Sabrina Carpenter Knows Good Sex - And That’s Her Appeal

Sabrina has created a brand based on unapologetic sexuality. While she got her start on the Disney Channel, she first garnered widespread attention while opening for Taylor Swift on the Eras Tour, where her playful and cheeky outros for her song Nonsense became fan-favorite moments that went viral online. These outros—often spontaneous, city-specific innuendos—captivated audiences and solidified Carpenter’s reputation for blending fun and flirtation. Some highlights include:

“Boy, come over, this is not a drill / He said, ‘Get on top,’ I said, ‘I will’ / Then he made me come… to Brazil!”

“When you go down under, do you miss me? / He’s so big, I felt it in my kidney / Screamed so loud they heard it here in Sydney!”

This audacious, flirtatious energy continued into her own Short n Sweet tour, especially during her song Juno, a playful reference to the 2007 film about a teenager navigating an unexpected pregnancy. In the song, Sabrina sings about being so in love that she wouldn’t mind getting pregnant:

“You know I just might / Let you lock me down tonight / One of me is cute, but two though? / Give it to me, baby / You make me wanna make you fall in love (Oh)”

The fun escalates further when, during the pre-chorus, Carpenter provocatively teases the audience with lyrics like:

“Wanna try out some freaky positions? / Have you ever tried this one?”

She then proceeds to act out popular sexual positions on stage, adding an element of interactivity to her performances. It’s become so iconic that fans have created TikTok accounts documenting which “Juno positions” appear at each concert.

During her performance in Paris, Sabrina and two male dancers simulated the "Eiffel Tower" position, triggering polarized reactions.

I personally, think its hilarious.

Some accused her of using cheap innuendo and undermining feminist values, while others criticized her for leaning too heavily into sexual imagery. The backlash was similar after her performance at the 2025 Brit Awards, where she wore a red lingerie ensemble that many deemed “soft porn,” “tacky,” and “inappropriate.” Complaints flooded in, with some threatening to report her to the UK's broadcasting regulator, Ofcom, for airing "inappropriate" content before the 9 p.m. watershed.

But this is a ridiculous notion. These performances are reviewed and approved by networks well in advance, and no legal issue arose from her appearance. Carpenter's defenders point out that her art—like any other form of performance—should be viewed on her own terms. In fact, her unapologetic embrace of her sexuality is empowering, as she herself has pointed out: female artists should not be shamed for owning their sexuality, and those who are uncomfortable with her confidence are free to look away.

This is where the hypocrisy lies. In a world that has long objectified women, where male rock stars have made entire careers out of degrading women, why is it so controversial when a woman like Sabrina Carpenter takes charge of her own sexual narrative?

The sexualization of women has been pervasive for decades. Consider Miley Cyrus at the VMAs with Blurred Lines, where the scandal shifted focus onto her twerking, while the song itself grappled with blurred boundaries of consent sung by an older man. Or Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl with Justin Timberlake, where Jackson faced immense backlash, while Timberlake emerged virtually unscathed. We’ve seen these double standards repeatedly—whether it’s in rock bands objectifying women as props or glam rock videos turning women into mere fantasies.

Take Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me, where gyrating women are presented as little more than background decoration. Van Halen’s Hot for Teacher uses a female figure of authority as a sexual object. Mötley Crüe’s Girls, Girls, Girls glorifies strip-club culture. These performances were celebrated as part of rock-and-roll rebellion, without questioning their deeper implications. But suddenly, when a young woman like Sabrina Carpenter takes control of her sexuality on her own terms, it becomes a problem.

That’s the hypocrisy I can’t stand.

If Sabrina’s performances make you uncomfortable, you have the power to simply turn off the TV or skip the concert. Why should society’s reaction be anything more than “this isn’t for me”? The uproar feels not only immature but also entirely out of proportion. Sabrina’s outfits are less provocative than what you'd see on any given summer day in a city, and her performances, far from being demeaning, are playful and silly. And yet, the outrage is unreal.

Growing up in a patriarchal, religious community, I never had ownership over my own sexuality. It wasn’t mine to explore—it was something to be safeguarded, preserved for someone else. I was taught that sex before marriage was akin to chewing a piece of gum: once chewed, it could never be whole again. The shame and guilt surrounding my body were suffocating. My body wasn’t mine; it existed for others to approve of and desire.

Watching women embrace their sexuality on screen reshaped my understanding of sex and self. Shows like Sex and the City, Insecure, and Girls depicted women navigating their desires openly, challenging societal pressures that shamed them. Characters like Carrie Bradshaw, Issa Dee, and Hannah Horvath embraced their sexual complexities with a confidence new to me, offering a liberation I hadn’t seen before. These portrayals helped me shed the shame I’d carried, teaching me that owning my body, choices, and desires is powerful—and that women’s sexual experiences deserve exploration, not shame.

Now, there’s Sabrina. Watching her take control of her body, her choices, and her sexuality is nothing short of revolutionary. It’s an act of rebellion and, more importantly, empowerment. Sexuality has always been weaponized against women, but when we reclaim it—on our own terms—it becomes a tool of autonomy, not submission.

As Susan Hopkins argues in Postfeminist Sexual Agency: Beyoncé and Female Sexual Empowerment (2015), artists like Beyoncé use sexually charged imagery not as submission, but as a declaration of independence. This shift—from being objectified to claiming subjectivity—restores control over women’s bodies and narratives. It's an act of resistance against the ingrained belief that sexual agency should be dictated by anyone other than the individual.

When women control their own sexuality, it disrupts the systems that have kept men comfortable for centuries. It’s uncomfortable for those who would rather women remain objects of desire. But that’s their problem, not ours.

So yes, Sabrina Carpenter’s performances are controversial. They challenge societal expectations of what it means to be a woman expressing her sexuality. But in reclaiming that narrative—without apology—she’s doing something far more profound than performing. She’s showing the world that pleasure isn’t shameful, that our bodies belong to us, and we get to decide how we present them. Sabrina’s sexual confidence is not a threat. It’s an invitation for women to take back control, to own their bodies, and to find freedom in their own pleasure.

I’ll always support that, and you can change the channel.