How the West F*cked Love

A.J.Co., Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The 90s paved over more than parking lots. We buried something softer. Something we earned, but were chronically coerced to forget. 

I thought we were fine, traditional, confused people. Now I know we aren’t normal, nor traditional. But we were. 

Where did we jump the shark? Why did we grab the tow line? And did we ask for this? 

Desire

Merchants the world over have always known our desires. And our deepest of all is no secret. Sex is allegedly the oldest service.                     

Trinkets, opium, and tea were afterthoughts. 

And despite these devices, many of our ancestors loved, laughed, and revered each other's company. A tradition passed down not through morals, but rather social instinct. Treat other people well; it’s simple. 

By the 1950s, it was clear that love stories were not figments of our imagination but very real possibilities. You could treat someone to royalty on a modest salary – not before yourself, of course. And with lust came consumerism. And with it, smarter merchants. 

Soap and perfume were the first ads to use sex. There’s no irony here: these products were made for desire. The ads merely perpetuated the old narrative. The perfume will help with the first encounter, and the soap will encourage more. 

The strategy started early — Woodbury’s 1911 “A Skin You Love to Touch” ad is often cited as the first to eroticize hygiene. By the 1980s, Calvin Klein’s campaigns were so explicit that they were banned in several countries, but sales skyrocketed. Studies later confirmed that sexual appeal boosted attention, not affection.

By the mid-80s, it was risky business as usual: sex sold soap, perfume, cars, and cigarettes. While desire-based generalisations became “the norm”. 

Men needed stuff to seem attractive, and women needed stuff to please them. 

This paradigm was self-perpetuating simply because it played on an artefact — one as old as time — procreation.  

The media generalised us later than the merchant corps. At the very least, we can say early-90s American pop culture was less decadent than the latter years. No Doubt was just sort of talking about being a girl in a rotten world, Kurt was just a depressed fella, and the Presidents of the United States of America just liked peaches. It was modest, interesting… telling. 

Gwen especially gave pop a new vibe. And yet, her message was less a message and more her story. Something we all ate up. It was personal, captivating, and empowering. 

By the late 90s, Puff Daddy and All About the Benjamins rocketed into Discmans, along with the Spice Girls, Britney, and Christina Aguilera. And let's not forget boy bands. 

Around the same time, researchers began tracking MTV's visual language. A later 2011 study found women in music videos were ten times more likely to be shown in sexualized positions than men, and far less likely to speak on camera.

The lion's share of these new, curated artists had one thing in common. They sold a state rather than a story. The videos were dripping with desire, things, them. 

It was less about a tragic kingdom and more about self-indulgence. 

By the time we got to the early millennium, “popular” songs were more about sex and violence than the 80s song titled “Sex and Violence”. 

Who knows, this increase in hedonism could have been reverbs from the 60s, both of which, aftershocks from the heavy-handed religious repression of sex that preceded their rise. 

Regardless of how it began, the message was clearly different. Amoral. And many people turned to niche artists. But the damage was done. By now, there was a feedback loop. At the dawn of the 21st millennium, men were convinced that money was the key to love, and women were convinced it was them —or, worse, their reflection. 

Capitalists 

Across Ontario during these heydays, one store was rising higher than the rest. A store that focused first on medicine, then on beauty. Women were already the pharmacy's best friend, but Shoppers Drug Mart took it a step further with makeup desks, professional displays, and covering up the lines between health and appearance. 

They read the room. Women are buying — not only buying but stealing. Many morally sound girls who wouldn’t hurt a fly were now compelled to rob a store. Why? 

“Because everyone had make-up. And without it, you cannot find love.” Pushed sentiment 

Obviously, not every girl believed this, but as far as their friends were concerned, cosmetic stores were selling the geriatric spice. 

Then you had birth control. Women were now not only convinced they were more desirable on birth control, but it was also endorsed by doctors and could bring regularity. Which seems rather hard to resist. Safe, normal, advised. 

Women weren’t faced with real choices at this time. They either had to go full damsel or reject the pop culture completely. 

The results were apparent. Suddenly, every girl was a model and on birth control. And the more attractive women got, the more desirable sex seemed to men. Not that we needed any help with that. But men were now waterboarded with wants. Not stories, narratives, or lessons, just sex, things, and desires. 

Furthermore, women were now spending a small fortune on their appearance, another injustice tipping the scales.  

Love as proof of status

Only Hollywood could tell us how we went from Indiana Jones, an adventurous professor seeking wisdom, to Fast and the Furious, a bald man who preferred to rob trucks while they were moving. Perhaps Top Gun was the spark — it burned through more than just sound barriers.

Maverick, on paper, was male peak.  

Everybody wanted to be a pilot. It's the ultimate extension of the knight. A lightning-fast warrior capable of reigning righteous fury. 

And yet, he fell short of our hearts. He was no knight. He refused teamplay and showboated, and in the end, acquired everything he desired, albeit Goose. 

“Popular” heroes went from blue-collar, chivalrous dudes like Luke Skywalker and John McClane to Jerry Maguire, a sports agent who learns emotional intelligence through capitalism, and Pretty Woman, the inverted Cinderella story.

These were all just reflections of society, but were they our society? Was Hollywood holding a mirror to us? Or itself? 

There was a counter culture, as per tradition. Fight Club struck back at the ugly face it recognised. And yet, did it? The Narrator character in Fight Club begins with a soul sucking job, and his life turns into a complete dumpster fire when he goes off the deep end. Cool endings aside, this is no counter-narrative. In the end, it's more of a whip. Especially compared to a carrot like Top Gun. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love that movie, but I still have the taste of gunpowder in the back of my throat. Back then, it felt like we were either stuck watching capitalistic circle jerks or obtusely depressing dramas. Gone were the days of our heroes passing on treasure and beating up Nazis. Now we were faced with reality and fragility, with the solution often being money, power, or nuclear weapons. 

What was this reflecting? Society? Capitalism? Corporate? Who knows, we could scarcely count the mirrors, let alone trace the reflection through all the shattered panes.  

Digital Love < Digital Lust 

As our trust in Hollywood wilted, so too did our love of the “traditional” bar scene. Frustrated, we had to drink in loud places for companionship; we looked elsewhere and often came up empty. Especially when it came to traditional meeting institutions like communities. 

In Ontario, communities were often tied to churches, which meant secular people were shit out of luck. Lack of community means a lack of forced but safe contact among like-minded people. People see a community as a collection of people who already trust each other because they’re sanctioned… They’re present. 

Communities had the power to offset much of the generalisations propagated by the media, and they did exactly that in Europe, along with quelling hypocrisy. It’s too bad they were dying across the American continent. 

So, with our bleak options for contact being school, work, or bars, it was no wonder dating apps were a hit. I jumped in vehemently. Plenty of Fish was where I started, and when I think of the amount of time I sunk into the apps over the years, it's aggravating. And yet, we all learned a lot about ourselves. 

When I compare it to the time and money wasted at bars like the Manor House, it's not so bad. The Manor House, despite the unfortunate name, was not a bordello; it was just a bar where people went to feel social. Or sorry, to pretend they were social.   

Regardless of time spent, the bars were a rejection simulator for most, and dating apps favoured the hottest ten percent. It’s no wonder we all became jaded and withdrawn. 

Furthermore, our past sexual but fruitless endeavours did nothing to curb the generalisations of the late century. Now we all knew what we didn’t want, or rather, we had triggers and red flags. 

But we kept swiping. Some of us, lucky enough to match. 

And yet, after the tenth “I need to make sure you’re not a serial killer first,” I started wondering if I was doing something wrong—or if we all were. 

Either way, I withdrew, like millions of others. Probably around 2018, but those years are all a blur. 

Why do people withdraw? Well, people don’t make dating profiles for pen pals. So after the twentieth prejudice message arrives with no commitment on a date or meeting, the tendency is to move on. 

By then, we all heard the common dating site anecdotes: men are just there for sex, and women only want a free drink. 

But the truth was, most people didn’t enjoy being single. They’d rather share their bed and their life with someone in a relationship. 

Despite this reality, we still had to sell ourselves for sex or performance first in order to find a long-term connection. Obviously, this had a disastrous effect on our hearts and minds. And sowed nothing but more mistrust.   

It felt like we all had to sit on the casting couch for love. We had to be hired. Whether it was for sex or money, they were intrinsically linked. And the question was moot. 

Here We Are

Now, many of us have grown. And many of us have met unique deities of the opposite fitting, a slap in the face to the biased pop-narratives of our youth. We’ve had our morals vindicated. We understand genitals do not define greatness. 

Dating apps that once cashed in on loneliness are fading, and the ones that promise connection — even half-heartedly, like Hinge — are taking their place. It’s a small step in the right direction. 

But if we can’t trust each other, can any app really help? Or if we’re only judging by looks, can we expect connection?

It’s up to us. We need to bring back warmth. It’s not impossible, but rather natural. 

A society's ability to love is much more complicated than any one article can cover. In the Americas, our lust for the new, fast, and well-lit future destroyed much of what made us human. 

And yet, when our ancestors ran from war, kings and tradition, they took some things with them. Things they earned over centuries of living together. Things like trust. And it will take more than a couple decades of counter-counter-culture to pave over that.  

We can see the healing, which implies it’s only a wound. Popular belief may wrap up the many, but there's always the few. 

A few people to believe in each other and perpetuate the just.