Urna Semper

Instructor’s Name
29 March 2019

Broads
Jimmy Nolan has a thing for broads—loud, brassy women who sit with their legs open
and drink beer straight from the bottle—women who always say exactly what they’re
thinking and for better or worse, mean what they say.
By Roxane Gay

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Image by Francis Picabia via the MoMA

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Jimmy Nolan has a thing for broads—loud, brassy
women who sit with their legs open and drink beer
straight from the bottle—women who always say
exactly what they’re thinking and, for better or
worse, mean what they say.

Jimmy Nolan has a hard time meeting broads. He’s

not quite sure if this is the result of geography,
circumstance, or personal limitation. Jimmy’s ex-
girlfriend Marissa was the antithesis of a broad—
pale, thin, precise, and polite with a watery voice and
weak handshake. She says Jimmy isn’t the kind of
guy broads go for and, more than once during the
course of their three-year relationship, she turned up
her nose when Jimmy ogled a broad passing by.

Jimmy Nolan would like to think he is the kind of guy

broads go for. He likes his steak rare, enjoys a cold
Budweiser, and has a hearty laugh that echoes in any
room. His problem, however, is that he models
himself after caricatures of who he thinks broads
like. And, unfortunately for Jimmy, he’s a nice guy.

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He opens doors and covers his lap with a napkin at
dinner, never interrupts a conversation, and always
says please and thank you. Then there are his hands
—slender, almost delicate hands that are finely
veined, the skin stretched smoothly over bone
without blemish.

It is this habit of placing his napkin on his lap that

first got the attention of Greta, a waitress, a broad
among broads, at his favorite diner. Greta is charmed
by Jimmy’s manners and his demeanor, and how,
even when he only comes in for coffee and a danish,
he still takes the time to use his napkin properly.
Greta doesn’t claim to know much, but she knows
men. She knows that their hands and their minds
wander and that they will say most anything to get
into the pants of a broad like her. Knowing so much
about men is exhausting for Greta. Each day, when
she sees Jimmy Nolan, Greta is grateful to see the
kind of man she knows nothing about.

Jimmy long ago decided his hands were the bane of

his existence. Women like Marissa coo and fuss over
them; they yearn for Jimmy’s lovely hands to toy

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with their tender bits. Marissa’s favorite thing was
for Jimmy to lie next to her in bed, gently sucking
one nipple while he stroked her clit with his middle
finger in small, fast circles until the pleasure was so
sharp and intense that it hurt. She couldn’t get
enough of Jimmy’s middle finger until, of course, she
met someone who was happy to take Jimmy’s place.
In Jimmy’s experience, the women in his life often
find someone who can take his place. Broads, they
take one look at Jimmy Nolan’s hands and decide
that hands so fine would crumble inside their bodies.
They hardly pay him any mind at all.

Every night, Jimmy Nolan takes a bath. It’s a ritual he

has perfected over the years. At exactly 10:35 p.m.,
after the evening news is done, he runs hot water
until the tub is three-quarters full and adds a capful
of musky bath oil. He sets the radio to KSZU FM, a
jazz station—real jazz, not that new stuff—and after
stripping naked, sinks into the bath with a heavy
sigh, enjoying the swirls of steam that fill the room.
Jimmy bathes with his eyes closed, his long dark hair
clinging to the ceramic edges of the tub. He

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fantasizes about trashy and brassy broads—imagines
their mouths and breasts and thighs and eyes. In
more explicit detail, he imagines Greta—a tall
brunette with thick thighs, large green eyes, and
oddly small yet perky breasts.

Jimmy doubts that Greta knows his name, but he

leaves her a generous tip every day. He compliments
her on the way she manages to dangle a cigarette
between her lips and hold a conversation all while
pouring coffee. As he thinks about Greta, he wraps
his slender, almost delicate hands around the rigid
length of his cock—which is not at all delicate—and
slowly strokes himself. If he closes his eyes tight, he
can pretend Greta is there with him, sliding into the
tub, sighing as she relaxes. Jimmy knows that Greta
has long days. What she needs at the end of that long
day is a hot bath and a man like Jimmy Nolan waiting
for her.

In his mind, she sits across from him, smiling her

slow, easy smile. She arches her leg just so, and
traces Jimmy’s body from shoulder to shoulder with
her big toe. Jimmy massages her foot, then her calf

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with his delicate hands. Greta moans softly, whispers,
“That feels so good.” Greta’s skin is slick, smooth,
and he can feel the tension in her muscles as his
hands move higher. Greta slides lower and pulls
Jimmy toward her. He imagines her full lips, brushing
against his neck as she straddles his lap, and slowly
lowers herself onto his cock. Jimmy breathes slowly.
He wants to make the moment last. He wraps his
arms around Greta’s strong frame, smiles to himself
as she perches her chin over his shoulder.

Her ankles lock against his back and then, Greta

fucks Jimmy like a broad should. She is exuberant,
loud, and her thighs squeeze him so tightly Jimmy
can hardly breathe. Jimmy rises to meet her thrusts,
enjoys the wet sound of their bodies slapping
together, water spilling onto the tiles. When she’s
about to come, Greta grabs hold of the sides of the
tub, and lifts herself a bit, so that her breasts bounce
against Jimmy’s face. He wraps his fingers in her
thick, damp hair. She tells Jimmy to open his eyes,
and she stares at him, her lips slightly parted.

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Afterwards, when the fantasy of Greta has faded,
there is a small constellation of grayish cum floating
somewhere over his torso. Jimmy smokes a cigarette,
thankful that his hands prove themselves useful on
occasion.

Jimmy has tried asking Greta out on a date. Imagined

or not, he is certain that they share a connection.
Greta has a habit of resting her hand against his
narrow shoulder a little too long, smiling a bit too
brightly when he passes through the grease-smudged
doors, taking a seat across from him when there’s a
lull. During these lulls, Jimmy and Greta talk. He
loosens his tie, rolls up his sleeves, and tries to flex
his forearm muscles. They banter about work and
politics and movies and life, and always Jimmy
reminds her that his name is Jimmy Nolan. He knows
that she has one kid, no husband, no boyfriend. She
drinks Heineken, exclusively, likes clubbing when she
can get a sitter, voted for Ralph Nader in the election,
and plays a mean game of golf.

What he does not know is that these conversations

are the highlight of Greta’s day. When she’s home,

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after she’s put her kid to bed, she stares out her
bedroom window, looking past what’s really there,
and tries to recall every word Jimmy Nolan has ever
said to her.

On a very ordinary Thursday, after working late,

Jimmy Nolan decides to stop by the diner, add a little
variety to his routine. The place is nearly empty
when he takes a seat at his regular booth. Greta is
still working, though she looks a bit more worn than
usual. Her long hair is unkempt, wayward strands
creeping out of the ponytail that draws her features
back. Light shadows line her eyes, and Jimmy
imagines that this is what Greta must look like when
she first wakes up—drowsy and succulent.

Greta smiles when she sees Jimmy, leans against his

table, and drawls, “Jimmy Nolan, is it tomorrow
already?”

“So you do know my name.”

Greta cocks her head to the side and fishes her

notepad from her waist. “What can I get ya?”

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“Coffee. A burger, rare, with everything, and a side of
onion rings.”

She pens his order, chewing on her lower lip, then

taps the top of his head with her notepad and heads
back to the kitchen. Jimmy watches her go, the way
her hips rock back and forth. He hopes she knows he
is watching. Greta hopes Jimmy is setting aside his
polite ways long enough to watch. When she brings
his food, the only other customer in the place, a
tired-looking trucker with nicotine-stained fingers
and a dent in his lower lip, pays his bill and leaves.
Jimmy realizes with startling clarity that, save for the
short-order cook watching TV in the kitchen, he and
Greta are alone for the first time.

Greta sets Jimmy’s plate before him and takes a seat,

pouring some ketchup on a napkin before sliding a
finger through an onion ring and twirling it in the
air. “At last,” she says, winking. Greta takes a bite of
the onion ring and wills Jimmy Nolan to take an
interest in something other than casual conversation
with her.

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Heat creeps from his chest, up through his neck, and
into his cheeks. He turns away and coughs as he
assembles his hamburger—bun, ketchup, mustard,
burger, mustard, ketchup, lettuce, tomato, onion,
bun. The pickles, he eats separately, one by one.

“You play with your food the way I used to play with
Legos,” Greta says.

Jimmy shrugs. “I know how I like my food.”

Greta takes another bite of the onion ring she has

stolen. “That’s good,” she says. “That you know what
you like.”

Jimmy can’t help but grin. “Long day?”

Greta swings one leg out to the side, her blue skirt
slowly inching up her thighs. “Every day is a long
day.”

Jimmy nods as if he can understand what it’s like to

stand on your feet for ten hours a day, every day, but
then, as he brings his burger to his mouth, he sees

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his hands and, blushing, quickly takes a bite, drops
his food and hides his hands under the table.

Greta rubs her chin thoughtfully. “I could try and

devise a clever ploy to get you in the bathroom, but I
already know how to unclog a toilet.”

Jimmy leans forward, one leg twitching

uncontrollably. “Why do you need to get me in the
bathroom?”

Greta stands, smoothing her outfit. “Follow me.”

Again, Jimmy watches her walk away, stares down at

his plate, and at the empty space across from him. He
practically trips over his own feet as he extricates
himself from the booth. His leg still twitching, he
makes his way to the bathroom and pauses, studying
the two doors before him. After a quick debate, he
curses for quibbling with himself about which door
she’s behind and decides Greta will be in the ladies
room. Greta is sitting over the sink, her ass against
the faucet, legs slightly spread.

“Took you long enough.”

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“I got lost.”

Greta laughs, and Jimmy shivers. She has a vulgar,

voluptuous laugh, one that echoes like his. She
reaches out and takes hold of the narrow length of
his tie, pulling Jimmy closer. He stumbles forward,
falling into her, his nose pressed against her cotton
blouse. He inhales deeply. She smells like grease,
tobacco smoke, lipstick, and a perfume he’s never
smelled before—a perfume only broads wear, he
thinks. Shyly, Jimmy takes hold of Greta’s waist and
looks up at her.

“Jimmy Nolan,” she says.

Taking a deep breath, Jimmy brushes his lips across

Greta’s. He memorizes every faint groove, the way
her full lips come to a point in the middle and never
seem to close completely. It’s been a long time since
he’s kissed any woman, and an even longer time
since he’s had the opportunity to kiss a woman
properly—wetly, with lots of tongue, hard enough to
leave his lips swollen the next day. The tip of his
tongue slips past her lips, and he traces the hard

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edges of her teeth before venturing further, finding
her tongue, thick and flat, salty. Greta’s legs spread
further apart, and she wraps them around Jimmy’s
waist before clasping the back of his neck, letting her
long fingernails dig into his skin. Jimmy Nolan tries
to become the kind of guy broads pick up in a diner.
He undoes her ponytail and wraps her soft, thick hair
around his fingers. He growls, as he feels her back
arching, her breasts pressing against the flat of his
chest.

Pulling her head back, Jimmy drags his fingers from

the tip of Greta’s chin, along the column of her
throat, to the top of her blouse, hurriedly undoing
each button, one of them flying off in the process
and landing on the floor with a loud ping. Greta is
silent but she kisses Jimmy with an intensity that
frightens him. Beneath his slacks, his cock is hard
against the soft fabric of his boxers. He brings his
mouth lower, sinking his teeth into Greta’s neck,
pulling at the tight flesh, and tracing the red marks
he makes with his tongue. In the morning, he wants
Greta to stare at herself in the mirror and draw her

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fingers over the bruise he will leave. He wants the
world to know Jimmy Nolan was here.

Jimmy looks up for a moment. He almost doesn’t

recognize himself in the mirror. His face is flushed, a
sheen of sweat covering his forehead and upper lip.
His eyes are flashing, nostrils flaring. Greta tugs his
tie again, and Jimmy takes her small breasts into his
slender, almost delicate hands, enjoying the weight
of them as his fingers follow the curves, squeezing
softly. Reverently, he pulls each of Greta’s nipples
into his mouth. The textures of her body against his
tongue send shivers down his spine and thighs. Greta
presses her fingernails into his shoulders. Jimmy
starts to nibble her nipples with his teeth, exerting
just enough pressure to feel the taut flesh give way.
He persists until Greta is moaning and grinding
against the hollow sink beneath her. Jimmy rests his
nose against Greta’s breastbone. She smells different
now.

He doesn’t bother removing her skirt. He knows how

broads like it when they’re being fucked in
bathrooms. She instinctively raises her ass as he

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shoves her skirt up around her waist. He can hardly
control himself as he slides her panties, a purple,
silky thong—the kind a broad wears—down her legs,
leaves them dangling from her ankle. Greta takes
hold of one of Jimmy’s hands, and one by one, pulls
his long fingers into her mouth to the third knuckle,
lathing them with her tongue, grazing them with her
teeth. She makes loud, sloppy sounds that remind
him of her kisses.

“You have beautiful hands,” she whispers. “The first

thing I noticed about you.”

Jimmy is startled. He looks at his hand, in her mouth,

imagines reaching into her body, reaching past the
viscera in search of something he can’t quite put to
words. He can’t help but say thank you. Greta takes
the hand she is sucking, pushes it down the center of
her body leaving a wide, moist trail. She firmly plants
his hand against her cunt and stares at Jimmy.

“You have beautiful hands,” she says again.

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Jimmy nods silently and lowers his mouth between
her thighs, licking the warm spaces between his
splayed fingers. Greta shivers, and Jimmy shyly
spreads his fingers, exposing the downy strip of her
pussy lips. Sliding his tongue between them, he licks
upwards. Her taste changes from subtle to thick and
sharp along this intimate geography. Her clit, when
he reaches it, is softer than he imagined, but
sensitive, her thighs trembling each time his tongue
passes over.

“Your hands,” Greta says hoarsely. “It’s your hands I

want.”

He rises slightly and leans forward, resting his

forehead against the upper swell of her breasts and
slides two fingers inside Greta as he presses his
thumb to her clit. She is tight—tighter than he
expected—and her wetness slides around his fingers
like warm water. Greta is tracing his shoulders with
her nails, and she has carefully wedged one of her
feet between their bodies, pressing the arch against
the hard length of his cock. Jimmy Nolan notes
Greta’s flexibility.

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Jimmy slides a third finger inside Greta. She adjusts,
spreading her legs wider. He twists his hand and
arches his fingers upward, exploring the silky
smoothness covering hard bone, the way her cunt
curves. He tries to find the deepest, pulsing part of
her, though he is not quite sure that such a thing is
possible. The opening of Greta’s cunt puckers around
his fingers. Taking a deep breath, Jimmy lets his
pinky slip inside of her. Slowly, at first, he begins to
fuck her with his fingers, sliding them to the third
knuckle then pulling back, then sliding back in. There
is a sound—a soft, squishy sound that Jimmy Nolan
hopes he will never forget. Greta begins rocking her
hips, and she moans a high-pitched, squeaky moan
that borders on laughter. Her thighs are slick with
sweat. The bathroom reeks of disinfectant, grease,
and sex.

Greta pounds her fist into Jimmy’s back. “More,” she

says tersely. “More.”

Jimmy fucks Greta harder. Faster. The muscles in his

arm burn from shoulder to wrist, but he doesn’t stop.
He presses his thumb against the palm of his hand

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and slides his entire, delicate, finely-boned hand
inside Greta’s cunt. His fingers curl into a fist, and
Jimmy Nolan thinks it is a marvelous feeling, the
sensation of Greta’s insides clinging to his hand.
Greta lifts Jimmy’s chin with one finger and forces
him to look at her. Her expression is serious—one of
intense concentration. Her eyes are cloudy, her lips
open wide. Jimmy holds her gaze, grabbing Greta’s
ass with his other hand, thrusting his fist in and out
of her with deliberate strokes that make her whole
body tremble. Her moans are louder, throatier now.
Jimmy does not know how much longer his arm will
last, but he continues fucking Greta, rolling his fist
around inside of her, rubbing his knuckles against
the soft doughy pad just below her clit, his own hips
rocking in rhythm with hers. His cock is throbbing,
and he knows that soon, very soon, he will come all
over his boxers, and he will have to walk home in the
wet spot.

Suddenly Greta throws herself back, her head hitting

the dirty mirror. Jimmy blinks. Her cunt spasms
around his hand, wetness oozing over his wrist,

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trickling along his forearm. He leans down, licking
some of the moisture. It is entirely satisfying.

“Don’t stop,” Greta says, through clenched teeth.

Jimmy does as he’s told and continues fucking Greta,

but harder. His hand feels raw, knuckles chafed. He
catches a glimpse of them in the mirror, their bodies
at awkward angles, practically entwined. Jimmy likes
what he sees. After a final husky groan, so low Jimmy
can hardly hear it, Greta’s body stills. He tries to pull
his hand out, but Greta shakes her head.

“Not yet,” she says.

They sit there, leaning against one another for a long

while. Jimmy can hear the cook cleaning up the
kitchen, leaving out the back door. They are silent,
save for slow, heavy breathing. Finally, Greta kisses
Jimmy’s chin and nods. Slowly, Jimmy slides his hand
out of Greta’s pussy. He traces the soft, exquisitely
soft folds with his narrow pinky. Greta takes his wrist
again, pulls her hand to her lips, kisses the open
palm, then closes his fingers over the memory of her

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lips. He smiles widely. Jimmy Nolan is dizzy,
delirious. He is slightly incredulous to be holding a
broad like Greta in the palm of his slender, almost
delicate hand.

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