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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
Image by Francis Picabia via the MoMA
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. 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 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 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 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. 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.
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
Image by Francis Picabia via the MoMA
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. 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 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 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 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. 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.
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