Shenglish

"All children are born geniuses; 9,999 out of every 10,000 are swiftly, inadvertently degeniusized by grownups."

― R. Buckminster Fuller

What follows is one of thousands of adventures engaged in by a man you've never heard of; a man who took Vegas for all it had. A man named Don Keedik.

Don has never played a slot machine, nor been dealt a single hand of Blackjack. When it comes to poker, he sucks more than The Waltons on Ice.

Counting cards? Our hero leaves that for Ben Mezrich and Claude Shannon, since the only thing he can count on is himself.

In the context of gambling, Don's credentials are shorter than a list of famous people named Tiger.

So, how did a guy ― who finds gaming more difficult than making love to a housefly ― zealously devour Sin City?

When it comes to humanity, only two things are certain:

1) Oprah will continue eating...even from beyond the grave, and

2) Don Keedik isn't "saving himself for marriage."

Even those severely retarded ― mentally, physically, or both ― have vices. Bedridden ― unable to move from the neck down ― a person will awaken at a particular time, to enjoy sunshine through their window. They'll hold chocolate mousse in their mouth longer than strained squash. They'll squint to make everything in the room fuzzy, providing entertainment.

In a bullshit society ― founded on suffering and death ― everyone has "transgressions." Existing without temporary escape, in this prison paradigm, is harder than 14 year old cookies.

Don's debauchery was sex. He aspired to be the best at obtaining it in the Entertainment Capital of the World.

His goal? Two hundred women in five months.

The stipulations?

1) No hookers, unless they offered it for free, and

2) Repeaters didn't count twice. One entry per woman on the resume.

Other than that, Vegas was "a great, big pussy just waiting to get fucked!"

Did our protagonist have what it took to make his aspiration a reality? Uncertain, but eager to try, Keedik surmised this was what he'd been born for.

Alone in his ramshackle apartment ― a mile from the Strip ― beneath the tattered covers of a bed that should've been declared a biohazard, he said his name three times aloud for proof:

"Don Keedik."

"Dong Keedik."

"Donkey Dick."

Pre-lubed and primed for penetration, Sabrina stumbled into Vegas Vic. Obviously not a student of the Carrie Nation School of Teetotaling, the Latina reeked of rebated tequila and pre-rolls.

"I sorry, Luke Skywalker," the wanton woman sluggishly purred, digging grimy fingernails into the group sex coordinator's ass.

Standing dispassionate on the backyard patio of the Sin City swing club, Vic continued organizing the latest sexual shindig from a greasy cell, smelling of Slim Jim meat sticks.

Barely able to comprehend what Sabrina was saying, it was obvious the Mexican maiden wanted less to do with Don Keedik than government does anarchy. She'd spent the past ten minutes of conversation pretending he wasn't there.

"Your English is excellent!" Keedik professed, comparing her Shenglish to his Spanish ― which was nonexistent.

The woman spoke what Don referred to as Shenglish ― or English so broken, it's shattered. Hence, shattered English; i.e. Shenglish.

Staring blankly at our hero, the libidinous lass pawed Vegas Vic's nutsack through shorts so threadbare, one could count the hairs on his scrotum, while he was dressed.

Six-foot tall, and well over 200 pounds, V-Squared was far larger than Keedik in stature.

Women gravitated toward the hunkier guys, when clothed, at this particular venue.

Don was a scrawny runt. The only thing he had goin' for him was a dick like a donkey. Hence, his sobriquet ― Don Keedik, or Donkey Dick.

"Where'd you learn to speak English?" DK questioned the BBW, feigning interest, in his attempt to clear the runway for sex, should he ever receive approval for takeoff.

Again, with that hollow gaze, as if she was too drunk, or not literate enough, to comprehend. Five seconds subsequent, she replied, "JewTube."

Confused Jews might actually have their own video channel, let alone one teaching English, Keedik deduced what had been lost in translation. Nodding, he was unsure how to proceed.

As Sabrina burrowed her face into Vic's neck, Vegas' most productive group sex coordinator turned to Don, whispering, "This one's a little large for my taste."

Knowing his friend's proclivities, our hero concluded this would happen. V2 wasn't into big, beautiful women, but he knew Keedik was. Big? Small? It didn't matter. As long as they were disease free, and of legal age, Don's fires were stoked.

Again, though, since this one seemed less interested in him than the medical industry is a cure for cancer, our protagonist was at a loss. If he could just detour her down a path replete with visual contact of his hard-on, previous experience dictated he had a strong plausibility of adding another Number.

With his clothes on, Keedik was an honorable mention, at best. It was a: "Don't call us, we'll call you" situation, while garbed. That typically changed, when naked, and throbbing.

Thanks to the inclusion of alcohol, this situation also had an expiration date on it. Once this bronze babe exceeded her limit, she'd be annihilated like the indigenous population of the Marshall Islands, following U.S. atomic testing on the atolls in question.

Thus, Don had to find a way to showcase the goods on the open market, before "lights out."

Shortly subsequent the above exchange, Sabrina wandered off into obscurity.

It was only after heading for the bathroom, and passing one of the private rooms, that Keedik caught her act through an open door, atop the bed therein.

Tripping through the Mattress Mambo, with an equally sauced senor, the woman was learning the soft way ― pun intended ― about the pitfalls of male tumescence, and alcohol.

Watching the proceedings, Don ascertained the Demon of Puto San Guelo had paid a visit to Sabrina's suitor, and all compasses were pointing south. Thus, he asked if he could join the soiree.

The Latina squinted, attempting to determine who Keedik was. That moment of comprehension. Her mind said, "No," but her lips whispered, "Yes," once she realized the guy atop her was softer than a freshly-brushed kitten.

Out of options, Sabrina reluctantly waved our hero in.

With a grunt and a fart, the sloshed Spaniard above her rolled to the side. Falling off a mattress that had seen more action than a Sylvester Stallone fanatic, he dropped into the abyss below the edge of the bed.

In the background, Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On played placidly from what appeared the room's in-house speakers.

Entering, Don strode to the opposite edge of the box spring.

As per his usual modality, he motioned to the woman's breasts, inquiring as to whether touching was acceptable.

"Si," came her reduced reply.

"And, they're off!"

Heavy tits ― glistening in desert heat ― undulated atop a robust frame. Within minutes, the woman's breathing increased, and Keedik could tell she needed to cum.

With trembling right hand, he applied peach-flavored lube to his cock ― a departure from the usual vanilla, since Deja Vu had been out-of-stock.

"Ooo, fug me, plees, Charlie Sheeng. Fug me!" the frenzied female pleaded, as Don lightly tugged her titties with his teeth.

Stroking himself beneath slacks produced under horrendous sweatshop conditions, he positioned her at the precipice of the bed, and spread her legs wide.

The woman's gorgeous gash was leaking precum.

Voracious, Keedik stabbed his tongue into her asshole.

"Papi!" she squealed, stretching her cheeks ― her stink star shining brightly.

Maniacally, Don licked her Devil's onion ring.

"Eres tan sucio, Papi. Eres tan sucio!" Sabrina pulled her butthole wide, to the point the nerves within it rose to the surface. The impatient imp pushed her anus against our protagonist's face with all her might.

Moments later, he'd migrated to her clit ― which he thoroughly kneaded with his tongue.

"Que rico, Papi!" the woman squealed. "Hazme una Happy Meal! Follame ahora, Jack Nicholson!!"

It was raw Shenglish, but goddamn was she tryin'!

At that, Keedik climbed atop the box spring, and shoved his tongue deep into the Latina's throat. Deftly, he slid her hand down a pair of pants that would fit most fifth graders.

"Holy mierda fug!" Sabrina's eyes widened, as she latched onto 8 1/2 inches of semi-soft steak. "Es el hogar de la Whopper!" she belted forth, yanking on Don's half-pound bean and cheese burrito with white sauce.

Dropping to the floor, Keedik did everything within his power to remove his trousers.

Bolting upright, the wanton woman tore at our hero's zipper, as though it housed her sole birthday gift.

From the in-room speakers, Jim Croce lovingly crooned Time in a Bottle.

Don's huge dick flopped out.

Rapacious, the lascivious Latina couldn't get his super-sized meal between her chapped lips quickly enough. Gouging into the flesh of Keedik's absent ass cheeks, she yanked him toward her face in spasms, attempting to initialize some sense of rhythm.

Amid her thick, sausage fingers, DK was a 125 pound, listless stuffed animal ― sporting 9 1/2 inches of cock ― and clad in nothing but fuckboots, and socks.

Slobbering over his veiny staff ― which was coated in a thick glaze of saliva ― she began face fucking herself without control.

Gazing down at the puddle of liquid that had already released from her cunt, and accumulated on the tile floor between them, Don had to make her blow girl jizz.

"Hop on the bed, baby. Let me make you cum," Keedik commanded, assuming control of the situation.

"Please, Papi! Please! I need your beeg cock inside me!" What Sabrina actually declared was something so incomprehensible, there's no way of reproducing it here, without it sounding like gibberish.

In moments, she was spread eagle, dangling off a mattress that ― had it been able to talk ― would never shut up.

Clutching ochre meat hunks for thighs, she pulled herself open for Don.

Suiting up, our hero thrust to the hilt.

"Que rico! Que rico!!" the driven damsel arched her back, as DK plunged his penis deep, opening her release valve. Three thrusts in, and she threatened to explode. Three more thrusts, and she was dousing the room.

Fixedly draining her fuckhole dry, Keedik continued to pound.

Squirters come ― so to speak ― in various categories. Don had most often encountered those who'd blown their loads in massive, violent bursts; and those who'd steadily sprayed ― like lawn sprinklers ― over an extended period of time.

Sabrina was definitely the latter, producing ejaculate for two or three minutes straight, that would drizzle down on anyone within an eight foot radius.

Eventually, though, even the Latina ran dry — as was the case, when she begged our hero to stop.

Crossing that threshold, Keedik removed his throbbing rainmaker from the Spanish slut's slit.

Sliding down the side of the mattress, coated in her cum, the wasted woman grappled to catch her breath.

A sea of surge, and a slick tile floor were a recipe for disaster. As such, Don stepped cautiously, to refrain from toppling.

From still indeterminate speakers, Stevie Wonder just called to say he loved everyone.

"Are― Are you okay, baby?" In a desperate attempt to keep from falling onto his sorry excuse for an ass, Keedik squeezed bare tit.

Gulping air, Sabrina sliced a hand across her throat, indicating she was tapping out. "I...I― I feenish, James Bond," was all she seemed capable of croaking.

Cautiously rounding two corners of the bed, Don eventually encountered squirt sufficient enough to take him down. Crashing hard, he came to rest adjacent the Mexican man who'd passed out ― pants around his ankles, and cock in hand ― atop the floor, on the opposite side of the box spring.

Throughout history, there have been some memorable love sequences ― Ghost, Titanic, Gone With the Wind? But this?!

This had nothing to do with any of them.

― authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. Don Keedik