The Problem with Man’s Best Friend

Hate is a strong word. I, like many empaths, have an easier time saying ‘I love you’ than ‘I hate you,’ but there’s no sugarcoating my true feelings on Man’s Best Friend, Sabrina Carpenter’s seventh studio album. 

So I won’t.

Let me be clear: this isn’t about disliking Sabrina herself. I admire her wit, her talent, and the sparkle she brings to pop music. I’ve celebrated her past projects (Short n’ Sweet was a triumph), the way she carved out her own space in a crowded industry (her 5' 0’’ frame casts a large shadow), and the unapologetic confidence she projects onstage (she’s magnetic).

We’ve been waiting for a pop-princess of her caliber for years. 

But this album, despite its polished production and undeniable catchiness, feels less like an empowering statement and more like a step backwards dolled up as liberation. 

Album cover for Sabrina Carpenter’s Man’s Best Friend

At its core, Man’s Best Friend leans heavily into sexual innuendo, marketed under the guise of self-empowerment and playful boldness. Pop has long blurred the line between provocative and empowering, erotic and belles-lettres, but what Carpenter delivers here isn’t nuanced or artsy—it’s belittling. 

Because the issue was never about explicit lyrics or cleverly (and not-so-cleverly) veiled innuendo: it’s the fact that it frames women's sexuality as something that belongs entirely to men.

The recurring message of ‘sex is power’ isn’t really uplifting when it limits womanhood to the performance for others’ pleasure. In listening, it sounds less like Sabrina reclaiming her voice and more like her faltering to the same old industry expectations that a woman's success is entirely dependent on her sex-appeal (Madonna, Ke$ha, to name a few). 

The irony is exacting: what was packaged as cheeky, girliepop empowerment feels like it strips away complexity. Women are multi-dimensional, and empowerment doesn’t have to be coded in sheet-draped metaphors or double entendres. And yet, track after track, Carpenter falls into that mold—leaving little room for the vulnerability, depth, or even mischievous cleverness she’s proven she can deliver.

That’s what stings most. Sabrina Carpenter is capable of brilliance. She’s a natural storyteller and lyricist, someone who can weave humor, sincerity, and emotion into pop without trying too hard. And her stage presence is extraordinary. But here, the overbearing sexual messaging drowns out everything else, leaving an album that feels more like a marketing strategy than a personal declaration of empowerment.

American popstar Sabrina Carpenter in her Short N’ Sweet era.

Of course, there are fans who will embrace Man’s Best Friend for its boldness, and that’s valid. The entire genre thrives on reinvention, on risk-taking, on pushing cultural buttons. But ‘empowerment’ cannot be empowering if it is lacking in substance or reduced to shocking and repetitive surface-level pop melodies. In truth, it becomes derogatory when it leaves listeners feeling that the only way for a young woman to command attention is to commodify her sexuality. 

I love Sabrina Carpenter. I really do. But I hate what this album stands for—a reflection of an industry still reluctant to allow women to be complicated, tender, fierce, fun, and flirty all at once. Until pop culture makes space for that full spectrum like we—and Sabrina—deserve, albums like Man’s Best Friend will leave a bitter aftertaste without delivering real bite.

Hate is a strong word, indeed. But Man’s Best Friend isn’t liberation—it’s a leash.