Comments/fire bombs/hot monkey love/sulphuric acid?
My name is Charlie Sanders, but you can call me Mule.
They named me after my Uncle Charlie, who people said was some big hero back in World War Two. They said he saved a bunch of Marines but was blown to bits by his own grenade. He’s buried back in Morgan City, my hometown.
Everybody called me Charlie when I was little. One kid in fourth grade called me Chaz the Spaz. I think he heard it on Saturday Night Live. Boy, was he surprised when I smacked his ear back into his temple. The principal wrote my name on a card and called my dad. I got the thrashing of my life that night. Then Dad made me suck his dick.
That man is an asshole. I know all about the Ten Commandments and honor thy father and all that shit. Don’t pull that guilt trip on me. They dunked me in a tank of water when I was 13 and put a Bible in my hand and all that shit. You don’t grow up in Morgan City without all that crap. They all said they were saving me. They needed to save me from my old man.
He’s just an asshole. He has a thing for asses. Mine most of all. Whipping it, kicking it, most of all fucking it. He always said he was so lonely after Mom died. I was six when she got this disease where you get the shits real bad and waste away. The last thing she said to me was, “You take good care of Daddy.” Did I ever.
He never even tried to date another woman again. He would make this lame excuse that he had to take care of me and was too busy. I always figured it was the booze that made him act so crazy. He drank a little when Mom was alive—then again, I was pretty little, so he could have been drinking more than I thought. But after she was gone, the number of beers went from two to four, and before I knew it, he was going through a 12-pack every night.
He would come home from the Delco factory and drink about 12 Budweisers and play his country music. Willie, Waylon, Johnny Cash…God, I can’t stand to hear that shit to this day. Then he’d come up to my room and throw me on the bed and pull my underwear down and fuck me in the ass. God, it hurt so bad. The worst part was when I would involuntarily get all tingly and it felt like I was coming, and I was, except there was no cum because I was too young. I knew deep down it was filthy and that he was an evil son of a bitch, but my body actually liked it. So here I was, liking something that I hated and was supposed to hate. I felt so dirty. I would walk down the halls in school and feel like everybody knew about it. Probably nobody knew, but you never know. It was a really small town, after all.
Some nights he was too drunk to get it up. Then he would blame it on me and just beat the shit out of me. Those were the good nights, because he would have enough of beating the crap out of me sooner or later. Then he’d go back downstairs and pass out, and I’d lock the door and fall asleep to the chirping of the crickets. That sound was one of the few moments of peace I had. I still love to hear the crickets outside my window in the summer. They’ve always been my friends.
Then there were those rare times when he would just pass out downstairs in his own piss and not be able to walk upstairs. Those were the few times I thought God was looking out for me.
One day when I was 12, I got some balls and threatened to call Children’s Services. He showed me what would happen if I told anyone. I had a few pet rabbits in a hutch in the backyard. He took me out there and grabbed one of the rabbits by the neck and skinned it alive right in front of me with this big hunting knife. I had to watch it scream and bleed to death. I gave the other rabbits away the next day and never mentioned Children’s Services again.
Once I asked him why he was hurting me. He said he was helping me! Can you believe that? He said he was teaching me how it felt to be a woman. He even told me this crap about how I would be popular with girls because I could empathize with them. Asshole.
Funny thing is, I’ve always been good with babes, but it had nothing to do with my dad. Once when he was lying on the couch, past the point of fucking me, he was jacking off and rambling about how I could beat off in public and get all the chicks I wanted. I once tried that back home and these bikers beat the shit out of me. So much for that asshole’s wisdom.
Which brings me to why they call me Mule. It started in high school with Coach Springlawn, the freshman football coach, but it didn’t have anything to do with my dick to begin with. He said I was stubborn as a mule ‘cause I wouldn’t do pushups when he told me to. I was a defensive back and rode the bench for two years. Then I didn’t make the cut the next year. I was starting to get bored with it anyhow. Not to mention I was getting pretty heavy into weed by that time.
But the guys I took showers with after practice came up with a different meaning for the name Mule. My dick grew early and often, and I had 10 inches by my freshman year. So it stuck.
Not that I minded. I figured it paid to advertise. At one point I was bangin’ two cheerleaders at once. Shit, even some of the teachers wanted to see why they called me Mule! I remember Miss Albrecht sent me a rose on Valentine’s Day once.
Angela Albrecht. She’s the reason I went into theater. She was this English teacher who ran the drama department. She was what a lot of people call a free spirit. Had a nice set o’ tits, too. Saw ‘em myself when I looked in her window one night. Man, she had the nips the size of 50-cent pieces. God, I wanted to stick my hog in her…
I’d been looking in people’s windows for some time. It started about the time my dad killed that rabbit. There was the L & K, where hookers turned tricks for drugs, and soon I moved on to just about every house and apartment in Morgan City that didn’t have a dog or a burglar alarm. I was fast on my feet—even won some track medals in middle school—so I rarely got caught. Once old lady Grubaugh grabbed me and took me home, then Dad made me apologize to her. Then, when she left, he pulled his pants down. Man, I never saw him so hard. He said, “Ya like to look at naked girls, huh? Ain’t your old man good enough for ya no more?” I ran out of the house, down to the local ice cream parlor, where I talked to some neighbor kids for hours about school, bicycles, rock bands, anything to keep me from going back home.
Most of the women I looked at were nothing to see once you’re out of Morgan City, but ya know, the crack of dawn looks good to a teenage boy. The mayor’s wife—she was pretty good. She was blonde, around 40, with a shaved pussy and a horseback rider’s ass. There were these two old dykes who lived on Main. They were fat and butch, but hey—it was cheaper than Penthouse.
But Miss Albrecht—she was my favorite. She was around 25, with this flowing, dirty blonde hair, faint freckles, big hips and this beautiful, 40-inch bust. She rented a room of a ranch-style house, so I didn’t have to climb any fire escapes. She would take her robe off after a shower and look at herself in the mirror and pat herself dry. That girl knew she was beautiful. She would look at herself and touch herself right then.
So, of course, I signed up for a school play the first chance I got. Miss Albrecht was a real slave driver, but I still liked theater. I think I enjoyed the idea of being someone else. Shit, anybody but who I was would have been good. I got some good parts, too. I was Vandergelder in The Matchmaker, and I played Huck Finn, too. Miss Albrecht said I had a natural stage presence. I though I could see those nips hardening as she said it. Why didn’t I ask her out? I liked her, but she scared me, too. What if she knew I was looking at her? So I blew it. Never saw her again after I graduated, and I’m not real eager to go back to my old high school to look her up. But that pair of tits led me out of Morgan City and into the Stratford College Theater Department.
Charlie Sanders is the name, but you can call me Mule. The pleasure’s all mine.