All of the evidence was posted on Facebook and Instagram back in the day. Millions upon millions of photos. The women would post it, celebrate it. Every few months, not just spring break, there would be a mass-pilgrimage to a chosen party location, where all the hot girls, all the sorority girls would go. And if you were a dude, you were either in "the club" or you weren't. You either did the steroids, part of the college frat, part of the elite network, ran by the Rich Pianas, the Arvin Lals, the Dan Bilzerians of the era, or you weren't. And the girls took part in the ritual. They flew in, took their photos, had sex with these apex males, and then flew back. Maybe they were escorted by beta-male orbiters. Posted their photos. Posted tons and tons of them. And everyone could see. Everyone could see the party. Everyone could see what took place. Everyone could see the socio-sexual hierarchy play out. And they could see how all the men - and women - engorged themselves in a haze of sex, steroids and booze. And these women...were your classmates. Women who you went to college with. Maybe even whom you knew. And many of them made the trip.

And then through the years, all of these party photos disappeared. The women scrubbed them all, to maintain a new narrative, as they entered the workforce, entered HR departments, became spouses, entered marriages, and had kids.

You can scrub the photos. You can rewrite the bio. You can curate the LinkedIn profile. But you can’t erase the memory of a generation who watched it all happen in real time. We remember. And the myth will live on...no matter how many times you try to bury it.