Why We Need Representation of Kink (And how it helps us understand desire)
By Taylor Neal
There’s been a lot of conversation lately about kink in pop culture, especially in the wake of Sabrina Carpenter’s Man’s Best Friend album cover, and whether it’s empowering, degrading, feminist, or “just for the male gaze.”
But the very fact that we're talking about it is exactly why this kind of representation matters, how talking about sexuality forces us to get curious about our own internalised beliefs and narratives.
For those of us that don’t know what I’m talking about, the popstar Sabrina Carpenter recently released an album cover (pictured above) that shows herself, knelt at the feet of a masculine figure who seems to be tugging at her hair. The imagery alludes to a type of power dynamic (domination/submission) common in the kink community. And people have been very worked up about it.
Comment sections on Instagram and Reddit claim that Carpenter has “set the feminist movement by a good 10 years,” and accuse her of feeding the very male gaze mentioned above, how her imagery promotes regressive attitudes and threatens women’s safety, and how the “insanely misogynistic imagery” is “not the slay you think it is.”
And while it’s valid to get curious about imagery like this, and it is also extremely valid to feel shock or discomfort when confronted with loud statements about sexuality, the way this image has been received reminds us why representation in mainstream media is so important, especially when it comes to sexuality. It’s important because it’s been hidden for so long, sexual representation is harm reduction.
What is a “Kink Dynamic”?
To put it briefly, a kink dynamic is any form of agreed-upon roles or relationship dynamic present between two or more people engaging in sexual play for the purpose of enhancing the pleasure in a sexual experience.
This can look like domination/submission, where one person occupies the role of the dominant, meaning the one calling the shots, and the other (or others) occupy a more submissive role, meaning they will obey the dominant, or relinquish a certain amount of power to the dominant, within the context of the kink space.
The key to any kink-based dynamic is the process of negotiation, communication, and consent, that goes into establishing a dynamic.
There is no way of entering a kink space without first communicating intentions and desires, the boundaries and limitations present for each person entering the space, and how things will play out. Without clear communication, understanding of each person’s role, and a thorough understanding of consent, a kink dynamic cannot form.
For some, kink dynamics centralize on power (where one person plays the role of having more power or less) and establishing these roles allows each person to enter into a role that aligns with their desires, fantasies, or parts of their sexuality that haven’t otherwise had space for exploration.
For others, kink dynamics can be more about role-play, taking on the role of a character one might want to explore, a pet, or any other form of behaviour that is relatively outside of their everyday persona. Simply put, kink offers us space to explore.
In the example of Carpenter’s album cover, what we’re seeing is a “pet-play” or domination/submission dynamic, where Carpenter assumes the role of “pet” or “submissive” and the masculine figure takes the role of the “dominant.” This dynamic has also been seen in recent mainstream media in the 2025 film Babygirl.
So why do these media moments create such an uproar online?
The reality is: many of us don’t understand, or aren’t very familiar with, kink.
And how could we be?
For decades, kink and human sexuality in general has been hidden, pathologized, or if and when seen, extremely sensationalized.
Kink has lived in the cultural shadows shrouded in shame, misinformation, porn, and low-budget movies, but when artists like Carpenter bring kink-related imagery into the mainstream, even in a pop-gloss kind of way, they create space for much-needed nuance and cultural unpacking. And even if it feels shocking or clunky, it’s definitely a good thing.
Now let’s be clear, discussing and seeing kink in this way is not necessarily about everyone being into kink all of a sudden. Many of us won’t be and that’s cool. Rather, it’s about creating space for people to talk about their desires and fantasies, and to get curious about their own sexuality, without the shame, fear, and judgment that keeps everything so hush-hush for generations.
Here’s why that matters:
Visibility Helps Normalize, Not Shame
We can’t talk about what we don’t see, which is why many of us have seldom had a chance to discuss their sexualities, and why many of us have never discussed kink.
When we do see kink, it’s almost always extreme, hypersexualized, or framed as deviant in mainstream pop culture. This is why even something as simple as an album cover has the power to get us all in an up-roar, because one image has the power to shift that narrative.
When a public figure uses kink aesthetics unapologetically, it disrupts the idea that desire has to be hidden or sanitized to be valid. Normalizing kink doesn’t mean glamorizing it for everyone, it means removing the knee-jerk shame or “anti-feminist” reaction from the conversation. That’s the first step toward a culture that respects choice and consent, no matter what someone’s desires look like.
Representation Helps Separate Kink from Abuse
This one is so important, especially when a lot of the reactions to Carpenter’s album on social media were about the image being threatening to women’s safety.
I’ll admit, it’s completely fair to question the ethics behind sexualized imagery in an industry that has historically exploited young women for the purpose of sales, but the kink part is not the problem there. The problem there is misogynistic capitalism and abuse of power.
But it’s true that many people still conflate kink with harm.
They assume that any kind of power play must mean someone is being manipulated or abused. That’s what happens when we don’t understand how kink actually works.
In reality, kink often requires more communication, more trust, and more boundaries than “vanilla” sex. But that nuance is lost if all we ever see are tropes and tabloid scandal.
Kink dynamics are extremely intentional, communicative, respectful and consent-based when practiced and explored safely and with understanding of the space. Mainstream imagery that shows kink in intentional, stylized, or even satirical ways, like Carpenter’s cover, can open up conversations about what kink really involves: agency, mutuality, and yes, consent.
Women Using Kink Aesthetics Reframes Power
When femme artists take on kink aesthetics on their own terms, they’re often doing something radically subversive.
They’re not just playing dress-up or fooling around on a stage as big as Carpenter’s, nothing’s an accident. Women don’t get to positions of power such as this without being clever and extremely strategic. Make no mistake about the blonde hair, Carpenter’s imagery is intentional, clever, satirical, and by no means an accident. Images like these are challenging the idea that women’s sexuality is only acceptable when it’s passive or soft, or controlled by a man in a non-kinky way.
The “pet” imagery on Carpenter’s cover isn’t just about submission, it’s about flipping the script.
It forces people to reckon with their own assumptions: Who’s in control here? Who’s performing for whom? Is this sexy because it’s uncomfortable, or because it’s unexpected, or because it has self awareness?
With the knowledge that kink dynamics are consensual and agreed upon, this imagery actually puts the power in the woman’s (or the sub’s) hands, and that makes it sexy.
Kink aesthetics in the hands of women don’t necessarily feed the male gaze, they interrogate it, complicate it, and they remind us that sex doesn’t have to be palatable in order to be valid. Which of course, nudges us to question which of our own desires we’ve kept quiet because they might sit outside what we’ve learned to be acceptable?
Representation Creates Educational Entry Points
The internet has made kink more visible than ever, but visibility doesn’t always equal understanding.
People still feel awkward talking about it, even if they’re curious, and even if they’ve had thoughts or fantasies that don’t fit the “norm.” What was your reaction when you saw the title of this article?
Did it feel interesting, confronting, taboo, exciting? What did you notice in your body when you scrolled by the title with the word “kink” in it?
Mainstream representations, especially ones that are playful, theatrical, or satirical, can act as gateways. They give people permission to ask questions, and they open the door to learning, whether that’s about the difference between dom/sub and abuse, or what safe, consensual kink actually looks like.
If seeing a pop album makes someone Google “what is pet play?” and they land on something thoughtful instead of judgemental or fear-based, and if it causes them to get curious about their own sexuality and dynamics that might be interesting to them, then that’s a win.
It Helps Challenge Outdated Sex Myths
The discomfort people feel when they see kink in mainstream media often isn’t about the kink itself, it’s about what they were taught to believe about sex.
Beliefs that sex should be private, that it should align with some form of morality we were taught, or that sex is only valid or “good” if it’s in the context of love, marriage, and/or monogamy, are the building blocks for the sexual confinement so many of us experience throughout our entire lives.
But sexuality is a vast landscape that expands far beyond the confines of how it has existed in western culture and the boxes we put ourselves in, especially when we consider how women’s sexuality has been packaged in such rigid, passive, fear-based stories.
The “rules” we’ve been taught about sex were written to create fear and control people, especially women and queer folks. Representations of kink, and kink itself, disrupts that. It asks, “What if my pleasure looks different? What if my version of intimacy involves power play, or role play, or surrender on my terms?” And the key is that it is on the terms of the individual, not the culture.
When we see kink outside of a shame-based framework, we start to challenge the idea that there’s only one “healthy” way to do sex, and that’s something our culture desperately needs because it prompts us to question how we as individuals view sexuality, how we experience pleasure, how we want to feel during sex, what we truly want to experience.
It Validates People Who Already Engage in Kink
Maybe the most overlooked piece of this whole conversation is that representation isn’t just for the curious, it’s also very much for the people who are already living it.
People who have been made to feel weird, broken, isolated, or “too much” because their desires don’t match what we’ve been told is acceptable matter in the sexual landscape. We all need to feel safe to explore and share ourselves, and kink representation reminds us that sexuality isn’t all just about body oils, rose petals and missionary (though we do love missionary). It’s also about expanding our understanding of sensation, pleasure and play. It’s about curiosity.
Seeing something even loosely reflective of your sexual identity in pop culture, even if it’s campy or exaggerated, can be powerful because it says: You exist, you’re not alone, your desires don’t have to stay hidden. Representation reminds us all that we matter.
It’s About Curiosity
So no, Sabrina Carpenter’s album cover isn’t the deepest or most radical depiction of kink ever, but that’s not necessarily the point.
The point is that it exists in the mainstream at all and that it’s sparking dialogue.
People are mad, confused, intrigued, excited, and in all of their reactions, they’re talking and thinking about sex, their own desire, and maybe engaging in fantasy. Maybe they’re even having conversations with their friends, partners, or play partners about their desire in a way they never have before. Maybe they’re watching new porn.
Whatever the experience of seeing this imagery ignites in you, good. Get curious about it. Even if your reaction feels negative or uncomfy, good. Get curious about it.
Ask yourself:
Where did I learn that this is wrong or bad?
When did I stop allowing myself to explore, and why?
Where did I learn about sexuality, and what were the values of that space?
What have I been taught about kink?
What have I not been exploring, for fear of what it says about me?
The strong reactions we’ve seen on socials tells us something else, too. It tells us we’re still afraid of women’s and queer people’s sexual agency, we’re still afraid of desire that doesn’t serve a tidy, patriarchal storyline.
But if we keep showing our sexuality, and reclaiming how we express it, loudly, creatively, messily, and with intention, we start to break those old scripts.
And that’s when real cultural change starts to happen.