Say Yes Until It Means Something Else

On Gangbangs, LLMs, and the Law of Large Numbers

The law of large numbers states that as the number of trials increases, the average of the outcomes converges on an expected value. It is, in essence, the mathematical proof of inevitability: repeat an action often enough and you reveal a kind of truth. In commerce, in politics, in language, and in lust—scale becomes destiny. This is the terrain I write from: the messy, humid edge where data, desire, and embodiment blur.

Gangbangs—particularly those sprawling, chaotic productions shot with dozens or even hundreds of men—are not usually regarded as objects of contemplation. But perhaps they should be.

I begin, as one must in these things, with a confession: I watch pornography to orgasm. Not every night, but enough—three or four times a week—to call it a rhythm. My sessions are short, practiced. Orgasm as sleep aid, as self-care, as punctuation at the end of a long sentence. And what brings me there most consistently is the gangbang. Not the tidy highlight reels. The long, unruly ones. The ones that require commitment, both from the performers and the viewer.

What gets me off is not the choreography. It’s the moment where performance breaks. When a woman’s face, overwhelmed, no longer performing, shows something unmistakably human. David Foster Wallace wrote about this—the sudden rupture when the scene stops being a scene and becomes something harder to name. That’s what I want to see. That’s what makes me cum.

Which brings me to a question I can’t shake: Are large-number gangbangs the last humanist gesture in the face of a technological order that increasingly replaces bodies with models and feeling with metrics?

This is not just a question of porn, but of timing, medium, and the strange beauty of human excess. Once upon a time, in the twilight of the VHS era, the gangbang was a final analog howl. There was The World’s Biggest Gang Bang, Annabel Chong, Houston, and the Daytona 500—an event where a woman attempted to have sex with hundreds of men in a single day. These were not just sex scenes. They were physical events. The spectacle was the point. A body saying yes again and again, until it became something else.

They marked the end of something: the death rattle of physical media, the climax of a system that needed absurdity to sell tapes, the limits of the physical body. Theis wasn’t just titillation—it was pageantry. A carnal opera. A swan song.

Now, decades later, they’re back.

Performers like Bonnie Blue and Lily Phillips are staging new mass encounters. The gangbang, especially when shot with fans or large numbers of non-professionals, has become a form of what I would argue is populist pornography. It shatters traditional hierarchies—there are no stars, just bodies. No studios, just rooms full of men. It replaces glamor with rawness. Order with excess. A spectacle not of polish, but of scale. It is messy. It is democratic. It is, in a warped and leaky way, intimate.

In these scenes, the performer becomes the axis of collective desire. She is the locus of energy. What looks, at a glance, like chaos often contains something closer to devotion: the offering of attention, labor, risk. There is beauty in her vulnerability, and an undeniable power in her composure.

Lily Phillips makes me feel grateful. Not just aroused, but moved. In the 2024 documentary I Slept with 100 Men in One Day, there’s a moment when she cries—not during the gangbang itself, but after, in the total exhaustion of someone who truly gave everything. It’s a quiet, devastating moment, and in it, she embodies comportment: a bearing forth of being into the world, a way of standing in truth that is not about asserting but revealing.

She is not acting, her video is a site of unconcealment. Not only real, but radiant. In that moment, Lily Phillips is not just a great pornographic actress—she is a great man, in the old, best sense of the phrase. She is the kind of person who holds a mirror to a world too slick with simulation and says: this is what’s left of the real.

And what does it mean that this genre reappears just as AI-generated content begins to overtake humanity? Large language models are the logical end of the law of large numbers. They ingest the whole of the internet and produce convincing patterns. They don’t understand. They simulate.

The gangbang is not simulation. It is physicality made spectacle. It is not efficient. It is not streamlined. It is hot, wet, time-consuming. It leaks. It requires management, trust, improvisation. It is resistant to automation precisely because it is too much.

Mathematically, the law of large numbers guarantees that averages emerge from abundance. Repeat a thing often enough and some kind of truth forms. In that sense, gangbangs are rituals of truth. They do not lie. They reveal. Their mythic status lies in scale, not subtlety. The more men, the more real it feels.

Large numbers do rule. They structure economies, power movements, and machine learning models alike. They govern lotteries and populist uprisings, insurance tables and content farms. They promise a kind of stability—if only through statistical gravity. And yet, when applied to flesh, to longing, to bodies they deliver something else entirely: rupture. Mystery. Something unmeasurable inside the mass.

Gangbangs remain rituals of scale. Their power is not in who is present, but how many. Not in what is done, but how long it continues. They are a spectacle of overcommitment, a refusal of neatness. And in this refusal, they restore something lost in the smooth coherence of modernity.

They cannot be ignored. They ask too much. They offer too much.

That is why I return to them—not just for pleasure, but for proof. That truth still lives somewhere inside the excessive. That a body, given over fully, can still astonish. That beyond simulation, beyond the algorithm, there is still a theater of the real.

And its rules are simple: Say yes. Say yes again. Say yes until it means something else entirely, Say yes until something true emerges.

If you’d like to talk more about gangbangs, longing, scale, and whatever else pulses just below the surface—I’ll be on OnlyFans (which is on sale this month). That’s where we get into the all too human details.

—Mona Wales