These days, talk of the metaverse is inescapable. We take work meetings and suck up to our bosses in a virtual boardroom, attend couture fashion shows alongside BFFs, and even belt out “About Damn Time” at Lizzo and Charli XCX concerts in the world of virtual reality. And pretty soon, we might be having sex in it, too. 

With growing advancements in the world of VR, it’s only natural for people to wonder what might come next. And with the sex industry and sex in general making a large shift to virtual spaces during the pandemic (hello the re-emergence of phone sex and the rise of OnlyFans!), it makes sense that sex and intimacy would be the next step. But what does sex and intimacy in the metaverse actually look like? 

If you’re surprised to hear that sex is going digital, you shouldn’t be. People have been using virtual spaces for the purpose of sex and intimacy since pretty much the internet started. Who doesn’t remember the thrill of messaging your boyfriend semi-naughty things over MSN Messenger? A decade earlier, popular games like Second Life allowed users to engage in intimate and romantic acts in chat rooms.

The reasons why someone seeks intimacy have remained the same, but for some, the prelude has changed from dinner and a movie to logging in from your living room. Online spaces, like the metaverse, allow people a potentially safer space to explore desires, fantasies, kinks, fetishes, and things that they don’t feel comfortable or are unable to pursue in their physical lives. A digital space can also be a place for people with less physical mobility or who don’t have the ability to experience certain types of pleasure IRL. But overall the metaverse is an open playground for anyone. “I want to dispel the myth that folks that would participate in sex or intimate relationships virtually are only people who can’t get it in real life,” says sex and consent educator Samantha Bitty. “The truth is that there are so many different reasons for people to engage in intimate relationships virtually.”

So how does sex in the metaverse actually look, and more importantly, feel? Well, it kind of depends. Just like sex IRL is varied and diverse, so too are sexual experiences in virtual reality. The multi-sensory part of VR means that four of your senses are engaged within the online space, providing users with, “a combination of audio, visual, tactile (haptic), and even olfactory stimulus that lends to a more robust sense of immersion in the digital world,” says Brian Sanchez, lead character artist at RD Land, which specializes in creating safe spaces for cybersex, alongside other VR experiences. Currently in beta, the platform allows gamers to use devices like vests, gloves, and adult toys to engage these senses. Companies like RD Land are hoping to push these boundaries of how users perceive the world around them, by subverting the way their senses react. For example, instead of just playing The Weeknd’s latest album to get you in the mood, you could be in a virtual room where your device will vibrate differently to the beats of horny Drake or upbeat Lizzo and give different sensations. “In our worlds, every sensation can bring pleasure if the user so desires and so allows,” Sanchez says. 

Viro Playspace is also testing the waters. Similar to RD Land, the sex-positive company allows users to fully immerse themselves in different scenarios and engage with digital avatars for pleasure. You can have a one-on-one session with Emy, a vampire from Siberia who needs to consume blood to live, or experience Scalie Seduction, which brings gamers face-to-face with a “smokin’ hot dragon babe.” Other interactions include a sexual encounter underneath a waterfall while out for a hike (no fear of ticks or being caught by other hikers, included), and being dominated by an avatar who “puts the suck in succubus.” (Yes, we’re serious). Unlike RD Land, Viro Playspace is completely focused on fantasy, and produces and sells Bluetooth-enabled adult toys so users can actually physically feel what’s happening to them virtually, like clitoral stimulation, in real life — all while watching it on screen. 

“Technology has evolved faster than our ethics around sex and relationships in those spaces.”

Samantha bitty

Sex in VR is taking the next step of what’s already happening in the sex toy industry (like Bluetooth devices), but doing it in a much more immersive (and arguably) more pleasurable way. “If you look at certain sex toy companies, they have apps where someone could be in Australia on an app and you could be in Canada and they can operate your vibrator or your app and be in possession of the stimulation and the pleasure that you feel,” Bitty says. “So how is that different from if someone was hooked up to a virtual reality?”

In his book, The Metaverse: And How It Will Revolutionize Everything, author Matthew Ball theorizes what sex could look like with ongoing developments in the metaverse, pointing to the development of haptic bodysuits and vests, which allow you to feel virtual environments and stimulate your sense of touch, like feeling rain on your skin or a massage on your shoulder (or… another part of your body). Suits like the Teslasuit, which uses muscle stimulation to simulate real feelings and sensations on your body, currently run for around $20,000, meaning that not many people, aside from maybe millionaires, will be running to get them. But we’re at just the beginning of a burgeoning industry, and gadgets that help you feel the sensory resistance of drawing a bow and arrow in games like In Death: Unchained could also in theory be used for other sensory experiences. 

Specifically, Ball points to the development of CTRL-labs, an armband device that records electrical activity from skeletal muscles and can pick up the smallest of hand gestures — like pointing one finger or beckoning someone — and reproduce it in a virtual world. Although it’s a device that’s most often used for something like a virtual concert, the idea is that it could be used for more sexual or intimate activities. Instead of people throwing hands in the air at a virtual concert, in theory virtual hands could be on you. The opportunities and pleasure are endless. 

Of course, as with anything, there are challenges and drawbacks. There are concerns about safety around unwanted encounters, and some see the metaverse as potential grounds for predators. And we can’t blame them. In May of this year, a report was released detailing several accounts of sexual assault and harassment in the metaverse. But “our outside world is [already] a predatory space.” Bitty says. The real issue surrounding sex in virtual spaces, she says, has more to do with us as people — and the mentality around virtual intimacy — than the actual technology itself. “Technology has evolved faster than our ethics around sex and relationships in those spaces.” We’re still waiting for people to stop taking liberties online, like touching people without their consent or using slurs that they’d never utter in person. “Like with any other kind of sex, we have to treat it with the same ethics and values that we would in our in-person relationships,” she says. “So coming to it with authenticity, empathy, and those sorts of things is really important.”

How we get there — and whether or not we get there — remains to be seen. Experts differ on whether or not the metaverse is officially and actually “here.” Like with anything new, the OG internet, TikTok, or even Instagram, it’ll take time to work out the kinks and figure out what works best for users. 

But virtual intimacy — and the platforms that help users find it — can be vital. Sanchez points to one user who is in a wheelchair and disclosed that sexual intimacy was something they were unable to find or access regularly. “Yet in our [digital] worlds, they could find that type of much needed and humanly vital intimacy without judgment and without any perception of body or gender,” he says. And that’s a big deal. “Our real-world bodies don’t matter,” he adds. “We can choose how we are represented. We can choose a body that feels better to us or allows us to feel in different ways, and have a safe space where we can consentingly engage in exploration around our digital identities.”

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The idea of people going online to watch NSFW material isn’t anything new. For decades, viewers have been covertly opening incognito tabs on their laptops, firing up sites like YouPorn and Pornhub, and consuming adult entertainment from the comfort of their own homes. But for those in the sex work industry, the pandemic accelerated a push to online interactions. Platforms like OnlyFans took off. But while these platforms explicitly allow creators to share sexual content, a number of creators are using more mainstream streaming sites, like Twitch and YouTube, to share what might be seen as NSFW content — within reason — and they’re making money, and building careers, off of it.

For popular streamer Amouranth, the decision to stream sexy content wasn’t the plan from the start of her time on Twitch. Instead, it was a gradual transition. “I never had planned to do it,” she tells Refinery29, “But the opportunity was fairly good and a lot of girls were getting into it, so I was just like, wow, I could do that, too.” 

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She first joined Twitch in 2016 after the streaming platform invited her to share her cosplay costumes online as a way to promote more artistic content. For years, the 28-year-old Houston-based content creator, who declined to share her full name, citing privacy concerns, streamed every day and was steadily growing her audience on the platform. Then in 2019, shortly after Twitch established the “IRL” category, now called “Just Chatting,” which allowed creators to connect with audiences in a more face-to-face way, her viewership skyrocketed.

Amouranth started doing more outdoor and live content at cosplay events, but also from her backyard and an inflatable pool. With her “pools, hot tubs, and beaches” streams — another category launched by Twitch in May 2021 — her following and her income has grown. Often the creator is in a string bikini, sometimes in a cheetah print, other times black and red, perched on a white stool in a maroon and white-lined kiddie pool. A purple neon sign emblazoned with “Shameless” lights the scene, as Amouranth — alongside other creators like Alinity — try hot sauce or talk about her dogs. In other videos under the same category, she still wears her bikini, but instead plays Raid, a popular video game. 

Her bikini-clad streams have, perhaps unsurprisingly, proven popular — and lucrative. As one of Twitch’s top creators, she now boasts over 5 million followers. Currently, Amouranth says she averages around $100,000 a month from Twitch alone, with the number increasing based on ads or sponsorships. “It wasn’t very hard to know it was working for me because my view count went from about 4,000 views [on a video] on average to 10,000 and 13,000, hitting 20,000 and occasionally 30,000.”

Anyone on in the internet will probably know that sexually-charged or implied content is kind of complicated. Primarily because how people view this content changes vastly from person to person — as it does for the platforms streamers might be creating on. Facebook has long been seen as anything but sex-positive, while other platforms like OnlyFans have infamously flip flopped, ultimately landing on the side of supporting and allowing sexual content. Part of the issue with streaming comes from the fact that, at least when it comes to Hot Tubs, Pools, and Beaches, there’s a blurry line between what’s viewed as sex work or sexual and what’s just kind of sexy. (It’s important to note that Amouranth doesn’t classify her videos as sex work, but rather “variety streaming.”) 

new Twitch.Player("twitch-embed", { video: "1533626745" });

This is an issue Twitch ran into earlier last year, launching the designated category in response to critics who were uncomfortable with bikini-clad content under the “Just Chatting” category. In a 2021 blog post, Twitch shared the company’s stance on hot tub stream content, stating: “While we have guidelines about sexually suggestive content, being found to be sexy by others is not against our rules, and Twitch will not take enforcement action against women, or anyone on our service, for their perceived attractiveness.” In a statement to Refinery29, the company elaborated on their decision, saying: “Sexually suggestive content — and where to draw the line — is very complex and highly subjective. In response to community feedback, we have been making steady advances over the past year to better clarify our stance and empower audiences to filter content they may not wish to see on Twitch.” Twitch added, “No one deserves to be harassed for the content they choose to stream, how they look, or who they are, and we will take action against anyone who perpetuates toxicity against streamers who are following our Community Guidelines.” 

For Amouranth, the decision by Twitch to create a dedicated category for this type of content makes sense, and she sees it as a positive sign. “I think it shows that they’re not deciding to strike down against women and their bodies and that they’re supportive of it and they just want to find a solution and make everyone happy, for their creators and the viewers and the advertisers,” she says. 

“Companies will use attractive women to draw in customers and remain memorable. So I definitely do find that annoying, but that’s just how the world is and instead of feeling bitter about it. I just decided to capitalize on it.” 

Amouranth

And, it follows her own ethos. Much of the general pushback Amouranth has received hasn’t come from advertisers or streamers outside of the more NSFW content, “there’s actually more of a bias just from certain viewers,” she says. This takes on a lot of different forms, from people shaming the mostly female creators for showing their bodies on screen, to men who hate to see said women profit and become successful on a still largely male-dominated platform. (According to a recent report, in 2020, 65% of Twitch users were male.) 

And part of this is probably tied to the fact that there’s still so much stigma associated on women’s bodies as sexual objects — and maybe seeing them in all their human glory, essentially just existing — be it while playing video games, swimming, or talking to followers about their day, will help curb that. “I feel like it actually would do the world better if people were more desensitized to human bodies, specifically female bodies,” she says. “If they can just get used to seeing girls in bikinis, maybe they stop freaking out about it and acting weird about it…I feel like this is my body. I’m human. You have a body, too. And we should all just get over it and look past that and move on.”

Plus, in a way, using perceptions about her body is a way of kind of gaming the system to her advantage. ”It doesn’t really bother me, because I kind of just view the world as that’s the way it is,” Amouranth says. “Companies will use attractive women to draw in customers and remain memorable. So I definitely do find that annoying, but that’s just how the world is and instead of feeling bitter about it. I just decided to capitalize on it.” 

It’s a smart business decision too, for both Twitch and the creators on the platform. Across Twitch are a number of creators whose accounts are, like Amouranth, classified as “diverse.” On Amouranth’s channel, you can find hot tub streams alongside videos of her gaming, hosting game shows with other creators, and playing with or educating viewers on her dogs (she has an exotic breed, a Caucasian Shepherd, that she bought to protect her from stalkers).

Streaming and curating her content this way has allowed Amouranth to become an entrepreneur, allowing her the freedom to choose her lifestyle and dreams. “I have a lot of animals and I want to get a ranch and even more animals. So something that allows me to invest and pretty much move wherever I want is really nice,” she says. “I don’t have to be inconvenienced by an office job where I have to clock in hours.”

But like most streamers, Amouranth faces tremendous pressure to capitalize on the moment, something she has become even more aware of as viewership has gone down as people have started to leave their homes after the height of the pandemic. And it can be stressful to feel like there’s a ticking clock on your career longevity, and how behind streamers may be if they need to turn to more traditional careers. “Even though [I make] a lot of money, since we’re all using these platforms during the prime of our life and most people are starting to get really into their careers and networking, none of us are doing that in a professional world kind of sense,” she says. “So if we got banned everywhere or social media just exploded or became irrelevant, it’s very scary to think about having to find a traditional job because we put so many years of our prime time into the media space.”

Earlier this year, Amouranth announced that she’d be moving off of her other platforms — including OnlyFans — and pledged to focus her time on Twitch, including developing a series of shows on the platform. In May, Amouranth produced Streamer Royale, a game show in which popular streamers faced each other in physical competitions. “I feel like my business is in a place where I can make those kinds of investments now and not worry about if I’m going to have enough money if it doesn’t work out,” she says.

Ultimately, Amouranth is using her success to invest in her profession both online and IRL. She wants to open an animal sanctuary and lean hard into producing more content for Twitch. And, her current content is helping her get there. “Right now the appeal [for viewers] might be initially like, ooh girl in a bikini, but there’s so much more [to me].” 

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For pop culture fans, we all know where we were when we first heard the boppy, synthesized opening notes of Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe.” The song by the Canadian songstress has a pretty simple premise: Girl sees Boy. Girl thinks Boy is über cute but is too nervous to act on it. Girl gives Boy her number and asks him to call her. But what those 3 minutes and 20 seconds gave us was something much greater than a fun summer fling of a song: “Call Me Maybe” became a cultural moment — and also served as our 2010s’ blueprint for bang inspo.

For many of us in our teens or early 20s, “Call Me Maybe” anchored as the soundtrack to some of the core and truly fun memories of our most formative years. While the song was initially released in September 2011 on Canadian airwaves, it wasn’t until 2012 that it really blew up. And by blew up, we mean stratospherically blew up, becoming not only the song of the summer, but pretty much of the entire year. It was played at weddings and university parties, and spurred numerous viral lip sync videos. There’s a reason why Billboard named it one of the “Songs That Defined A Decade.”

Regardless of whether you got sick of it being overplayed on the radio or fully stan Carly Rae Jepsen as an underrated and much overlooked pop figure, chances are that you have some feeling or memory associated with it and its instantly recognizable chorus. Maybe it reminds you of your high school crush, bonfires at the beach with your BFFS, or the ill-advised trip you took to Supercuts to try and emulate Jepsen’s heavy front bangs.

For me, I think of Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber’s now infamous lip sync video to the hit song, made at the peak of their tween coupledom and a signifier to me — an obsessive fan — that true love was real (or at least my teeny bopper, kind of naïve idea of true love). It was a glimpse behind the curtain of celebrity puppy love and into the inner workings of one of the most famous couples of the time. (Also, the moment when they almost kiss?! Erotic). 

Which is part of what makes “CMM” so sweet to this day, a testament to its staying power. It’s not just the song’s serotonin-boosting hook, but everything it came to represent: a simpler time when we had permission to be carefree. And who doesn’t want to reminisce about that? To celebrate the 10th anniversary of the lasting reign of “CMM,” Refinery29 staffers share their fondest (and one not so fond) memories associated with the song, along with some truly incredible throwback 2012 photos. Here’s why, a decade later, we’re still cueing it up on our playlists.

“During the 2012 competition season, I probably heard this song 300 times in various ice rinks while competing as a synchronized skater. It was a true crowd pleaser for the littlest skaters, my age group (teenagers), and especially the skating parents, who crowded into rinks for hours at a time and needed a good reason to stretch their legs and dance a little during Zamboni breaks. I associate this song with thick makeup, my hair gelled back like a helmet, and dancing around with teammates and proud parents, feeling like ice skating was the most fun and most important thing in the world. Catchy isn’t a strong enough word for whatever’s in that song! ‘Call Me Maybe’ got its hooks in all of us in 2012, and after hearing it everywhere for a full calendar year, its grasp did loosen — but it will never fully release us.” — Abbey Maxbauer, Senior Social Editor

“’CMM’ reminds me of the color pink! The year was 2012, I was 15 years old, in my prime Tumblr phase and obsessed with Doctor Who. I was one of the guys, and my “not like other girls” phase was mighty strong. So, ‘Call Me Maybe’ was a song that I begrudgingly knew all the words to. It was that guilty pleasure song that was forever stuck in my head. I watched the music video too many times, and can still recite all of the lyrics. 2012-Me had no idea just how obsessed I would be with Carly Rae Jepsen just three years later, with the release of her greatest contribution to pop music the album EMOTION. It’s all about the yearning and crushing from afar that all teens feel! Plus, it was catchy.” — Mercedes Viera, Associate Deals Writer

“‘Call Me Maybe’ immediately makes me think about my first year of college! I was a camp counselor that summer and I learned to play it on guitar and sang an acoustic version at campfires. It was a huge hit, especially with the 8-year-olds. It came out not long after “Friday” by Rebecca Black, so at first everyone thought it was a joke or a kid song, but then you actually listen to the lyrics and the melody and the production and realize it’s an incredible song. Plus it has the most scream-able chorus.” — Hannah Rimm, Editor

“I remember being at church camp, and there was a talent show. This cute boy, Spencer had learned the song on guitar and sang it in front of everyone. I honestly don’t remember if he did a good job, but everyone enjoyed it — probably because he was hot. He had that ‘I’m a guy who wears a headband’ thing going for him, and the Catholic girlies ate it up. It was super catchy and addictive. However, I do remember it being kind of annoying at one point. I think it has really easy-to-remember lyrics, and the song expresses a feeling many people can relate to. We’ve all had a crush!” — Chichi Offor, Associate Writer

“The BANGS! We all had them at one point, let’s be honest. In the summer of 2012, I was a college grad with no job and zero idea about my future. I would hear ‘CMM’ on the radio though, and for those few minutes, I would forget about my anxiety and just sing along to its 100% carefree vibes. Listening back now, I’m reminded that it’s okay to not know what lies ahead. Just enjoy the ride — windows down and music blasting. ‘CMM’ was such a bop and still is! It’s the perfect blend of candy flavor pop that anyone can dance to. Y’all can’t change my mind!” — Melissah Yang, Entertainment Director

“This song reminds me of summer beers and dancing. It came out during my semester abroad in Prague, so I missed the entirety of the hoopla around it., I came back and was like ‘Y’all are losing your mind over THIS?’ Carly Rae Jepsen has proven time and time again that she’s a pop music genius. At the time, ‘Call Me Maybe’ had the audacity to be fun, twee, lighthearted pop, in a time when our pop stars were all going through their ‘Dark Artsy Fartsy’ phases. ‘Call Me Maybe’ was pure hearted, genuine, and open. We don’t often get that amount of genuine expression in pop music;  I think a lot of people who initially loved the song thought they were doing it with irony, and it actually turns out they liked it. A lot.” — Amanda Mitchell, Senior Beauty Writer/Stories Creator

“The first thing that comes to mind is being 20 and wanting Carly Rae’s bangs. ‘Call Me Maybe’ came out my sophomore year of college, and at that time, you could not go a day without hearing it at least once. When I hear even the first few notes of the song today, I’m immediately warm and fuzzy inside. It’s instant nostalgia and should be on every single party playlist. It’s a perfect radio pop song! I saw Carly Rae perform the song at Gov Ball last year, and even now, it’s a true banger of a track. I think perhaps the most iconic part of the song’s legacy is who Carly Rae became as an artist. I’m sure a lot of people thought she’d be a one hit wonder, but here we are a decade later, and she’s put out some of the most interesting, well-produced pop music (including one of the best full pop albums) in recent history.”
— Annie Black, Social Media Editor

“I immediately get annoyed thinking of this song. Every time I was in the car and my mom was driving it would play on every radio station. TBH all I wanted to listen to was Drake. I still can’t listen to it to this day. Sorry not sorry!” — Nadia Ebrahim, Assistant Style Editor, R29 Style

Interviews have been edited and condensed for clarity.

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Spoilers ahead. I remember the first time I thought someone was going to be sexually assaulted on Euphoria. It was in season 1, when Nate Jacobs (played sinisterly by Jacob Elordi) attacks a college student for sleeping with his then-girlfriend Maddy (Alexa Demie) at a party. After breaking into the guy’s apartment, Nate waits until he returns home and orders him to kneel in front of him by his bedside. It was the first of many tense scenes, the most recent happening on Sunday’s episode when Rue (Emmy-winner Zendaya), detoxing and on the hunt for more pills, shows up at drug dealer Laurie’s home asking for a hit. The catch: Rue owes Laurie $10,000 for a suitcase of drugs she was supposed to sell, but didn’t. As Rue lays naked in Laurie’s bathtub, Laurie shoots Rue up with morphine then tells her that, as a woman, there are other ways to work off her drug debt. “It’s one of the good parts of being a woman, even if you don’t have money you’ve still got something people want.” And as the screen fades to black — mirroring Rue’s consciousness — I’m terrified of what we’d see, and the position Rue would be in, when she wakes up. 

Thankfully, no one is actually sexually assaulted in either of these scenes. But that isn’t really the point. There are countless more instances where the HBO Max series, created and written by Sam Levinson, hedges and blurs the line between physical and sexual violence, never quite crossing it but leaning into the fear nonetheless.

They’re tough scenes to watch — and I watch them all, mostly through my fingers with my heart racing and a lump forming in my throat. Like tuning into an episode of Dateline or listening to the latest My Favorite Murder podcast episode (which I frequently do), exposing myself to these hard-to-watch and scary experiences has previously worked as a way to confront the things that frighten me in the moment, while ensuring I come out safely on the other side.

But watching Sunday’s episode, “Stand Still Like the Hummingbird,” felt different. With my sister beside me, I had to look away several times as Rue put herself in increasingly precarious and dangerous positions on her search for a high. As Rue was undressed by Laurie and shot up with morphine, I felt antsy and short of breath. As Rue woke the next morning, trapped and desperately pulling on locked doors and windows to escape, my sister told me she felt physically sick. Ten minutes after the episode finished, while brushing her teeth in the bathroom, she had a full-fledged panic attack. 

And I’m sorry Zendaya, but no number of Emmy noms is worth that kind of turmoil. Watching my sister have such a physical and visceral reaction to a fictional episode of TV wasn’t only alarming, but eye-opening, making me evaluate whether or not I want to engage with these types of shows, and face these scary realities on screen at all. And TBH, the answer is no. Because — like the draw to true crime — while it may make me feel secure in the moment, ultimately facing these on-screen experiences doesn’t make me fear them less IRL, and leaves me thinking about them long after the show is over. Which, in a post-pandemic world, just isn’t worth it. 

To be fair, the show — and its stars — know that the series is emotionally trying to watch. In fact, it banks on it. Before the show returned, Zendaya shared a trigger warning on her social media accounts, warning fans that season 2 “is deeply emotional and deals with subject matter that can be triggering and difficult to watch.” Since its June 2019 premiere, Euphoria has garnered both praise and criticism for its glaring depiction of the dark side of growing up. The show has repeatedly touched on themes like domestic violence, drug use, and unsafe sex, often using physical violence or the anxiety brought by the threat of it, to emphasize that these kids are messed up and their lives are hard. The second season has only amped that up, featuring even more moments of violence from the onset, ending the season premiere with Elordi’s Nate having his head smashed with a bottle.  The show has also been criticized by D.A.R.E for aestheticizing trauma, being “unrelentingly explicit” in its depictions of violence, and choosing to “misguidedly glorify … high school student drug use” (although, as some people on Twitter point out, watching Rue almost overdose by a Whirlpool washer is probably the last thing that would make me want to try drugs).

How someone reacts to this type of imagery can vary from positive to negative, depending on their personal experiences, Cindy Graham, CEO and licensed clinical psychologist at Brighter Hope Wellness Center, tells Refinery29. For some people who’ve experienced a similar trauma offscreen, seeing this trauma on TV — and having a reaction to it — can act as a point of reflection, or an indication that pursuing therapy or help would be beneficial. But, Graham says, it can also be triggering. “For people who might have been victims of sexual assault or maybe even struggled with drug addiction at some point in time, if these things weren’t addressed in therapy for that individual, it’s really not best to have them be brought up [outside] the context of a safe space where the person can properly process that.”

Even those who don’t have firsthand experience can still be affected through what’s known as vicarious trauma, or second hand trauma from what you see onscreen. While it’s typically applied to health care practitioners and first responders on the frontlines of others’ ordeals, Graham says people can also experience vicarious trauma from consuming media, such as watching the video of George Floyd’s murder  or rioters storming the Capitol on the news — and yes,  fictional shows like Euphoria whose dark themes traffic in realism. “You’re consuming a lot of this [violence and trauma] in a very short period of time,” Graham says. Even if you can’t personally identify with it, we’re essentially getting an über high dose of traumatic imagery within a 45-minute window. “It’s a matter of how realistic it is to you and how you perceive it.”

[Euphoria] leans into this sense of fear wrapped in a prestige TV bow to an almost unnecessary degree, ultimately equating trauma with importance.

So it’s hard not to wonder why more than 2.6 million people — myself included — have continued to tune in week after week. Yes, the show’s aesthetic is mesmerizing, and it features an attractive cast that includes some of our favorite rising actors, but with every episode essentially dishing unrelenting suffering, why do we keep going back for more? 

It turns out it’s for a couple reasons. Part of it is a fascination. We’re drawn in by the recklessness and carefree nature of the teens on screen, an experience that’s unfamiliar to many adults, whose reservations about risky behaviors mature as they age. Or the series reminds them of a time when they themselves were young and relatively carefree. “There’s this interesting tension of enticement and disgust that I think often captures a lot of people’s attention,” says Danielle Roeske, a psychologist and vice president of residential services at Newsport Healthcare, who specializes in adolescents struggling with addiction and mental health. “On the one hand it’s like, ‘Oh that’s terrible, I want nothing to do with that,’ and on the other hand, it seems exciting and can evoke a sense of curiosity of what it would be like to live so freely and haphazardly.” 

Which isn’t to say that we’re titillated by this trauma, but in many ways, watching Rue engage in dangerous drug use onscreen is a way for us to glaringly face — and explore — something dangerous that we’d never actually do IRL. It’s a way for us to see another side and another experience that’s completely foreign and tangentially feel the adrenaline rush that comes with it. “Viewing things like this is a safe way for some to engage with the darker side of reality,” Roeske says. “It’s less direct, so there’s something exciting about it, but without necessarily putting oneself in harm’s way.” Yes, we’re subjecting ourselves and our nerves to the ups-and-downs of an emotional rollercoaster, but at the end of the hour, we can choose to step off. 

And this continued engagement with content that scares us can, also, in a way, be protective, especially when it comes to engaging with your biggest fears. It’s the reason genres like true crime have seen a spike in female interest, shows like Law & Order SVU have such a large fanbase of women, and Liam Neeson’s Taken (about a man whose daughter is repeatedly kidnapped while abroad) is a trilogy. For many people — especially women — turning to these shows can be a way to equip themselves with the knowledge of the worst thing that could happen to them and mentally arm themselves with “What Would I Do” strategies in order to feel safe, prepared, and protected. 

It’s something I’ve been doing for years; I obsessively read Ann Rule books about women who were sexually assaulted and murdered. I tune in every Friday night to a new episode of Dateline, and I religiously watch (and write about) Law & Order SVU. I’m the girl who, embarrassingly, had my parents buy me a stranger-danger instructional video in elementary school, which I’d repeatedly pop into our VCR in case I ever needed to know how to escape out of the trunk of a car. I’m “pressing on a bruise,” as Lindy West described in a 2012 article for Jezebel about her obsession with Law & Order SVU, immersing myself in the things that scare me the most in order to normalize and remove the fear, as a way to “eat it, internalize it, and own it.”

Which is why it’s such a surprise to me that Euphoria, a show about 17-year-olds in high school just living their lives, after years of immersing myself in stories explicitly about sexual violence, is the show that tipped me over. Because what’s so different about Euphoria? For one thing, the difference could be the fact that — with shows like Law & Order SVU and Dateline — you go into each episode knowing to expect a certain kind of trauma; the actual assault usually occurs off screen and out of sight. You know the familiar formula of each episodic arc so you can better prepare yourself mentally. 

It’s this feeling of being exploited, or rather having trauma used so transparently against me as a viewer, that made me realize that these shows overall don’t serve me anymore.

But maybe at the heart of it is the fact that Euphoria isn’t actually that good of a show. It leans into this sense of fear wrapped in a prestige TV bow to an almost unnecessary degree, ultimately equating trauma with importance. As writer Amil Niazi says in a recent episode of CBC’s Pop Chat, this series is coming about in a time when we’re asking and evaluating, as viewers, what it serves us to see abuse and trauma on screen if there’s no greater purpose than just seeing abuse and trauma on screen. And with Euphoria, removing the trauma leaves little to delve into. “After you take away the violence and the sex and the extremes, what’s left? And is it actually really prestige? Is it actually really good?” Niazi asks. “I feel like the pendulum is maybe swinging towards no.” And I’d have to agree.

It’s this feeling of being exploited, or rather having trauma used so transparently against me as a viewer, that made me realize that these shows overall don’t serve me anymore. Over the course of the last two years, I’ve found myself slowly detaching from the shows I used to be drawn to. I’m no longer tuning into new seasons of Rollins and Carisi bantering on SVU and putting on Dateline episodes only to turn them off halfway through or scroll through my phone and completely lose the plot. 

Some of this could be me just getting older. As Roeske notes, people do have varying thresholds for the amount of violence or fear-inducing content they can engage in, and that can change over time as we become adults and, in theory, more self-aware of the impact this content has on us and our well-being. We no longer revel in bad decisions and consciously make choices that better serve us. And some of it could be, I hate to say, impacted by the pandemic. Because after almost two years of consistently horrible and disappointing news IRL, I no longer have time for things that just don’t make me feel good in every other aspect of my life that I can control, and that includes what I choose to watch on TV.

So this is where I make my stand. The reality that I’ve been over this type of content has been creeping up for awhile now, but it took the latest season of Euphoria, and Sunday’s unyielding and full-force depiction of Rue’s spiral, specifically, for me to truly realize it. 

If you have experienced sexual violence and are in need of crisis support, please call the RAINN Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).  If you are struggling with substance abuse, please call the SAMHSA National Helpline at 1-800-662-4357 for free and confidential information.

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When most people think of an Asian Disney princess, there’s often one go-to: Mulan aka the Chinese heroine who doesn’t need saving but instead saves an entire country and is arguably the best Disney princess to date (alongside Aladdin’s Princess Jasmine… prove me wrong). There’s also Moana repping Pacific Islanders and, more recently, Raya for Southeast Asians. But Asians are not a monolith, and one princess does not a representation make, so Julia Riew, a 22-year-old musical theater composer and lyricist, decided to create her own Disney princess based on her Korean heritage. 

As part of her senior thesis project at Harvard University, Riew wrote and composed Shimcheong: A Folktale, a musical loosely based on the Korean story The Blind Man’s Daughter about a young girl who sacrifices herself for her father and is rewarded for her devotion to him. Riew shared the first of 15 original songs, “Dive,” on TikTok in early January. Since then, the clip has amassed 880,000 views — and viewers are calling upon Disney to turn this idea into reality ASAP.

@juliariew There was no Korean Disney princess so I decided to make my own 🙂 #disney #korean #koreanamerican #disneyprincess #musical #originalsong #originalmusical #musicaltheatre #theater #music #newsong #dreamworks ♬ original sound – Julia Riew

“It’s honestly been astonishing,” Riew tells Refinery29 of the reaction. “Every day something new and crazy happens.” She has continued to tease songs from her musical, a labor of love a year-and-a-half in the making, and has asked followers to duet with her on TikTok. People have also volunteered to illustrate Shimcheong, she says. And while she didn’t expect her videos to go viral (she really only hoped that a few people would see them), she’s most excited about the responses she’s heard from people commenting that they wish they’d had this kind of meaningful representation when they were younger, or who send her videos of their young kids singing along to her songs.

“Even beyond all the producers and all the likes and comments, it’s really the people who are reaching out who’ve said, ‘This is so meaningful to me.’ It’s just so wonderful to feel like I’m really part of this community and that we’re all going through the same struggles. We’re all searching for belonging.” And, she says, it’s exciting to think that this is a story that could help other young Korean-American girls feel like they belong.

The idea for Shimcheong came, like many great ideas, because of a need for more representation. Growing up in Missouri, Riew didn’t know many Korean people outside her family. On screen, when she did see Asian characters — specifically Asian women — the roles were limited with actors frequently cast as the quirky sidekick. “As a young, impressionable kid, that’s how I grew up seeing myself even in my own life. I never really saw myself as being the kind of person that could be the main character.” 

After her grandpa passed away early in the pandemic, Riew’s grandma moved in with her family and exposed her to aspects of her Korean heritage. “For the first time, I was experiencing Korean culture close up in my own home and practicing speaking Korean with her and sharing our stories, and I learned how disconnected I was to my culture.” She decided to tell a story really rooted in Korean legend as a way to get closer to both her grandma and her ancestry.

The Blind Man’s Daughter was the perfect fit. Riew was initially drawn to the folktale because of its emphasis on familial separation, a theme she says is familiar to many Koreans, with generations spread across the Korean diaspora and many families still split across the DMZ after the Korean War. While she drew from the characters and themes from the original folktale, her musical is largely inspired by her own experiences traveling to Korea for the first time when she was 18; Shimcheong’s own search for belonging is woven into Riew’s version of the tale. “I liked the idea in the original folktale of how she leaves home, but longs for home and returns to it. That’s a really big part of my story as well.”

Reimagining the folktale and Shimcheong as a musical and Disney princess was a no-brainer for Riew because she grew up loving both genres. “What I love about Disney is that its stories are uplifting and accessible for all ages, but they’re also really meaningful and dig into some really deep stories and deep values a lot of the time,” she says.

So, about that Disney thing — Riew hasn’t heard anything from the company directly, but she’s already been in meetings with a few film and theater producers to see when and where the musical would be a good fit.

As for who Riew can see starring in any on-stage or on-screen productions of her musical, the answer is pretty easy. “I’ve always been a really, really big fan of Ashley Park,” Riew says. “She’s such a role model because she’s one of the first Korean-American actresses that I ever saw on stage [in Mean Girls].” In fact, Riew remembers first seeing the cast photos for the hit broadway show starring the Emily In Paris actor. “I saw she had the same jaw structure as me — it’s a very specific Korean structure. I remember seeing her and saying, ‘Wow, she looks a bit like me.’ And for me, that was so impactful.” Riew says the pair have already DM’d since she first posted her TikTok and are planning to meet soon.

Which hopefully means it won’t be too long before audiences see Shimcheong off TikTok and on the big screen. Your move, Disney. 

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Minor spoilers ahead. It only takes about five minutes into the season 2 premiere of Netflix’s Cheer to realize that this is going to be a very different season. When we last saw the Navarro College Bulldogs from Corsicana, Texas, they’d just won the 2019 Cheerleading Nationals (their 14th title), and everyone was thriving. But in the time since the January 2020 premiere, a lot has changed, both within the world of cheerleading and the world at large. We’ve gone through two (almost three) years of a pandemic, and the team is dealing with the repercussions of both shutdowns (Daytona was canceled just weeks out), as well as coming to terms with the sex crime charges filed against fan favorite Jerry Harris. 

“It’s been a very difficult year. We’ve had a rollercoaster. A lot of great opportunities and a lot of awful times,” says the team’s prolific coach, Monica Aldama, in the first episode. “I keep putting one foot in front of the other, every single day,” she later says.

It’s a far cry in tone that fans have come to know and love. Cheer introduced many people to collegiate cheerleading as they followed a small-town team on the road to the annual showdown in Daytona, Florida. The first season was thrilling, in large part because it was so new (who can confidently say they knew what mat talk was before this) and because the cheerleaders’ personal stories were both heartfelt and engaging. 

Regardless of whether we ourselves cheered or knew anything about the competitive sport, people could relate to the trials and tribulations of being a young person trying to find their place. Yes, they were competing, but they were also dealing with family drama, frenemies, and real-world issues, on top of performing intense death-defying stunts. The show allowed us to look beyond what many might see as frivolous choreography into the reality of cheerleading as a sport: hard work, sweat, tears, and a whole lot of love. In the end, we weren’t just cheering for Navarro, but rooting for Jerry to find success both on and off the mat after losing his mom to cancer, La’Darius to find peace with his past, and Lexi to channel her raw talent.

When we return to Corsicana though, Cheer isn’t really about cheerleading anymore, at least not how we first saw it. Sure, there is still a cheer competition, with Navarro pitted against rivals Trinity Valley Community College, but the real narrative is about the effects of fame and the exploitation inherent in the sport. And that’s a good thing. If the first season puts these characters — and the sport — up on a pedestal, season 2 really knocks them down into reality. With the emphasis taken off the actual cheerleading, we’re able to take a hard look at the dirt beneath the pyramid and grapple with some of the sport’s bigger issues. 

The second season was always going to be different. Director and producer Greg Whiteley says he didn’t go into it with any goal other than to chronicle the team and their stories. But it’s inevitable that there would be some difference — because the team itself is different. “There is a kind of innocence to season 1 that I think was part and parcel to how little we knew about cheer, and it was discovering this new thing and sharing that with the world,” he tells Refinery29. “And then as we were coming back, what had changed was the team that we were chronicling had become famous.”

The first episode specifically deals with the team attempting to come to terms with their newfound fame in the weeks following the show’s premiere, with stars like Almada, La’Darius Marshall, Morgan Simianer, and Lexi Brumback jumping between press interviews and engagements in between, and sometimes during, practices. Harris’ “mat talk,” once endearing and motivating, is now more of a talk show staple as the docuseries shows a montage of his motivational pep talks on Ellen, The Today Show, and on stage with Oprah Winfrey, Simianer is doing TV spots with Buick, and Brumback is selling Cameo vids for $50 a pop. Coach Aldama, for her part, competes on Season 29 of Dancing with the Stars.

This commercialization is a side of the sport that viewers saw in Season 1 through Gabi Butler, a “cheer-lebrity” who was already famous in the world before starting at Navarro. But watching the “down-to-earth, just-like-us” personalities we’ve come to love capitalize their authenticity for profit is like pulling back the curtain on a PR fame machine in a way that feels manufactured. Harris’ infamous mat talk feels a little less inspiring when you’re watching him film Cameos for fans while getting a pedicure, repeating the same phrases over and over again. 

Watching the cheerleaders’ newfound fame is illuminating, but also reveals its pitfalls. There’s a hefty dose of animosity and jealousy between “famous” and “unfamous” members of the 40-person team, and Almada personally deals with a lot of hate directed at her online, with viewers accusing the coach of pushing injured athletes to their limits. But it also presents us with a team that, no longer the underdogs and with their attention diverted from Daytona, is a little more difficult to root for. Coupled with the fact that the new season began filming pre-pandemic and before the allegations against Harris came to light, you know there are bad things looming, which makes newcomer Maddy Brum freak out over being removed from a stunt seem a little inconsequential. 

Also different about the team this year? The absence of Harris, who appears sporadically in the first few episodes of the season before disappearing entirely. Though he is out of the frame, his real-life drama stays in focus. 

In September 2020, Harris was arrested and charged with several counts related to child pornography, after two underage boys alleged the athlete had solicited sexually explicit images from them. That December, Harris faced additional charges. He has pleaded not guilty to all charges. “That decision of whether or not to cover the allegations against Jerry Harris was decided the moment you decided to cover Navarro as a team,” Whiteley says. “[He] was a very important part of that team, his absence loomed large on the day-to-day activities of that team, and we had to chronicle it. It would have been impossible to tell their story without accounting for it somehow.” Harris’ story is not unique to the sport. Last February, another former member of the Navarro cheer team was charged with sexual misconduct involving minors. Around the same time, a 25-year-old cheer coach and choreographer in Virginia was charged for similar crimes. 

In covering the specific allegations against Harris, including incredibly harrowing on-camera interviews with two of his accusers, the docuseries illustrates how power and the dynamic between coaches and mentors and their young athletes can be exploited, and shows the gaps in protecting young people in the sport. (The fact that the mother of two of Harris’s accusers reported the abuse multiple times to the U.S. All Star Federation (USASF) — an organization whose goal is to ensure safety for all athletes — before anything was done is horrifying, but unfortunately not surprising).

The Jerry episode doesn’t exactly get it right. It presents context behind how the cheer environment can facilitate and, in some ways, normalize this abuse, but there are few solutions on how exactly the sport and those high up can change it. Cheer doesn’t solve the issues of exploitation — how could it in one episode? — but at least it starts a conversation.

Harris’ former teammate Butler talks about her struggle to reconcile the two versions of her friend: the cheerful sweetheart and the alleged abuser, mourning the loss of that person as if he died. And in many ways, we can think of Cheer season 2 in the same way. The team we once knew is no longer the same, and by virtue of this, neither is the docuseries. That magical earnestness captured in the first season can’t be replicated, and to go into the second season expecting the same would be a disservice to both ourselves as viewers and the show as a whole. Sure, by the end of the second season, one team wins, one team loses, and the winners run into the water at Daytona Beach. But the real story, as the second season attempts to do, is what happens off the bandshell, starting conversations that’ll hopefully have an impact on the sport long past next year’s championship.

If you have experienced sexual violence and are in need of crisis support, please call the RAINN Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).

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People tuning into Sunday night’s Oscars probably didn’t have *this* on their Oscars Bingo Card. And by this, we mean Academy Award nominee Glenn Close swearing on live TV and teaching everyone how to do “Da Butt,” all within the span of 15 seconds.

Going from Glenn Close doing da butt to the In Memoriam pic.twitter.com/FORAQzYE3Y

— Carrie Courogen (@carriecourogen) April 26, 2021

But that’s exactly what happened.

In what was arguably the best moment of the night, Close — during a bit with DJ Questlove, who challenged the celeb audience to a little song trivia — proved that she surprisingly knows her stuff when it comes to guessing Academy Award nominated tunes.

Asking the audience to guess whether or not a particular song had been nominated for Best Original Song at awards past, Questlove played “Da Butt” by Experience Unlimited, quizzing Close on whether or not she knew the song at all. While initially skeptical, Close proved that she knows her stuff, promptly responding with, “Wait a second, I know, that’s ‘Da Butt’!” (Hard emphasis on “Da”), before rattling off some info about the song, as well as using some (bleeped) expletives to express her annoyance that the song hadn’t been nominated for an Oscar. (And she wasn’t the only one. Only seconds earlier, first time nominee Andra Day was also bleeped during the segment).

Glenn Close stole the show at the #Oscars pic.twitter.com/dYeKMfqUW0

— philip lewis (@Phil_Lewis_) April 26, 2021

FYI, “Da Butt” is a song featured in the 1988 Spike Lee film School Daze.

As if that wasn’t enough, Close then jumped up to dance to the song, doing Da Butt to cheers from other celebs who looked both thrilled and horrified.

Did not have Glenn Close doing Da Butt and knowing as much as she did about the song on the 2021 Oscar bingo card https://t.co/yJr9b6UWIV

— Jemele Hill (@jemelehill) April 26, 2021

Truly, icons only.

Bad Grandmas with Rita Moreno, Youn Yuh-jung, and Glenn Close

— Meredith Haggerty (@manymanywords) April 26, 2021

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ICYMI, Riz Ahmed is officially a wife guy. And he wants everyone to know it. While walking the red carpet at the 93rd Annual Academy Awards, Ahmed — who’s nominated for his first Oscar for his role in 2019’s The Sound of Metal — simultaneously melted *and* shattered hearts across the world when he shared a moment with his new wife, Fatima Farheen Mirza.

Posing on the carpet looking like an entire snack , Ahmed took a moment from smizing, to turn to his wife, lock eyes, and gently fix her hair, quipping “I’m the official groomer.”

I wish us all a very “Riz Ahmed Fixing Our Hair for the Perfect Pic” kinda love pic.twitter.com/DKAiuXNUXR

— Manna Sidhu (@manna_sidhu) April 26, 2021

And people were having a lot of feelings.

ok maybe marriage isn’t a scam #Oscars pic.twitter.com/dhek5GZSdi

— Kathleen Newman-Bremang (@KathleenNB) April 25, 2021

I need someone to look at me like Best Actor nominee Riz Ahmed looks at his wife Fatima Farheen Mirza! #Oscars pic.twitter.com/DjY9T8Oz9h

— Nancy Wang Yuen 王嵐芝 (@nancywyuen) April 25, 2021

It’s a moment that truthfully had big “Chris Evans doing the bare minimum energy,” but we’re over a year into a global pandemic, with little excitement to keep us going. So Ahmed being a doting husband is seriously swoon-worthy.

If you’re surprised at Ahmed’s Disney prince antics, you really shouldn’t be. The actor and his wife are pretty much living in a real life rom-com. The couple had an IRL modern meet-cute, with the pair first meeting in a New York City cafe while Ahmed was prepping for the role he’s now nominated for (romantic!). As if that isn’t sweet enough, Ahmed proposed to his now wife in a super cute way, popping the question while the couple played Scrabble in a park. In an April 19 interview with Jimmy Kimmel, Ahmed recounted the pandemic-appropriate and slightly cheesy proposal, telling the host: “She loves a bit of Scrabble. So we were actually playing Scrabble and I did that corny thing where I stole all the correct letters up and spelled out ‘Will you marry me?.” (Both romantic and honestly my nightmare).

This is far from the first time Ahmed has let the world know he’s very into married life. While accepting the award for best male lead at the 2021 Film Independent Spirit Award, the actor shouted out his wife during his acceptance speech while thanking his family, saying to Mirza, “This is all for you.”

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In her three years as a sex worker, Lyra McKee has faced her share of exploitative and downright scary interactions, from people refusing to pay her to clients stealing personal items from her home. She never contacted authorities about these events. “There are a lot of incidents that I would have reported if it had been a little bit more accessible to do so,” says McKee, the co-executive director of PACE Society, a Vancouver, Canada-based support organization for current and former sex workers. “I wish I had some kind of support around safety.”

Now, McKee is helping to create that support. Thanks to a $1-million donation from the Law Foundation of B.C. and an anonymous donor, she and other sex workers and provincial organizations are building a province-wide “bad date” reporting system. Once complete, sex workers will be able to report their experiences with predatory clients in an online database in order to warn others in the industry about them.

What makes for a “bad date” is up to the individual, but it’s generally understood to be a type of exploitation. “A bad date is where something that is non-consensual, or that was not agreed upon by the sex worker and the client, occurs,” McKee says. That can range from being bailed on by clients with appointments, to not being paid, to verbal abuse, to more violent incidents of physical and sexual harm. 

Unfortunately, these violations happen far too often. According to a 2014 study, one in five sex workers in Canada experience physical and sexual violence. Things have only gotten worse during the pandemic. The decline in overall business and the fact that many sex workers are unable to apply for government relief has left many in precarious financial positions, which can lead to taking on a client who hasn’t been vetted or conducting business in more private, and therefore riskier, locations.

Going to the police often isn’t an option, given the ongoing stigma and criminalization of sex workers in Canada, who face some of the most restrictive sex-work laws in the Western world. “Distrust of the police, poor relationships between law enforcement and the sex-work community, previous bad experiences, fear of being outed, fear of making their various legal or criminal justice files worse” are all reasons sex workers may choose not to report bad dates, says Mebrat Beyene, executive director of WISH, a Vancouver-based organization that offers support to street-based sex workers. For immigrant or migrant individuals in the industry, reporting to police can be especially dangerous as it can potentially lead to deportation. 

Left to advocate for themselves because no one else will, organizations for sex workers across B.C. have typically relied on more localized methods of reporting bad dates. In Victoria, PEERS, a grassroots organization for sex workers, relies on clients recounting incidents to staff, who then input reports and share the information with other sex workers in the area. At SWAN Vancouver, a nonprofit that supports migrant and immigrant sex workers, executive director Alison Clancey says warnings are passed along via text. But, these methods have their limitations. “If a predator is travelling or working in different locations, and he’s carrying out violence against sex workers in multiple locations, these localized systems that exist currently might not pick up on that,” says Clancey.

Which is why the launch of the database is so crucial. No date has been set for it to go live — the organizations are working on hiring a team to conduct a review of existing bad date reporting tools both across Canada and around the world in order to figure out what will work best in B.C. They’ll also consult with the sex-work community to ensure that any system will cater to their needs.

While there’s been talk of a phone-based app, Beyene says the actual format of the system is still up in the air. “Among the most-vulnerable and most at-risk are people who maybe don’t have access to phones or the internet or Wi-Fi,” she says. “There has to be a way for that group to be covered.” As for whether or not we may see this system cross-country one day? Beyene is optimistic. “Who knows — we’ll see what conversations this sparks.”

If you have experienced sexual violence and are in need of crisis support, please visit Shelter Space.

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