many, to be sure, were not—probably the more “deliciously cunty” “vignettes”). In the time when Cody wasn’t around as a “sounding board” with which Madonna could “reminisce” (a.k.a. carefully curate memories and moments for the script she had in mind), she was left no choice but to either 1) recall her earlier L.A. heydays (Helena’s and Vertigo in the 80s, Spago in the 90s, for fuck’s sake) or 2) hang out with “A,” who was only too willing to be at her beck and call. As he was that late January of 2022, when Madonna hit a creative wall with her writing capacity. She found that maybe she did work better with a partner, which is why she had replaced Cody long ago with Erin Wilson, the screenwriter who adapted Secretary—this obviously being up Madonna’s thematic alley. What with her whole sadomasochistic shtick, acting as both inflicter of pain and the inflicted upon. That latter role prompting her to immortally note, “Only the one that inflicts the pain can take it away.”

It was hard to say if she was the one inflicting or taking away the pain from “A” that night, as she opted for a non-romantic outing. This made evident by having her adopted son accompany them on the so-called date. But to date Madonna at this stage was to know that she could only give so much. She had learned that about herself after Sean. After failing to meet the demands of what it allegedly meant to be “wifey.” And in the wake of making the mistake only one more time—many years after it had all fallen apart with Sean—Madonna knew that collecting boy toys was the only way to go. The only way to live freely as a woman of such an independent and iconic nature. For that was the thing about her: she was seen as an icon, a statuesque non-being. Something otherworldly at this point. Inhuman.

At least with a younger generation of men who couldn’t remember just how Significant with a capital S Madonna was to pop culture, she was able to feel slightly more “human.” Even if she was still obliged to never fully let her guard down with any of them (hence, enforcing the signing of NDAs with each new dalliance). Not just because she was afraid of being somehow “exposed” in the tabloids when the relationship inevitably fell apart, but because she wanted to be seen as desirable by these men—er, boys. Which meant always being “on” physically. Always making sure she had the necessary nips, tucks and fillers to stay relevant not just to the pop music landscape, but to the male one as well.

Another unwanted memory that came up in the past week, regardless of working on her biopic or not, was that of Guy describing sex with her as “like cuddling up to a piece of gristle.” Even if he didn’t really say that (but knowing him, of course the little twat did), that’s what all of the media was reporting in the aftermath of their divorce. Did he have any idea what that did to her? Any idea how much that kind of commentary could get into a girl’s head and linger forever? It made it so that she never wanted to leave the lights on during sex, or take off her meticulously-selected lingerie. Even for as emotionally close as “A” got to her, she still never would for him either. Plus, these flashbacks to her time with Sean in L.A. were really starting to fuck with her psyche.

Just as they were that night at Cecconi’s, when she sidled up to the entrance of the restaurant in purple leopard print silk pajamas (this was, after all, the woman behind an album called Bedtime Stories), a long black overcoat, fingerless black leather gloves, black boots and a pair of requisite “sunglasses at night” that all celebrities must wear to block out the flashing camera lights that materialize even in the wee hours. Located at Melrose and Robertson, Cecconi’s was only a ten-minute drive from the Kabbalah Center (also on Robertson), where Madonna had once been photographed more regularly during the 00s. Perhaps a time when she was more prone to open displays of spirituality. These days, it appeared she had lost some of her faith. And perhaps rightly so. Not just because a good man was so hard to find, but because she was starting to question everything as she reflected upon her past in such vivid and excruciating detail.

After pecking at some of the rigatoni bolognese that “A” had ordered, she sipped moodily from a glass of rosé (never mind that a red would have paired much better with the dish—because you could take the girl out of the Midwest, but you couldn’t take the Midwest out of the girl) and told “A” she wanted to go home. Stressing that she wanted to do so alone. He was neutral about her decision. He could have fucked/“canoodled”…or not. It didn’t much matter to him either way. He just wanted to be in Madonna’s orbit, ultimately. That’s what they all wanted. For a time. Until they got what they wanted or decided her personality was too “overbearing.” This is what Madonna was realizing. For so many years, she had viewed herself as the one to do the leaving—the abandoning. But, in the end, she was starting to see that it was she who had been abandoned. Again and again. And it all started with her mother. Who, sure, didn’t mean to abandon her—it was out of Madonna Sr.’s control—but, nonetheless still did.

Coming to this conclusion as her late-night dinner did as well, she was somehow taken back to Sean. For the umpteenth time that day. It seemed that all roads were leading back to “the coolest guy in the universe” ever since she started writing the script. Yes, she was additionally forced to ruminate on the traumatic elements of her early childhood and her early years spent scraping by in New York. But, for whatever reason, the emotional wound left by Sean—his abandonment—is what kept bubbling up for her with every scene she replayed.

Maybe being in L.A. was all that it had to do with. They had shared a residence—a home—here. Tried to build a life together here—as part of the Hollywood glitterati. Alas, Madonna was never able to make herself seen in any “movie star” capacity. She felt, in some way, that her inability to be taken seriously in this regard is what made Sean fall out of love with her. Not her rumored/actual affairs with the likes of Sandra Bernhard and JFK Jr. Sexual faux pas that Madonna only engaged in, really, because Sean had managed to do the thing that so few could to Ms. Ciccone: make her feel inferior. And yet, in her sick way, it’s part of what drew her to him all the more. That irrepressible need to prove herself, to be approved of. She blamed it all, naturally, on her father. To be sure, Silvio could provide the source material for an entire movie all on his own.

Upon ditching “A” and instructing her driver to go this way and that, leading him down winding roads that appeared utterly arbitrary to him, Madonna meditated on how many times she must have taken this route just after marrying Sean. Just after they bought their house from Olivia Newton-John. That was only four short years before Madonna ended up releasing her first “divorce album,” Like A Prayer. She didn’t care what Sean would think of track four, “Till Death To Us Part.” A song with many rehashings and allusions to their violent, abusive marriage. But the portion of the song that perhaps sticks out the most is the final verse, wherein, despite it all, Madonna admits, “She’s had enough, she says the end/But she’ll come back, she knows it then/A chance to start it all again/Till death do us part.”

Is that how she found herself, scarcely aware until the house was right in front of her, getting her driver to take her all the way out to the property at 22271 Carbon Mesa? Admittedly, the original had burned down in 1993 with the advent of a garden-variety California fire, but that didn’t mean the structure didn’t still hold power over Madonna. It was the property where, according to both rumors and a police report, Sean had assaulted her in a fit of rage just days after Christmas in 1988. A scene, like so many others, that she couldn’t present without varnishing it. “Stylizing” it. Making it less unpleasant than it actually was. She was doing it again, in fact, with a scene as recent as the dinner Cecconi’s, where they had addressed her as Ms. Ciccone, but she had barked back, “It’s Madonna.” Not liable to add, “Ms. Ciccone, if you’re nasty.” Not just because Janet was Nemesis, but because Madonna didn’t want to have to share her identity with anyone. And, to be honest, “Cecconi” was much too similar-sounding to Ciccone. She needed to be the original in the room. Did she really have to explain that after so many decades? The same thing she was expected to “justify” over and over again to the men who got upset with her for “caring so much” about every aspect of her career, but not even just a little bit about them? That’s what “A” had whined about all night before she finally had to tell him to fuck off and go back to his bungalow—the one she had put him up in so that he could be close by, but also not too close.

Fathoming where she had ended up post-Cecconi’s outing, Madonna was relieved that she had also made her driver sign an NDA when he first took the job. He could have easily looked up the significance of the address and sold her out to the tabloids and online rags. It was a wonder any famous person had ever existed without NDAs. Of course, during the glorious era of Old Hollywood—the period Madonna coveted—the studios actually protected their stars, and the media would never besmirch any celebrity so egregiously as they do today. So sure, even though it was much harder for a woman in show business back then, it was much easier, too.

Allowing herself to linger in front of the house for only the length of, let’s say, “Till Death Do Us Part,” Madonna switched locations as quickly as she had from the last. In large part thanks to employing a former race car driver. Now, safely tucked back in that lonely Hidden Hills mansion, she performed her Norma Desmond-esque beauty routine, complete with a facial rig that looked either positively sci-fi or positively medieval. As she lay there waiting for the machine to beep and indicate it had finished with its process, she decided she would not write about Sean for the script. That would be a story she kept just for herself. For once.