In 1992, Madonna released her fifth studio album, Erotica. This was combined with Sex, a coffee table book filled with explicit images of the singer. It was packed with controversy: in one shot, she is seen naked, straddling a dog’s face; in another, she acts out a gang-rape fantasy, two men roughly tearing off her clothes. There is open BDSM (the singer wears a ball gag while a man rides her in the “Erotica” video) and flirtations with lesbianism. Released during the Aids crisis, when all forms of sexual expression were widely demonised, the project hit like napalm. Pearls were clutched and shattered, with Pope John Paul II calling for a boycott. At the time, Madonna said it was a response to how “repressed” America had become sexually, and a mirror to society’s deepest fears. “I think people’s reactions to specific situations in the book are much more a reflection of that person than me,” the singer reflected in 2022. “Are you frightened of a woman who can turn herself on?”

Although few artists have dared to go that far, we’ve seen echoes of her influence in the years since. In 2002, a then 21-year-old Christina Aguilera released “Dirrty”, which saw the former Disney star don grubby, assless chaps to host a “post-apocalyptic orgy”. In 2011’s “S&M”, Rihanna put on a gimp suit and tied herself up, singing about her love of “chains and whips” and the “smell” of sex. In 2013, Miley Cyrus killed off her Hannah Montana alter-ego for good, twerking on stage at the VMAs in a nude latex bikini. All of these women were met with similar outrage from both ends of the spectrum. For conservatives, these flagrant displays of sexuality were a sign of societal decadence and rampant sexual deviancy. For more stringent feminists, these women were willing conspirers in their own oppression, upholding a system where a woman’s body remains her only real power. (Remember when bell hooks called Beyoncé a “terrorist” for “colluding” in her own objectification?)

Time is a flat circle. Here we are again, in 2025, with Sabrina Carpenter. In a sign of perhaps how far the Overton Window has shifted to the right, the image sparking outrage today is comparatively tame. It features a fully clothed Carpenter on her hands and knees, while a faceless man stands above her, holding a fistful of her hair. The shot, shared earlier this week, is taken from her upcoming album, Man’s Best Friend. Fans of the 26-year-old singer will be well aware of the mischievous undertones here: Carpenter, who is renowned for her bawdy, camp humour and affectionate disdain for men, has never been known for her subservience. The album’s lead single, “Man Child”, seems like a continuation of this, with the singer being shown killing a load of male caricatures (a comment on the hell of modern dating, soundtracked by the repeated refrain, “fuck my life”). It is, in other words, simply not that deep – a playful, subversive take on feminine submission, which is a hot topic at the moment thanks to films like Babygirl, and artists like FKA twigs and Ethel Cain. 

But Carpenter knows what she is doing. The singer likes to court controversy (her use of Lolita-style imagery has seen her be accused of ‘pedobaiting’ in the past), and this press run has been no different. As soon as the image was shared on her socials, many followers and critics were scandalised, calling it “disturbing” and “degrading” in the comments. Right-wing tabloids called her “over-sexed and pathetic”, while some feminists accused her of being “regressive”, “centring men” and catering to the male gaze. As domestic violence charity Glasgow Women’s Aid wrote on their Facebook, “Picturing herself on all fours, with a man pulling her hair and calling it ‘Man’s Best Friend’ isn’t subversion. It’s a throwback to tired tropes that reduce women to pets, props, and possessions and promote an element of violence and control.”

There is something to be said about its timing. This kind of art does not exist in a vacuum, and we are in a dark time for women’s rights. Misogyny is on the rise, reproductive rights are at risk, and men talk openly about “owning” women. While fans of Carpenter will enjoy the tongue-in-cheek context, the image – which has drawn comparisons to the work of accused sexual predator Terry Richardson – will undoubtedly take on a life of its own. This is the internet, where images swiftly morph into disembodied simulacra, where all irony and nuance get lost in transmission. For many critics, this seems to be the biggest issue: what if a young man views this image as justification for his misogyny? What if a young woman sees this and, in her silly, wide-eyed naivety, starts crawling around on her hands and knees?

The idea that one image has that much influence, in an internet full of hardcore pornography, where men can now freely make deepfakes or use AI prompts to create a whole world of horrors, seems a bit delusional. To attribute that much power to one woman – to essentially blame Carpenter for making men’s behaviour worse – is a way of shifting accountability, and an act of profound, regressive misogyny in itself. Needless to say, it is not Carpenter’s job to fix men; she is one pop star, and we should not be holding women artists responsible for the way misogynists interpret their work. What would the alternative be? More self-censorship? A new set of rules to define what expressions of feminine sexuality are and aren’t appropriate? It reinforces the message that women should not provoke, show off, or interrogate the more complex facets of their sexuality, lest they spark negative responses from men. (There are of course bigger questions about the exploitative, patriarchal structure of the music industry, and who profits from this work, but that is a deeper discussion for another time.)

The other criticism being hurled at Carpenter is that this is just “male gaze” stuff. It could be. Female desire is complicated, and unfortunately, women have been conditioned to self-objectify, to “watch themselves being looked at” and even find a great deal of pleasure in it. But it’s just as credible that Carpenter is expressing her own tastes. Many straight women, even those with strong feminist convictions, find themselves drawn to submissive dynamics, holding desires or kinks that may not align neatly with their public or political selves. “Kink often involves fantasies of debasement; loving straight men in patriarchy often involves actual debasement,” writes Tracy Clark-Flory on Substack. “The key difference [is] the presence of consent and negotiation.” And if Carpenter’s work is intended to cater to the straight male gaze, it’s clearly not working. According to Luminate, her audience “over-indexes with women and the LGBTQ+ community,” with the former making up 75 per cent of her listeners. The truth is that a lot of women draw joy from Carpenter’s work: she brings a much-needed levity to conversations around sex, which has become increasingly fraught, a political battleground where self-worth can be won and lost. Is it possible that it can be more fun? (And despite her Disney background and reputation as a ‘role model’, her fanbase is also older than many would think: the largest demographic is women aged 18 to 24, with 34 per cent of her listeners being millennials.)

Art shouldn’t always be comfortable, and the best forms of it will provoke discussion. Carpenter has, at the very least, done this. “Female artists have been shamed forever,” Carpenter said earlier this year. “In the 00s it was Rihanna, in the 90s it was Britney Spears, in the 80s it was Madonna – and now it’s me.” We may be stuck in a cycle, but each time we learn something new about our own limitations, and the kind of progress we are (or aren’t) making. This is ultimately a racy album cover. It is not the root cause of the rot, and it may not even be a symptom of it. We have plenty of other, more urgent issues to contend with. To paraphrase Carpenter herself, if you can’t handle that, then you can always look away.