Episode Details

One of the experiences we treasure most involves our minds being changed on an issue. If we’re wrong about something, we’d prefer to be nudged in a less wrong direction.

We did NOT expect to have one of these experiences when clicking through to learn about a truly modern meet-cute: When Romy Holland met her future husband—and the father of her now-young child—at Aella’s famous birthday gangbang, which she both helped to organize and supported as a fluffer.

Anyway, you’ll see for yourself in today’s episode of Based Camp. Happy Monday! Make sure you read Romy’s full essay—the one that ultimately changed our views on misoprostol, which we had previously seen as pretty innocuous; she’s an eloquent and moving writer.

Show Notes

One of the fluffers at Aella’s birthday gangbangs paired up and ultimately had a child with one of the guests/participants

Crazier than that, this young woman radicalized me on early-term abortion!

The Gist: Romy Holland, a friend of Aella’s, recently went on Slate’s podcast, Death, Sex & Money, to talk about her experience meeting a guy at Aella’s birthday gang bang and eventually falling in love with him. This story was originally covered in the San Francisco Standard. In her

What Happened

* Romy helped organize the famous 42-man gangbang birthday party in 2024

* She also acted as a fluffer at this event

* In this capacity, she met a programmer she had previously noticed online

* They subsequently began dating, had a kid together, and are now engage and—for the time being at least—monogamous

Underrated: Romy blackpilled me on the abortion pill

An underrated element of Romy’s narrative arc thus far is her experience with abortion—something she articulated so beautifully and powerfully that it has totally radicalized me on misoprostol.

Her one substack article (as of June 2026), titled What Nobody Told Me About Abortion, describes her harrowing experience attempting an abortion.

She describes blithe comfort in the face of lies told to us

“On the sort of afternoon full of ripe summer fruit, my new boyfriend and I—still flush with sweat and limerence after some midday sex—stared at an ovulation test strip and realized we’d misread an earlier test.

“Uh oh,” I said, lightly amused as a thousand rom com moments flashed through my mind. Cue the clueless horror movie protagonist who fails to notice the axe murderer behind the bedroom door, mistaken about the genre of the story unfolding.

We listened to music and I swiveled back and forth in an office chair while narrating ChatGPT’s damning answers to my questions about fertile windows and test strip line darkness. My boyfriend kissed me on the cheek each time he walked past. We riffed about games we could play at our abortion party.

Our decision calculus was numerical, emotions an afterthought. There is a 1 in 4 chance of conception each month, so deciding not to take Plan B would result in a 25% risk of needing an abortion. Plan B costs $50 and an abortion costs $500, but with only a 25% chance of conception the expected value of that option is $125. Plan B and early stage abortion seemed physically pretty similar—nothing to consider there.

“If you get pregnant, we’d both know we’re fertile,” my boyfriend pointed out.

“True, why would anyone pay for fertility testing with such a thrilling alternative available?” I quip