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I do not know why my father had me castrated. There was no reason for it; out family was not wealthy, but neither were we poor. As I grew older I learned what it meant to be a eunuch. In the opera house I was adored, applauded, worshiped, outside I was merely as mutilated man, a monster. The loneliness and unhappiness of castrati is what many do not see. We could love, but who would love us? I resigned myself to a life of loneliness. What else was there to do but sing?
I made my professional debut when I was fifteen in an opera composed by my beloved teacher Porpora. It was after the performance at palazzo Torella that I met twenty-two year old Pietro Trapassi, the famous poet known as Metastasio. There he embraced me a first called me his beloved twin. "No one can explain the magic of Farinelli's voice capable of delighting princes, enchanting men and making women faint!" We had much in common, and formed a close friendship. Sometimes he would tease that our love for one another might be considered sinful. In 1730 Metastasio went to Vienna as court poet for the Habsburgs in Vienna. ~ On the walls portraits of public figures and the Emperor hung, along with landscapes of Italy. The alabaster fireplace warmed us from the chill night air. He handed me a poem to read, one that he insisted I should set to music. "Your music to my poems are expressive, Carlo, graceful, and the legitimate offspring of one arrived at supremacy in the art." he paused, picking up the paper on which he had written his libretto. It spoke of the great love that the Trojan Nisus held for Euryalus, and of how he sacrificed his own life rather than allow his beloved friend to go alone to death. The words brought a blush to my cheek, and I found myself looking up at Pietro, whose eye was prepared to catch mine. "Is that not true love?" he said in a gentle voice. "Is this not love that two men may share?" And he bent his head toward mine. I stammered. "I was taught that I must not embrace any man with such love." He took my face into his hands and slowly kissed my lips again and again. I could feel Pietro's hands on my large chest, removing my vest, untying the lace cravat that hid my neck that had no Adam s apple. Before I knew it, arms were moving, hands rubbing at exposed flesh, long fingers fumbling at buttons, and all the while moving backwards to the rosewood bed. I kissed harder. No thought. Just touch. My body- I pulled away, afraid of what was happening to me. "This is impossible." "I do not mean to make you feel inadequate." I turned away from the man whom I loved above all other men. My body, mutilated in the name of art, was inadequate, whether I felt it or not.
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