I Ended My Summer Fling With a Molly-Fueled, Marathon F*ckfest in Atlantic City

Where all great situationships go to die.

By Stella St. Regis

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Illustration by Spunk Rock

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“Keep kissing me,” Alek breathed against my ear, my legs straddling his and my arms flung around his neck as I rode him on the cuck chair in the Atlantic City hotel room we’d been debasing all weekend. I knew he was saying it because my mouth on his was keeping his cock hard while the drugs were doing everything in their power to deflate it. But to me, it sounded like an incantation. Like a prayer. Like something sacred. It sounded like, I love you.

For the past four months, we’d been having a summer romance—one that began late one Friday night in April when I showed up to a singles mixer hosted by a Jewish dating app (alas, I am not Jewish; I just love corrupting good Jewish boys) the way I usually show up to things: three sheets to the wind and fresh off a fuck. 

“Sorry I’m late,” I slurred to my roommate, whom I’d invited as my platonic plus one. “I was having sex.” 

“I figured,” she said.

We staked out a corner of the dark, crowded bar and perched atop the banquette, our heels leaving dimples in the seat, and proceeded to do what two snarky brunettes are wont to do at any event littered with bleached-blonde influencer-types—make fun of literally everything. We’d just moved on to mocking the gold skulls lining the walls when a gorgeous man approached us. 

“You know if these are real skulls?” my roommate asked, making good on a drunken, ill-conceived bit we’d decided to deploy should anyone have the misfortune of approaching us. 

“No, they’re not,” he laughed. 

“How would you know?” 

“Because I’m a doctor,” he said, parting full, soft lips that had yet to become the only ones I could bear to feel against mine to flash a white, flawless smile.

Despite being a woman who primarily fucks men, I rarely enjoy being approached by them in the wild—largely because most of them are terrible and/or a threat. I prefer to arrive at any potentially romantic/sexual interaction with a man fully prepared, armored up, and with some degree of leverage on my side.

Fortunately, my roommate is a beautiful and typically charismatic Gemini, so I can usually trust her to politely entertain any unsolicited male attention that happens to cross our path—which, on the evening in question, she so graciously did. 

Yet, somehow, there I was, walking back from the bar with Alek after just the two of us had gone to get more drinks, extending my hand back through the crowd for him to hold onto as if, even then, I was already afraid of losing him. And then there we were, me back up on the edge of the banquette as he stood before me, his hands on my thighs and his mouth immediately on mine the split-fucking-second my roommate turned her back to head to the bathroom. My lips met his in a way they hadn’t met a stranger’s in years, if ever. The moment my roommate excused herself to the bathroom, it was a holy shit, my-tongue-needs-to-be-in-your-mouth-immediately-if-not-sooner situation. 

I kissed him like a lunatic. Like a teenager. Like a woman on death row drinking every last drop of her very last kiss. Like a girl whose roommate was about to emerge from the bathroom, see her in the middle of a sloppy public makeout, and take her drunk ass home immediately.

She did and then he did—take us home, I mean. We loaded said drunk asses into the backseat of his green Jaguar and let him drive us back to the downtown hotel where, earlier that evening, I’d been railed by an ethically non-monogamous lover-friend who’d since decamped back to his partner and their golden retriever. 

“Can I come upstairs?” Alek asked as we hopped out of the backseat. 

“No!” I laughed bratilly, like a teenage tease. But every part of my horny little heart wished I could’ve said yes. 

I unironically like you, I texted him from upstairs, trying not to let my roommate see me smiling stupidly at my phone like a lovestruck loon. 

We spent the rest of the summer acting like horny teenagers—except with better sex and a much cooler car to get fingered in than your high school boyfriend’s mom’s Toyota Corolla. I’d slather myself with drugstore self-tanner and Hawaiian Tropic like the slutty Y2K teen I never was, and he’d pick me up in his green Jag on a sunset-soaked Friday night. He’d run one of his skilled surgeon’s hands with the slightly curved fingertips up my bare thigh and under my skirt while the other expertly, effortlessly manned the wheel. 

We’d unsuccessfully try to fuck in some Manhattan bar bathroom, then head back to his bare-bones Brooklyn apartment, where we’d re-break his already broken bed, toppling the stack of books that supported the bottom left leg. I would drop my body back down onto his eternally hard, always eager cock that effortlessly slid inside of me—a cock I couldn’t help but swallow whole any time I was near it. 

“I think you just sucked my soul out through my dick,” he said breathlessly in his bed one morning as I swallowed his cum and greedily licked his tip, desperate for every last drop. 

As a 26-year-old woman who had spent the vast majority of my 20s having sex with significantly older, sometimes married men (often for money), this summer fling with a gorgeous, never-married-no-kids 34-year-old felt like a return to something I’d never quite had—the teenage-dream romance. The one that had been snatched away from me at 17 by a boy who took my virginity in the backseat of a car parked behind an abandoned hardware store and cut ties with me shortly thereafter in a cruel phone call I took from my parents’ basement. 

As much as there was a shameless debauchery to sex with Alek, there was also an innocence to it—a horniness-for-its-own-sake I’d rarely experienced as a straight woman who had come to see my sexuality as a weapon I’d be wise to wield lest it be used against me. As far as fucking goes, it was fairly straightforward, little in the way of kink or experimentation. Yet there was a blissful, breezy playfulness to it, one that bred an eroticism in its own wholesomeness.

This was sex driven purely by that primal, almost adolescent, drive for sex itself that I’d found increasingly elusive in my adult years after I’d learned to leverage the many ways my sexuality could be used rather than experienced. Down here in his sprawling yet humble apartment in the southernmost no-mans-land of Brooklyn, just wanting someone this much was the most erotic experience I’d had in years. 

Which is all to say that when, late one mid-August morning, when he asked whether we should spend Labor Day weekend doing drugs and having sex in Atlantic City, I was all in. 

He picked me up late Friday afternoon. I bounced out to his car in the too-short, unapologetically cleavage-baring sundress I’d worn too often that summer. Together, we headed down to Poor Man’s Vegas. His right hand grazed my thigh while his left one casually palmed the wheel through New York City streets. It was something I’d seen almost every weekend that summer and never ceased to be amazed (i.e., turned on) by—his uniquely borough-bred ability to cruise through eternal traffic with with five fingers on my left thigh. 

As we hit the highway headed south that sunny September afternoon, two of those five fingers found their way under my dress and into my pussy, expertly working themselves against my G-spot in a way that felt enviably effortless—much like everything else about him. I’d rarely interacted with my own G-spot in any meaningful way, and this man could tease it while navigating holiday weekend traffic. A man who can get you off with his hands alone is a man who will ruin your life in ways you’ll have no choice but to be grateful for. But a man who can do it while driving down the Garden State Parkway? Well, good luck, bitch.

I gratefully returned the favor, unbuckling my seatbelt and swallowing the cock that slid so gorgeously down my throat, my head between him and the steering wheel in a way that felt stupidly, inexplicably safe. Could I die this way? Yes, of course. Will I? No, he’s too good at everything (in a way that will destroy me). Would it be worth it even if I did? No question. She died doing (sucking) what she loved.