My charity today is Disabled American Veterans, DAV, chosen to go with my story rather than the other way around.
DAV’s Mission Statement:
For over 100 years, DAV has been advocating for better federal veterans programs, benefits, health care and transition services for the men and women who served, their families and survivors.
I have to admit that among all the charities I get mail from, I’ve never paid attention to veterans’ kinds before. But in fact there are two military plaques in my family cemetery, and there are two big triangular boxes containing skillfully folded American flags tucked away in my house, both handed to me by soldiers at the burials of my two most beloved men. One was in the Army in WWII, and the other was in the Navy during the Vietnam War. Just writing that brings tears to my eyes. Neither was injured in war, but I do have respect for veterans.
My story here , though, is in no way worthy of much of anything, and I probably shoudn’t be rambling on like this. I chose “Junkyard Dawg” at first, because it’s one of my shortest, and also old enough that it’s very unlikely to be remembered (or to have been read at all.) It’s also not one of my best. I’d forgotten it myself, until I dug deeply into some old documents. It was published in an anthology from Alison Tyler, but I can’t even remember the name of the book or the year.
Well, in any case, here it goes. You know the drill. I’ll contribute $1 for every hit on this blog, and $2 for every comment. And probably more.
by Sacchi Green
“Hey, Dawg, get your tail on out here!”
But Dawg doesn’t hear me. Not my yell, not the rude squack of my horn, not the clank of the pickup’s tailgate as I lower it, not the tangles of rusty metal spilling out. The guy’s got some kick-ass concentration going when he gets in the groove with fire and hammer and tongs. Sometimes seems like that’s the only time he comes alive since he came back from the war,limping just a bit with a metal foot. Folks have got over by now joking that he must have made it himself. He doesn’t pay attention to much besides his forge.
The forge isn’t the only place he’s been lighting a fire. This time, when I deliver a truckoad of metal scraps, I’m determined to let my heat show through.
With a few pieces of metal over my shoulder, runners from a child’s antique pony-sleigh with a lovely curve to them, I weave past the “Junkhouse Dawg” sign at the curb and through the whimsical “Junkhouse Dogs” and other iron creatures scattered across the yard. He welds them together from old tractor parts, tricycles, rakes, scythe blades, cogwheels, springs, and the assorted detritus of a vanishing rural life. They bring in good money at fairs and craft shops around Vermont.
Out in back, fenced away from the casual tourist’s gaze, Dawg’s more serious works are gathered. Surreal, tortured, mythic, they’re gobbled up by New York galleries when he consents to let them go. I like the horned ones best, demons with sharpened hay-fork tines on their arrogant heads, drill-bit teeth in their mouths, and whangs made of anything from hose nozzles to ice-climbing drills to rotary eggbeaters.
“Dawg!” I call again. “Got a load of prime junk for you!”
Dawg shuts out most folks, but we’ve got along okay in the months since I took over my Dad’s antique-and-junque business. What better use for a degree in art history, right? Besides, dealing with Dawg, who takes all my unsaleable bits and pieces of old metal, has been an unexpected bonus.
I’m about to make it even more so. He never says much, but he’s sure been looking lately, with that dark, piercing gaze of his. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had sex. Longer even than for me, I’ll bet. It’s high time I had more than his eyes on me.
I set down the sleigh runners outside the forge, shrug out of my denim jacket, adjust my low-cut tank top for maximum bra-less display, and step through the door. Dawg, wielding an acetylene torch, eyes shielded by a safety visor, doesn’t see me. For a minute, until my eye adjust, I can’t tell what he’s working on, and then, when I do see, I can’t believe it.
He’s constructing a woman.
There’s no mistaking the curving wrought-iron torso, or the pair of tin funnels welded to it, although I still can’t make out much detail. But what’s he doing aiming the narrow torch flame right at those pointy tin tits? My breasts tingle and burn in sympathetic excitement. Then, when I realize that he’s melting the funnel tips into nubbly nipples, my own nipples seem to melt and harden in exquisite contradiction.
This is it. No time for thought. I yank off my tank top, fling it onto the molten metal, and watch it flame into brief glory. Dawg swings around, reflexively switching off the torch.
Now, at last, I have his attention. In the relative dimness, with the torchlight gone, his visor reflects the red glow from the furnace, making his face look as wild and eerie as that of any demon lover.
“Is that your dream girl?” I ask. “Looks like you could use a real model. Just for starters, this—“ and I cup my breasts, flicking their hardening, aching nipples with my thumbtips, “is how an aroused woman really looks.”
Dawg draws a shaky breath. “Just for starters?”
“You come and take over this part,” I say, barely stifling sobs as I work my breasts harder and faster, “and we’ll see about the rest.”
He’s on me hard and fast, shoving me against the wall. “You’d better mean it,” he growls, pulling off his visor, still looking, with dark tousled hair and fierce eyes, like the demon of my dreams.
“Try me.” I wriggle out of my cut-offs and guide his hand between my thighs. I’m so wet and ready steam should be rising from my cunt. I want to say, “Is that a hammer in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?” but I’m too frantic to get my hands on him to take time for quips.
Dawg’s heavy work shirt comes off, and then his jeans, tossed at our feet. I pay no attention to the metal foot. His fingers tease and twist my breasts, while mine stroke his butt and then grip his iron-hard cock. If I could bear to raise my mouth from the heavy muscles of his shoulder I would slide down to taste the droplets I feel where he presses against my stomach. But Dawg’s urgency, once triggered, is too fierce for any delay. He lifts me high until my legs start to grip his hips and my cunt grinds against him, then lowers me suddenly to the floor, onto his sprawl of clothes. I open to take him in, lift to lure him deeper, meet his hammering thrusts with my own demand, and I shout my rough release along with his when our need crests in a huge burst of joy.
“That,” I say, when I can say anything, “is still just for starters.”
“You’d better believe it,” Dawg says. “It’s gonna take a long, long time before I can can get this all done right with nuts and bolts and sleigh parts, now that I’ve got a model, but it’ll be worth the effort.”
I swat at his fine ass, and he grins. The first real smile I’ve ever had from him, and the longest conversation.
I think I just found my own way of making great art out of things you find in a junkyard. It’s definitely going to be worth the effort.
For more of this month’s Charity Sunday, go to Lisabet Sarai’s blog: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com