Milleniellas Have Sexual PTSD

We have an epidemic of women who cannot find a 6'8" multi-millionaire golden retriever werewolf who respects her independence but will also lead her and give her space but also romance her but only when she wants, will not judge her past and also be religious but not serious.

To understand this phenomenon: think back to when you were failing a class, ran the numbers before the final, and realized you needed 130% to pass. You failed the midterm so badly that only a mythical score could get you across the finish line. That’s what’s happening with these women. The mythical werewolf boyfriend is the 130% final.

To ride the metaphor further: the midterm is what Millennial women did in college. It’s why they stomp around the office with the personality of Darth Vader. And to understand Vader’s behavior, you have to know how he became Vader, falling into a lava pit on Mustafar in Star Wars: Episode III Revenge of the Sith. You’re in the Death Star office getting force choked by a Millennial Darth Vader, Return of the Jedi style, wondering how and why she got this way. I was there on Mustafar back in 2009 when she fell into the lava pit, and I’m going to explain in detail what happened to Millennial women to make them this way.

My Substack readership consists of college kids, Midwestern dads, and Polish psychologist Piotr Pachota. They have no idea what Millennial women did in college that made them so sexually traumatized now. They deal with them every day, at the office, in school, and over Zoom. They know something is wrong with millennial women but can’t name it. And nobody in their social circle can tell them, because they weren't there like I was in 2009.

To be very blunt about my Mustafar Lava Pit analogy for the sake of my international audience: Millennial Women fell into a cum lava pit high on drugs. They crawled out incredibly scarred and now wear the corporate Darth Vader mask and force choking my readership whenever they can. That’s what’s happening. Everyone already knows that’s what is happening and why it’s happening. What they really want to know is how someone falls into a cum lava pit, rolling on Molly.

To understand how Millennial women fell into the pit, you first need to understand the 2000's culture of pit worship. Les Wexner owned both Victoria’s Secret and Abercrombie & Fitch, the two most aspirational stores in the mall, and the mall was where Millennial women spent their formative years in the 2000s. That meant spending high school in low cut jeans and Victoria's Secret thongs, distracting the boys in Trigonometry class with a neon thong running through their ass crack. The priming went further. Raunch culture, American Pie, and hypersexualized music, brainwashed them into thinking hookup sex was cool fun and consequence free. They marinated in that for four years, before going off to college to try out their Paris Hilton personality, while their dad paid for their sexcapades in the name of higher education.

In 2026, it’s common knowledge that American university is a credentialist debt farm where nobody learns anything except how to sell drugs. But in 2009, this was a shock. High school kids had no idea they were signing up to pay 20k a year for Professor Wong to farm an auditorium of teenagers for legitimacy, chasing grants while they taught themselves organic chemistry.

The absolute institutional nihilism of the system was and still is enough to send even the most morally astute teenager down slippery slut lane. If you’re not going to learn anything, and nobody is teaching anything you might as well be a cool party girl. That's the girl math.

Trauma isn’t a product of the event. It’s a product of how the event gets processed after the fact. If Vader hadn’t been such a bitch about the lava pit, he wouldn’t have spent the rest of his life in a cuck suit. I’m talking specifically about middle class white women.

Plenty of people go through traumatic events and come out fine. It’s the idealistic, moralistic blowhards who get traumatized, because their expectations are the farthest from reality. Lying Linda came to college to be a cool party girl. Linda tried to outdrink and outsnort the guys, “anything you can do I can do better” feminism. She didn’t even listen to her drug dealer, who warned her not to snort the men gram-for-gram at half her body weight. And he only cared because a dead customer is a lost customer.

So Linda passed out face down on the couch, no panties, because the scandalous party girl doesn’t wear panties to the party. And then Linda shat herself on a beautiful white suede couch, inherited from a dead grandmother in Fresno. Phil loved that couch and had to U-Haul it the length of California down to SoCal. We called him Dirty Couch Phil, because Phil had to clean up Lying Linda shit off his grandmother's Couch. Later we just shortened his name to Dirty Phil.

Now, a lot of you came into this article expecting slut shaming, some thesis about Crusted Busted And Distrusted Millennial women in nasty gangbangs and turning bitter and resentful from the sexual trauma. Nope. That’s not my thesis.

The girls who actively tried to make two dicks touch inside their mouth knew exactly what they were getting into. They got what they wanted, and are psychologically fine. They’re real estate agents and nurses with families. I know because I’m friends with them on Instagram.

The women who are the most fucked up are the ones who were too fat to get invited to the orgy, or crashed out face down in their own shit. Fifteen years later, the sluts are doing great. Lying Linda isn’t. Linda spent the next decade calling everyone a rapist to cover up that she's a shitty person who can't hold her shit in her ass and instead has to spread it all over a stranger's couch.

What's worse than lying about a shitty party? Lying about lying about a shitty party. The more Lying Linda lies, the more lies she needs to protect the lies, until the cognitive load of keeping the story straight breaks the whole system down.

That's the part that's actually traumatic, far more than sucking off two dudes at once. The trauma itself didn’t cause the psychological damage. Repeatedly picking at the scar did.

She was sold an ego ideal at Abercrombie and Fitch. The Paris Hilton party girl came to perform. Reality didn't match, and she papered over the gap with a lie. But the lie isn't a one-time patch. To protect the ego ideal she has to keep disavowing what happened, and every repression spawns the next repression.

It's RAM spinning indexing cycles that do nothing, like Windows 11 degrading its own hardware in the background. While I love a good slut shaming as much as Anthony Dream Johnson, this is actually worse. Strange, I know.

This brings me to my riveting conclusion. The women you have to watch out for are the Millennial Midwits. They’re stupid enough to get Wexner’d into a fantasy, but too stupid to zoom out and see it was a lie to begin with. And too egoic to accept any frame where they show lack, which is why they double down, reframing anything and everything to protect the ego. There’s a certain dissociative look you learn to spot. Once you’ve met one Lying Linda you can spot the rest.

She’s a Darth Vader who refuses to come to terms with Mustafar, so she clothes herself in the costume instead. Instead of the Vader cape it’s a yoga mat and the lightsaber is a Stanley cup she slams on your desk to assert dominance. The mask is there to make sure she never has to look at the pit.

Which brings us to the most fascinating part of the story. Why was I there on Mustafar? Close enough to see everything, never a partisan? I knew every detail and never got involved because I was selling everyone cheap Viagra I got from India at a huge markup, and Lying Linda fucked up my sales, the way she fucked up Phil’s couch.

By now you can spot the mask: the yoga-mat cape, the Stanley cup she slams on your desk, and the dissociative stare that means she's still down in the pit. My book, The Pillars of Wisdom is the rest of what I saw on Mustafar, and the kind of thing the gatekeepers would rather memory-hole than let you name. Stop getting force-choked by people too egoic to admit they fell.

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