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When I was in the fifth grade, two major things happened: I had a crush on a boy, and Hilary Duff’s “Why Not” came out. Under this combination’s powerful sway, I devised a foolproof plan: I was going to burn a CD that had only that one song on it, and I would give that CD to my crush, thus inspiring him to “take a crazy chance” and confess his feelings for me. (He’d never indicated any interest, but, as the first verse of “Why Not” suggests, this is often the ultimate sign someone is besotted with you.) In the end, I chickened out, so we’ll never know what could have been. But I’ve remained a Hilary Duff stan: Though a tweenage crush can be all-consuming, I look back on this experience as one primarily about the power of music. “Why Not” convinced me anything was possible, even that the boy who played football at recess might be waiting for me to put it all out there.
Coming from that place of appreciation, I’m disappointed by Duff’s latest single, “Roommates.” Though it’s the most NSFW song of her career, it’s painfully devoid of any joyful, intimate riskiness. In “Roommates,” Duff reflects on a once-hot romance that’s stagnated with time. She hints at something very real when she sings about feeling overlooked and paranoid about “all the shiny cute girls” her partner might prefer to her, but the rest of the track, in all its unblushing sexual bravado, just comes off like she’s trying to convince me that Lizzie McGuire fucks now.
The sex acts Duff mentions are overblown to the point of losing credibility. When she sings, “Back of the dive bar, giving you head,” all I think is, Sorry, Hil, I don’t believe you! Perhaps if it were a sneaky OTPHJ, or if you moved things to the bar bathroom, but not even the proudest skanks I know are risking a misdemeanor to openly suck dick in a place of business. Lyrics about “touchin’ myself looking at porn” feel both lewd and clinical in their nonspecificity — either give me a euphemism, or tell me what’s turning you on. (Another version of this verse is, “Touchin’ myself by the front door.” What?)
It all feels performatively horny, and not in the fun way where you’re knowingly hamming it up. A lot of pop girls these days want to take a lesson from Sabrina Carpenter, but they don’t have the right balance of confidence, sincerity, and humor. When Carpenter does a Slutty Little Pop Anthem, she pulls it off because she knows she’s being performative and selling it with all she’s got. You simply can’t sing an entire song about giving a “house tour” of your vagina if you’re going to do it solemnly or coyly — if you’re going to be ridiculous about sex, as we all must from time to time, do it with your whole chest! Carpenter’s performative horniness feels earned and true to her. Many of her fellow pop girlies are trying to duplicate her approach, but the duplication is the problem. It doesn’t sound like they mean what they’re singing.
Taylor Swift’s “Wood” is the clearest example of the recent “Look, you might think I’m a good girl — but I have sex!” trope. When Swift sings about being “ah-matized,” refusing to say the word “dick” in a song about having her thighs unlocked — ew — it comes off as both crude and uncomfortably sterile. No one is getting hot and bothered by innuendos about your fiancé’s football podcast. This is especially disheartening considering Swift has shown us she can do the horny song and do it believably — when she says her bedsheets are ablaze and the altar is her hips, I believe her: She’s writing about sex as her gauzy, confessional self, in the style she’s most at home in.
When your job is literally performing, it makes all the more sense to commit in full to performative horniness. It’s certainly a better option than allusions that manage to be gross and chaste all at once. Go ahead — wear lingerie in a music video and sing about what you like in bed. Just don’t expect me to believe that you’re giving open-air blowjobs, especially as a famous person.
Consider what I’m saying the opposite of slut-shaming: I wholeheartedly support Hilary, or any other pop artist, embracing her inner freak, and I remain hopeful about the album. (“Mature” is a bop.) But good lyrics about sex are like sex itself: Unless you’re able to bare it all, let go, and not take yourself too seriously, it’s not going to be much fun. So tell me: What kind of porn was it?
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Romance: Dead? Not so fast. Every Saturday, Amy Rose Spiegel investigates sex and love–based mysteries with help from the Cut’s friends and readers.
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