There is something of a gigolo in the Prada show. Maybe it’s the way they wear their scarves. Or maybe it’s the jackets, some buttoned over a naked torso. Or maybe it’s in the boxiness of the shorter jackets, cut to resemble a UPS delivery man’s jacket, the kind a gigolo might dress up in before ripping it off at a surprise event where he dances for you. The jacket is made for unbuttoning while softly singing, “I’m just a gigolo and everywhere I go people know the part I’m playing, paid for every dance, selling each romance.” But mostly, there’s gigolo in the eyes. Because this is Prada and he is not selling his body to you in return for a few euros in his thong, he’s selling his body to fashion – the high priestess of – in return for a chance to model these fine threads. His job is to seduce you, to make you want to be like him, to make you consider selling your body at a dance-and-disrobe party in the hope that you will, one day, accumulate enough euros for at least the scarf. Youth will pass, but when the end comes you’ll know that people will not be able to say that you were just a gigolo. For you were a gigolo with a cause: a gigolo who could carry off Prada. — Natalie Dembinska.