There’s perhaps no worse breed of “man” than the music snob–the one who will either only listen to Bach like the skull fucker he is or only go to or participate in DIY shows like an elitist motherfucker pretending to be a “man” of the people. There is no in-between with “men” when it comes to music. They’re either “classicist”-loving pretension-wads or angst-ridden alt rock/indie adoring fuckboys. And if they do love or even vaguely appreciate pop music, you’re probably fucked anyway because it generally signals a predilection for their love of other “men” in addition.
Even so, just because a “man” might cringe when he hears the opening, dated notes to “…Baby One More Time” doesn’t mean he ought to begrudge you one of your few simple pleasures in life, often, these days involving the making of a video of some variety to go along with your lip syncing. And anyway, is it a crime if your body responds to the frothy melodies of a pop star like Ariana Grande or the so-called vacuous lyrics of women so frequently describing being abandoned and done wrong in the most upbeat way they can? (e.g. “Sorry” by Beyonce). How else are they (and the women they appeal to) supposed to cope with the constant disappointments and fuckery if not shaking it off with the type of ditty that laments, “You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline” while also allowing you to move your arse on the dance floor? So no, do not begrudge a lady her devotion to pop music. She doesn’t hold it against you when you splooge over Radiohead, after all.