TikTok’s problem child has 7 million followers and one proud mom

A rumour radiated down the halls of Timber Creek High School in Orlando in mid-September: Jenny Popach was in the enrolment office. Students swarmed the 15-year-old TikTok star as she walked to class in Converse sneakers and a hoodie. “Are you really that girl on TikTok?” they asked. “Are you actually Jenny Popach?”

Roselie Arritola, who goes by Jenny Popach on TikTok, had been looking forward to her sophomore year. She’d been expelled from another school for calling one of her teachers a “perv” in a TikTok video, and after two years of online schooling and a move to a new city, she was hoping to make some friends. “Yep,” Arritola replied to the crowd. “That’s me.”

She dropped out of Timber Creek after four days. “People started recording me out of nowhere, asking stupid questions,” she says. “It was, like, totally chaotic.”

Arritola is one of TikTok’s most controversial teen stars, with 7 million followers. Her popularity stems in part from hypersexual posts — what she describes as “shock-value content” — in which she twerks in string bikinis, body rolls in hot pants or drops innuendo in captions (“When men can go to jail for being with you”). In the past year, fashion brands eager to capitalise on her sex appeal have paid her a small fortune to wear their clothes.

For TikTok’s trust and safety team, whose job is to moderate the platform’s content, protect its users and defend the company’s reputation, Arritola is a problem child. She’s a bona fide influencer — the second-most-coveted profession for kids, behind only doctor, according to a 2019 survey conducted in the UK by marketing company Awin Inc. TikTok wants popular creators like Arritola on its platform, but she’s posting content so risqué that the trust and safety team doesn’t seem to know what to do with her.

A group of online hall monitors has appointed itself to fill the void, calling out what they view as child exploitation and criticising teen creators, their parents and TikTok. In January, after the company received a flood of complaints about Arritola’s videos, her account was deactivated for violating its community guidelines. While TikTok didn’t provide specific reasons, its rules for protecting the safety of minors ban content that implies participation in sexual activities by anyone under 18 or that depicts a minor wearing minimal clothing, lip-syncing to sexually explicit song lyrics or performing dance moves such as twerking, breast shaking or pelvic thrusting. Jenny Popach did it all.

Two weeks after the deactivation, the account was reactivated. In May, it was shut down and reinstated again. In September, Arritola’s videos disappeared, and she was blocked from posting for a few weeks. TikTok says it can’t comment on individual accounts for privacy reasons, but the three about-faces left some users wondering what, exactly, the company’s child safety policies are.

If nothing else, they show that moderating teenage content is so complex that it verges on impossible. TikTok has teens saying it should dial down its moderation efforts and stop infringing on their rights. It has watchdogs saying it should dial up its moderation efforts or risk promoting child pornography and sexual abuse. Both groups agree that whatever TikTok is doing, it’s doing it wrong.

Since the app was launched in 2016, its owner, Beijing-based ByteDance Ltd., has grown from a valuation of $10 billion to $300 billion, much of it driven by its success with minors. About 70% of US teens from age 13 to 17 are on TikTok, according to a recent Pew Research Center survey, and 1 in 6 say they use it “almost constantly.” They create, edit and post millions of short videos a day.

Hypersexual teen content proliferates across all social media platforms. But TikTok’s algorithm rewards controversial posts that capture viewers’ attention, promoting them on it's For You landing page, a curated feed delivering an endless stream of personalised content to the platform’s 1 billion users. Interviews with more than two dozen current and former trust and safety team members from around the world suggest that, while TikTok’s formula has helped it be No. 1 with a young audience, it’s also caused major headaches and could pose the biggest risk to its business. Last week, Indiana’s attorney-general sued the company, claiming it’s a “wolf in sheep’s clothing” that exposes children to harmful content.

The company says that its platform celebrates creativity, not shock value, and that its policies are focused on preventing harm to minors. It notes that it removed more than 200 million videos in the first half of the year, more than 40% of them for violating child-safety rules. But 20 billion clips were uploaded during that time, and no matter how many moderators TikTok hires — about 40,000 and counting — it never seems to be enough. “The challenge is our work is never over,” says Julie de Bailliencourt, TikTok’s global head of product policy. “There is no finish line.”

The hypersexualization of teenagers is just one of many issues related to the safety of minors that TikTok is confronting. They include the addictive nature of its algorithm, which delivers videos to impressionable young users, and the popularity of potentially dangerous games, including the blackout challenge, which has led to the deaths of at least 15 preteens in the past 18 months. But hypersexualization is drawing particularly loud complaints.

In February, in response to pressure from lawmakers, TikTok said that it would place new restrictions on “overtly sexually suggestive” content and that users under the age of 16 would no longer be eligible to appear on the For You page. The new rule won’t affect Arritola, who built her millions-strong following by landing on this global stage from the time she was 13. She turned 16 in November, so she can continue right on appearing there, performing as suggestively as ever.

TikTok’s problems with minors began in 2018, when it merged with Musical.ly, a lip-syncing app with roots in China. Unlike US social media platforms, which set an age limit of 13 to abide by federal child privacy laws, Musical.ly didn’t ask users for a date of birth, and many of its top creators were preteens. The US Federal Trade Commission fined ByteDance $5.7 million in 2019 for collecting data on kids under 13, the largest fine it had imposed at the time.

Later that year, TikTok overhauled its trust and safety team, which had about 2,000 full-time moderators, mainly based in Beijing. It hired experts from Facebook, Google, Twitter and other US companies to help redesign its policies with a more American focus. It created a US safety team based in Los Angeles, separate from its global team, which has moderators in 90 regions around the world. And it recruited thousands of people from rival platforms. The department is now one of its biggest budget line items, accounting for more than $1 billion annually, according to a person familiar with the unit’s finances who asked to remain anonymous because they’d signed a nondisclosure agreement.

One former West Coast trust and safety leader, who also asked to remain anonymous for the same reason, says the influx of workers was overwhelming. “They were hiring tonnes and tonnes of people, but there was no clarity in the roles,” he says. Job titles kept mysteriously changing, and it was difficult to find out who was in charge.

Some insiders say features that trust and safety wanted were watered down by teams responsible for growth and other priorities. When a plan to offer live-streaming was proposed, team members suggested that it be tabled until protections could be put in place. In particular, some wanted it to include a five-second delay, enough time for at least some artificial intelligence moderation. Instead, live-streaming was rolled out without the delay. (A TikTok spokeswoman said she was “not able to confirm” that anyone had requested a five-second delay. She said the company has tools in place to create a safe live-streaming experience and that it favours a nonhierarchical culture in which people at all levels are encouraged to voice their opinions. She declined to comment on the size or budget of its trust and safety team.)

“Young people don’t fully understand what these platforms are doing,” the former leader says. “They don’t know the worldview being singed into their brain as a result of seeing a skinny model dancing on their For You page all the time.” He says he wanted TikTok to hire child psychologists and tweak the algorithm to make it safer for young users, and when the company didn’t, he quit. “Here I was, a late-20s privileged guy making rules on what is and isn’t allowed for a 14-year-old girl,” he says. “And that’s weird.”

In early 2020, that user demographic became trust and safety’s top priority. Alex Zhu, TikTok’s CEO at the time and the former co-CEO of Musical.ly, would watch the app on his daily commute in Los Angeles. Several team members say he told them he was embarrassed by what he saw, describing it as “creepy” for an adult man to be fed clips of young girls dancing in a sexualised way.

The guidelines on twerking and pelvic thrusting were already in place, but it was on trust and safety to decide how far a pelvis had to thrust to break TikTok’s rules. Zhu, who now works on product strategy at ByteDance and didn’t respond to requests for comment, said they were letting it go too far. He told them to fix the problem.

On a sweltering Tuesday morning in June, Roselie Arritola opens the door of a mobile home in Orlando wearing a baggy hoodie over unbrushed hair. “Hello,” she says timidly.

I’d been watching Arritola’s posts for months and had grown used to seeing her in bodysuits or miniskirts, with bold makeup and 2-inch fake nails. The girl before me is soft-spoken and ingenuous, even childlike. Walking into her bedroom, she apologises for the “gigantic mess.” She sits cross-legged on the corner of her unmade bed and starts applying eyeliner in Jenny Popach’s trademark cat-eye style. She’s surrounded by costumes from old TikTok posts. A white satin glove lies by the wardrobe door, a red velvet bodysuit hangs off the television, and a tangle of hair extensions pools on the floor. “Jenny Popach is just what you’re gonna find on social media. This is me,” Arritola says, hand on chest. “Roselie is me, but I feel like life is easier for Jenny.”

Despite Arritola’s millions of followers, she says she has no “real friends.” Those who try to befriend her usually do so just to increase their own following. She knows her content is controversial, she reads the judgmental comments, but she doesn’t consider her posts to be overly sexual. “I’m not on a pole, like, strip-dancing,” she says. “Why should I not be doing something that is so normal to teenagers because the weirdo in the corner is watching me with provocative thoughts? Why should I leave? That’s not getting rid of the perverted men.” Plus, having critics throwing shade is just part of the influencer game. “If you don’t have haters,” Arritola says, “you ain’t poppin’.”

I ask if she’s in danger — many of her followers have asked, in seriousness, whether she’s been kidnapped and needs to be rescued or if her parents are forcing her to perform, causing the hashtag #SaveJennyPopach to trend. “No,” Arritola says, laughing. “I’m literally a normal 15-year-old girl just going through life on social media.” That life consists of sleeping in, doing a few hours of online school, applying makeup, choosing a “cute outfit” and driving around downtown Orlando until midnight, filming TikTok videos in swanky locations such as the Ritz-Carlton. One time, Arritola says, giggling, “We were kicked out by security because my followers called the hotel and told them I was being sex-trafficked by my mom.”

Her mom, Maria Ulacia, found it funny, too. “Yeah, they thought I was pimping her out,” she says. A mother of six, Ulacia has no qualms about Arritola’s social media stardom. If anything, she’s revelled in it, even when her daughter had half a million followers on Musical.ly at the age of 10. “We loved it. We loved the attention,” Ulacia recalls, sitting on her front stoop wearing a burnt orange minidress and dark purple lipstick, drinking gin out of a Styrofoam cup in the early afternoon. “I knew I’d be famous one day,” she says. “I believe in destiny, and I believe in manifestation, and I believe Roselie is that.”

Arritola got her first big break in early 2020, when she flew to Los Angeles with her mother to try to start the first “Junior Hype House.” The original Hype House was a mansion in the Hollywood Hills where 11 of America’s most popular TikTok stars over the age of 16 had been living. Arritola was only 13, and Ulacia wanted to create a similar shared home for creators closer to her daughter’s age. They sneaked into the empty Hype House and filmed videos in the bathrooms and on balconies made famous on TikTok. The since-deleted clips blew up fast, reaching millions of views in a matter of hours.

The backlash also came quick. The Hype House squad accused Arritola of trespassing and stalking. Lil Huddy told his 32 million followers she’d taken his clothes. Paper Yates told his 13 million followers she’d flushed their goldfish down the toilet. Arritola denied stealing or flushing anything and said she and her mother had been invited to enter the house by a caretaker. But some people called her TikTok’s “most hated creator” anyway. Others told her to kill herself.

In posts, she asked people to back off on the “sui threats,” referring to suicide: “Ever since I have started social media I was continuously hated on for my appearance, for the way I dressed, for being who I am.” Amid the controversy, her follower count doubled, to almost 1 million, and she started appearing on TikTok’s For You page.

The algorithm that determines what gets on that page is designed to keep users on the app as long as possible, according to an internal document seen by Bloomberg BusinessWeek. The document, titled Algo 101 and first reported on by the New York Times, says TikTok’s “ultimate goal is to increase daily active users.” It notes that videos are scored based on duration, likes and comments and that “repetitiveness leads to boredom.”

The Hype House controversy helped Arritola internalise these lessons. She leaned into the bad-girl persona and started to post undeniably risqué content, wearing “No F--- Boy Club” T-shirts or, in a post that generated 3 million views, declaring in a caption “these are the best ways to stretch your [kissing-cat emoji],” then doing the splits before concluding “just get a bf actually.” She also shot clips of herself lip-syncing to lyrics such as “We just met and I just f---ed you,” in clear violation of a TikTok guideline. Many of her posts used the hashtag #FYP, a signal that she hoped to land on the For You page to get more followers and more fame.

The person at TikTok who oversees decisions about whether posts like these are permissible is Tracy Elizabeth, who started as head of global policy for minor safety in early 2020. Elizabeth came to the company from Netflix Inc., where she’d spent three years managing youth content. She arrived soon after Zhu charged trust and safety with addressing TikTok’s issues with child sexualisation, and early initiatives that she worked on at the company included a policy to block users under 16 from sending direct messages and a family pairing tool that allows parents to monitor their child’s activities on the app.

Elizabeth’s view on teen hypersexualization differs from Zhu’s, though. “Well-intentioned adults need to be very careful not to ascribe unintended sexuality onto teens,” she says when asked about videos like Arritola’s. “Being in a bathing suit at a swimming pool is not necessarily something a teen perceives to be sexy behaviour.”

TikTok aligned trust and safety with Elizabeth’s views, according to current and former team members, encouraging moderators to distinguish whether content was intended to be suggestive or not. That can be a tricky distinction under normal circumstances, but moderators are expected to review 1,000 videos a day and have less than 20 seconds to make a judgment call, on average. Deducing innuendo and other nuances in such a tight time window is particularly challenging with actions and speech compared with written text or static images, some say. Moderators were trained to adopt an “if in doubt, leave it up” mantra, and four trust and safety policy leaders recall being asked to be lenient on creators with more than 5 million followers. TikTok contests this, saying its rules apply to “everyone and everything” on the platform.

In November 2021, Arritola posted a video of herself twerking in skimpy denim shorts and a Hooters crop top. It got 61 million views and drew renewed scrutiny after the Great LonDini, a group that highlights cyberbullies and child exploitation, shared some of Arritola’s videos with its 9 million followers. “That is 15-year-old Jenny Popach,” said one member of the group wearing a Joker mask and speaking in an electronically distorted voice. “This child has over 6 million followers. The majority of those followers are adult males. This content is not only unacceptable, but it violates almost every guideline TikTok has, so please join me in reminding them of that.” (The Great LonDini’s flair for demographics might not be as strong as its flair for dramatics: About 25% of Jenny Popach’s followers are adult males, not the majority, according to influencer marketing company Captiv8. Its numbers do show that more than 200,000 of those accounts belong to men over 35.)

The next day, Sarah Adams, a Vancouver mother of two who uses the handle @mom.uncharted, reposted one of Arritola’s videos. Made when Arritola was 14, it shows her brother tearing Christmas wrapping off her to expose her standing in a string bikini. “Is this what teens are doing now?” Adams asked her 20,000 followers. She questioned why TikTok had left the video up when its community guidelines ban content depicting a minor undressing. TikTok responded by taking down Adams’s post for violating the safety of a minor. It left Arritola’s up.

Adams started her account last year after growing concerned at what she calls “sharenting” on TikTok, or the oversharing of kids by their parents. “I’m raising two kids in this generation, and there’s no handbook,” she says, referring to what’s appropriate to post online. “There are no studies to see what the long-term impacts are going to be.” Her account now has 160,000 followers.

Some toddler-based accounts have millions. One, featuring a 3-year-old named Wren Eleanor, has 17.4 million. It’s run by her mother, and much of its content is age appropriate. But some of the most popular posts show the girl in a swimsuit, and in one she pretends to shave her pubic region with a razor, part of a trend where parents give their kids adult items and film what they do with them. Other mother-run accounts of preteen girls have encouraged followers to pay for photographs of the children in bikinis. “Who do they say are going to buy those photos?” Adams asks. “I can tell you it’s not little Suzie down the road.” Many critics refer to such content as “CP,” an abbreviation of child pornography.

To demonstrate how problematic some of these child star accounts are, Adams has paid third-party data providers to see the demographics of their followers. She found one 11-year-old girl with more than 100,000 followers, 96% of whom were male.

Late last year, one of Adams’s followers directed her to the Jenny Popach account. Adams was shocked by the minimal clothing, the dance moves, the explicit lyrics and the comments viewers were making. When Adams posted about the Christmas-wrapping video, Ulacia reported Adams to TikTok for harassing Arritola and unfairly sexualising her daughter.

Trust and safety insiders say feuds like this are frustrating to deal with and it’s hard for moderators to know how to respond. The platform tends to regard adults criticising minors as problematic, so posts that do this are often removed. TikTok declined to comment on specific disputes among users, but the company has strict rules against bullying. One of them, posted on its website, says: “It is critical that people feel safe to express themselves without fear of bullying or harassment on the platform.”

Last year the global influencer market was worth $13.8 billion, according to Statista, a German research firm. It’s expected to grow to $24.1 billion by 2025, and many teenagers are profiting. Arritola has brand deals with Fashion Nova, PrettyLittleThing and Shein. She just launched a clothing line with Empty Soda and has recently been posing in a pink miniskirt-and-crop-top set with a heart-shaped cut-out on the chest, encouraging her followers to buy it. A spokesperson for Boohoo Group Plc, which owns PrettyLittleThing, said in an email “there are no restrictions on the type of creators we work with.” Fashion Nova, Shein and Empty Soda didn’t respond to requests for comment.

One influencer who’s collaborated with Arritola, 15-year-old Piper Rockelle, has 10.7 million followers on TikTok and millions more on YouTube and Instagram. Piper makes as much as $600,000 a month in ad revenue and brand deals, according to documents filed in a court case against her mother by a group of teens who used to appear in her videos. The teens, former members of the “Piper Squad,” accuse her mother, Tiffany Smith, of financial and sexual exploitation. Among their allegations is that Smith once mailed a pair of her daughter’s used underwear to a fan for money. Smith, who didn’t respond to requests for comment, has filed a countersuit against the teens, denying their claims and alleging defamation.

“Teen Tok is big business,” Adams says. “If parents aren’t going to protect their own children, society has to step up and say, ‘Enough is enough.’ “ She finds it ironic, since she’s a creator who discusses the safety of minors, that TikTok has cited her for violating the safety of a minor. In response, she’s posted videos calling TikTok out for censoring her content and restricting its visibility. “I don’t say the app really enjoys my content or me challenging the status quo and challenging what makes them money — which is the exploitation of children,” she says.

In May, after Arritola’s Jenny Popach account was deactivated, she used another account to fire back at some of her critics. She named the post: “Me in court defending myself from the moms that say they are helping me when they’re sabotaging me.” In the video, she’s seated on the edge of her bed, wearing a skintight black bodysuit, dangly earrings and bright red lipstick to match her 2-inch-long fake nails.

“You were trying to look seggsy for men,” Arritola wrote in a text bubble that pops up on the screen.

“Objection your honour — hearsay,” she responds.

“You can’t wear that at your age,” another text bubble says.

“Objection your honour — leading,” Arritola responds.

“It was for your safety,” reads another.

“Objection your honour — lack of foundation.”

TikTok’s safety advisory councils, created in 2020, brought together academics and other digital-safety experts to offer ideas on how to protect users. Yuhyun Park, a child safety expert on the Asia Pacific council, agrees that youth hypersexualization is a big concern. “They know what they are doing; they are influencers, and they know what they are selling.”

David Polgar, a member of the US advisory council and the founder of All Tech Is Human, an organisation dedicated to making technology more responsible, says that’s not always the case: “Everyone’s definition of sexuality is different.” Platforms shouldn’t view all content through the prism of the predatory male gaze, he argues, but rather from the vantage point of the individual posting it. Creators, especially young and impressionable ones, shouldn’t be punished, because bad actors are engaging with their content.

Polgar is aware that these arguments are convenient for the companies, which have a financial incentive to keep popular creators posting, but he also says there are limits on what the platforms can and should do. They aren’t parents, after all. “Historically, we’ve always had parents who have pushed their children in directions that make us uncomfortable,” he says. But even as “social media is increasing the accessibility and the allure of fame,” platforms shouldn’t be granted the power to override parental judgment. “If we are looking for tech to be the solution for bad parenting,” he says, “we are going to lose.”

Arritola’s fame owes a great deal to her parents’ involvement. In one of her most successful posts, with 167 million views, her father, Jorge, is standing in the background looking horrified as Arritola begins booty shaking on camera. He picks her up and carries her out of the frame, appearing mad at her behaviour. It was likely all for show. Jorge is a truck driver, property manager and quasi-bodyguard for his daughter, travelling around the country escorting her to events. He says he’s proud of her and likes to appear in her videos every now and again “so people see there’s a father there.” Driving to Denny’s for a late-night pancake meal in June, he turns to his daughter, who’s sitting in the passenger seat. “Remember we did that one video I loved? I saw the comments, and it was like, ‘Oh, that dad definitely has guns in the house,’ “ Jorge says, laughing. “I was like ‘Good, my vibe is getting out there.’ “

Ulacia has long been the driving force behind Jenny Popach’s account. When it was deactivated for the first time, she considered applying for a job as a content moderator at TikTok to reactivate it herself. The second time the account was shut down, the family calculated that it cost them $8,000 in brand deals. Mother and daughter flew to Los Angeles, where they stood outside TikTok headquarters and begged a security guard for help restoring the account.

When the reactivation process dragged on, they decided they couldn’t be loyal to TikTok any more and reopened Arritola’s account on FanFix, an app where creators can make money sending exclusive pictures and messages to fans. They’d shut that account down three months earlier, because adult men were offering thousands of dollars for nude photos of Arritola. She resumed posting there in September, offering pictures and private chats with fans who pay $15 a month for a subscription. She says she’s made $23,000 on FanFix but shut the account again in November, because her subscribers weren’t satisfied with photos of her clothed.

“Every TikToker has their own niche,” Ulacia says, cuddling her 6-month-old on a stormy afternoon. “My daughter has one, and if she leans away from that she won’t get the same amount of views.” Arritola’s niche is dancing, Ulacia says, “but that gets a little boring after a while. And you can’t be boring, you know what I mean?”

I ask her to explain.

“We post videos that contain shock value to attract viewers and attention,” Ulacia says. That means “giving the audience something to talk about.” It doesn’t mean, she adds, that she’s exploiting her daughter. She says that she’s setting aside a portion of Arritola’s TikTok earnings in a trust account she’ll have access to when she’s 18, and that she’s supporting her career ambitions. As for the watchdog moms calling her out for parental exploitation, they’re just jealous, she says: “They know their husbands are perving at her.”

Later that afternoon, she tries to direct her daughter and three of her sons, ages 14, 13 and 11, to take part in a TikTok video based on the new Top Gun movie. She pulls costumes out of a box: a camouflage jacket here, an army coat there. Her eldest son, Joey, who’s 20, arrives with a bag of hamburgers, and Ulacia encourages him to take part, too. “Please do it. It will be so good!” she says. “No,” Joey responds. “I don’t want to be in any more weird videos.”

He tells his mother he’s sick of appearing in “suggestive” or “romantic” TikToks that have left people thinking he’s dating his sister. Ulacia pushes back, saying she’s never asked him to make a “romantic video” with Arritola. Raising his voice, Joey reminds her of the time he asked her to take down a TikTok that featured him twirling Arritola around, which had bothered his girlfriend. “We asked you nicely to take it off, and you were like, ‘No,’ “ he says. They continue to argue. Arritola, seated on a couch between them, rolls her eyes and puts her head in her hands. “Oh my God,” she sighs.

Dozens of teen influencers interviewed for this story described doxxing and other forms of harassment that they’ve experienced since becoming TikTok-famous. One 16-year-old says a classmate posted her cellphone number online, prompting hundreds of calls. Another says strangers showed up on her doorstep unannounced. Earlier this year, the New York Times wrote about Ava Majury, a then-15-year-old TikTok star from Florida who had a gun-wielding stalker turn up on her doorstep. Her father shot him dead on their front lawn.

Arritola has had safety scares, too. When she was 13, a man she’d never met sent her a message saying he knew her home address and would be watching her sleep through her bedroom window. She says she couldn’t sleep for weeks afterward.

Polgar, the safety advisory council member, says TikTok and other social media platforms need to do more to warn kids and their parents about the downsides of influencer culture. “There’s a fetishisation to becoming an influencer,” he says, comparing social media to a “fun-house mirror sitting inside a for-profit company” whose incentives don’t align with safety.

In some extreme cases, content posted by and about children is appearing in online threads where men share photos and video stills from posts on TikTok and other platforms. The company says it reports any material it encounters that qualifies as child sexual abuse and any supporting evidence found on its app to legal authorities and the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children. Yet the problem persists.

In July, Arritola says, she bought a black Mercedes-Benz for $20,000 cash. Following a TikTok trend, she soon posted a video from a car wash wearing a skintight bodysuit and white-heeled boots. In it, she lathers herself in foam, washes the car hood with her chest and winks at the camera.

“This feels illegal to witness,” one viewer commented. “Girl, be careful, your license plate is on show,” said another. In a Reddit forum dedicated to Arritola called r/jennypopach, one user shared a screenshot of her bent over the car with the caption: “Imagine f---ing her.” Others on the forum have posted freeze-frames of her “nip slips” and sexualised poses during her dance routines. “Guys, this is CP,” one commenter wrote.

I sent the car wash clip to a former trust and safety team member and asked if he thought the moderators who reviewed it should have removed it.

“No,” he said. “Why would they? She’s fully clothed.”

 Bloomberg