When a woman dares to own her sexual power, we panic. It’s time to ask ourselves why.

Sabrina Carpenter is on her knees. In the artwork for her upcoming album ‘Man’s Best Friend’, she’s pictured in a submissive pose, knees on the ground and her hair held by a silhouetted man—her album art has made the internet angry. Before this, she received backlash for dancing in a Catholic church for the music video for her cheeky song “Feather” inside a Catholic church in Brooklyn. She danced down the aisle in a sexy black tulle dress. The internet, predictably, broke. Before that, she was being castigated for her cheeky, often sexual, ad-libbed outros at her concerts. With every move, the verdict from the court of public opinion is swift and severe: she’s “desperate,” “cringe,” “attention-seeking,” “setting women back.”

The criticism is relentless, and it feels deeply familiar. We are trapped in a dizzying, exhausting cycle of crucifying women for their overt sexuality, only to posthumously declare them misunderstood icons a generation later.

We’ve gone from “Marilyn Monroe’s hyper-sexuality is a gimmick” to “society was tragically cruel to Marilyn.” We’ve gone from “Donna Summer’s orgasmic moans are for the male gaze” to “Donna Summer was liberating women from modesty.” We’ve gone from “Madonna is demeaning herself” to “Madonna is an icon who dares to own her narrative.” And right now, we watch as the internet declares that “Chlöe Bailey is doing too much,” waiting for the inevitable pivot to “she was a powerhouse unapologetically celebrating her body and womanhood.”

The names change, the platforms evolve from print magazines to X and TikTok, but the accusation remains the same: a woman who is overtly, joyfully, and publicly sexual is an uncomfortable woman. And we, as a society, don’t know what to do with her. The real question isn’t about whether Sabrina Carpenter’s art is “too much.” It’s about why her expression makes us so profoundly uncomfortable.

The Threat of the Overtly Sexual Woman

Patriarchy, for all its complexities, thrives on a simple silly binary: The Madonna and The Whore. The good girl and the bad girl. The respectable wife and the disposable “other.” A woman is meant to be boxed: Her sexuality is supposed to be a tool for procreation within sanctioned relationships, or a commodity for male consumption.

An overtly sexual woman who is also in control of her career, her narrative, and her finances obliterates these boxes. She is the Madonna and The Whore, all at once. She is both sacred and profane. Sabrina Carpenter isn’t just a pretty face artiste; she is a woman using provocative imagery to comment on power dynamics in sex, fame, and desire. Madonna wasn’t just writhing on a stage, she was demanding to be seen as both spiritual and sexual. This multifacetedness is terrifying to a status-quo that needs her to be one-dimensional. A woman who owns her sexuality cannot be easily controlled. Her desires are her own, not a reflection of a man’s. Her power is intrinsic, not granted.

Now, let’s state the obvious: where is this energy for men?

When male artists grab their crotch, perform shirtless and dance suggestively on stage, they have rizz.  When rappers detail their sexual conquests over entire albums, they are lauded for their swagger. You see this trending Usher cherry shows? A female artist can NEVER get away with it without demeaning accusations trailing her. In popular culture, sexuality is framed as powerful, active, and inherent to their artistry. It’s a sign of their virility and confidence. No one accuses them of being “desperate for attention” or “setting men back.” Their hyper-sexuality is simply… their brand.

But when a woman does it? The language immediately shifts. She is “performing for men,” even when her art is clearly for herself or other women. She is “cheapening herself,” even when she is building an empire. She is “asking for it,” whether “it” is criticism or something far worse.

The hypocrisy is breathtaking. We celebrate men for the very same behaviour we condemn in women. Male sexual expression is seen as a monologue of power. Female sexual expression is treated as a dialogue where she is always seeking approval, and we feel entitled to deny it.

So why do we repeat this cycle of judgement, condemning in the present only to revere them later on?

1. The Shock of the New: Trailblazers, by definition, do what hasn’t been done. Donna Summer’s 17-minute simulated orgasm on a track was unprecedented in 1975. Madonna’s blending of religious and sexual imagery in “Like a Prayer” was a cultural atom bomb in 1989. This initial shock triggers a conservative, fear-based reaction. We punish what we don’t yet understand.

2. Internalized Misogyny as a Weapon:  Let’s be brutally honest: it’s not just men leading the charge. Women are often the sharpest critics. This isn’t because women are “catty,” but because we have been conditioned to see a narrow path to acceptance and safety. A woman who steps outside the lines of “respectability” can feel like a threat to everyone who has carefully played by the rules. The criticism becomes a form of social policing: “Don’t you dare risk our collective standing by being so bold. Your freedom makes my own compromises feel fragile.”

3. The Safety of Hindsight: It is easy to celebrate Marilyn Monroe now. She is no longer a living, breathing, complex woman making choices we might disagree with. She is a flattened, tragic icon. We can safely champion her because she no longer has the agency to make us uncomfortable again. Even Madonna, it’s only now she isn’t as mainstream as she used to be, that we can appreciate her uniqueness. We grant these women grace only when their power is no longer an active threat. We turn them into martyrs, which is a far more palatable narrative than seeing them as victors who simply refused to ask for permission.

The African Woman and the Politics of Respectability

For us, as African women, this conversation carries an additional, heavy layer. We navigate a world where modern ambition clashes with deep-seated cultural expectations of modesty. The politics of “respectability” is a currency we are taught to hoard.

Here, an artist doesn’t need to be on her knees in a leash to cause an uproar. The backlash is magnified tenfold when a woman even hints at tapping into the power of her sex appeal. Consider the endless, exhausting discourse surrounding Ayra Starr. A 22-year-old global pop star is routinely scrutinized and condemned by grown men simply for wearing mini skirts on stage. Her outfits, which would be standard-issue pop attire anywhere else in the world, are treated as a cultural crisis.

The accusation is not just that she is “indecent,” but that she is betraying her culture, that she is not representing “African womanhood” correctly. But what if her sexual expression is not a rejection, but an expansion? A declaration that an African woman can be traditional and modern, respectful and sexual, rooted and free?

Breaking the Cycle

The next time you see a woman—be it Sabrina, Ayra Starr, or a girl-next-door embracing their sexuality or even doing “too much”—and feel that flicker of judgment, pause. Ask yourself:

• Would I have this same reaction if a man did this?
• Am I reacting to her, or to a lifetime of programming about what a woman “should” be?
• What box is she refusing to fit into, and why does that bother me?

The goal is not to love every provocative artist. The goal is to stop participating in the predictable cycle of public flogging. The sexual woman isn’t the problem. Our comfort with policing women and our blatant double standards are. Her power is not a threat to us; it’s an invitation to question the boxes we’ve been placed in and the ones we place on others. It invites us to embrace the messy, glorious, and full spectrum of womanhood. And true liberation lies in finally accepting that invitation.