Popular culture

Popular culture seems to idolize a certain way of living. As I listened to “Pop That Pussy” by 2 Live Crew, I couldn’t help but notice the themes: open sex, partying hard, doing drugs, and living without limits. The message is clear—freedom means indulgence. In another one of their songs, “Banned in the USA,” the group pushes back against censorship, arguing that their lyrics are misunderstood and not meant to promote violence or disrespect toward women. They claim to be simply expressing pleasure and freedom in a new era, pushing against the morals of those who don’t understand—likely white, conservative America.

Hearing those lyrics made me reflect on the current state of popular culture, especially from my perspective as a middle-class white guy in my early twenties. Today, in much of rap, movies, and TikTok, there’s this ever-present sense that to be “free” is to act on every desire. If you want to fuck, you fuck. If you want to do drugs, you do them. If you want to party and lose yourself in the moment, that’s celebrated. I've lived on the fringes of that scene—college parties, hookups, blackout weekends—and honestly, I don't get it anymore.

I wanted so badly to be a part of that culture. I thought it would make me feel alive or cool or accepted. But mostly, it brought me misery. Sure, I had sex, but it often left me feeling worse afterward. I drank, but rarely enjoyed it in the moment, and even less the next day. Still, I kept doing it because it seemed like everyone else was. If I didn’t go out, pull women, get drunk, or take part in the whole thing, I felt like I wasn’t really living life—just some square who couldn't keep up.

And yet, my best weekends were the ones I spent staying in. I’d wake up early, clear-headed, and feel grounded. But come Sunday, I’d see people posting stories from bars, concerts, and afterparties, and suddenly I felt like a loser. Like I was missing out.

It wasn’t until I voluntarily stopped having sex for six months that I started to see things more clearly. I realized how compulsive my cravings had become—how much I chased temporary highs that only left me feeling emptier. Even the times I did hook up with someone beautiful, it didn’t fill the hole. If anything, it deepened it. I feel more stable now, like I want something deeper. But then I wonder: is that even possible in this culture? Am I delusional for wanting connection in a world that rewards status, detachment, and performance?

I’ll admit, part of me does want to be that guy—the one everyone notices when he walks in the room, who parties, has options, and never seems to care. But when I actually go out, it doesn’t feel good. The music’s repetitive, the dancing feels forced, and no one really talks to each other. The only thrill is the possibility of something happening. But is the loneliness and regret of thirty nights worth that one good one? For me, the answer is becoming clearer.

I’m not trying to judge anyone. I know people who genuinely seem to enjoy that lifestyle. They’re attractive, they go out often, they’ve got stories. But I also hear about the chaos: bad communication, jealousy, cheating, distrust. That’s not freedom to me. It feels like the kind of pleasure that inevitably turns into pain.

So here I am, stuck in the middle. I don’t want to fully reject fun, but I don’t buy into the version of fun that culture keeps selling. I still want to meet new people. I want connection, excitement, joy. But I want it to be real—not just another night chasing a feeling that disappears by morning.

At the end of the day, I think people should be free to live how they want. But I’m wary of a culture that glorifies attention and instant gratification as the ultimate goals. Because if that’s what freedom looks like, I’m not sure I want it.