Best of Iranian.com: Sex

Fourth installment of the “Best of Iranian.com” project [see: “Being Iranian.com”]. Through a series of blogs I will publish the “best of…” pre-2007 selections under different thematic categories. Here is the selection for the theme “Sex”. I focused on Nooneh and Sarvenaz. The rest are picks by Jahanshah Javid from the old Experimental page. See maryam-baaji for "best of" index. 

Listed in chronological order, Jan 2000-Dec 2006

Drought
Is no sex better than bad sex? I think so.
Laleh Banoo

The timing of this writing is ironic beyond belief. I am in the middle of a big sex drought, as the last fuck I had was over two weeks ago and he was terrible. He is tall, handsome, smart, and well-traveled... but his dick isn't straight, it's not nearly as big as one would think, and when he drinks, which is always, he can't get hard, no matter what my tongue does. We've only done it twice and I think twice is enough. He had the nerve to come in my mouth the first time and I spit it out on his floor, so angry at him. Halfway through fucking me the second time we hooked up, he asked me, "Are you okay? You don't look happy." Perhaps it was because in my mind I was making a list of errands I needed to run and reminding myself to text several friends. "I'm fine," I replied, but my disappointment was palpable>>>

The big nothing is everything
I spend all day thinking about sex
Laleh Banoo

Andy Warhol once called sex "the big nothing." In a very fundamental way, I think he is right. Sex is something natural, it ensures the survival of the species, without it none of us would be here, and etc. Sex is the first thing I think about when I wake up, the last thing I think about before I go to sleep, and I think about it at least 20 times between those two events each day. So if Andy Warhol is right, I spend all day thinking about absolutely nothing. Sex really shouldn't be a big deal. So why, then, is sex such a big, complicated mess? Especially if you happen to be a single Iranian girl in your early 20s, even one who has had six lovers by now and done it hundreds of times>>>

Meysam
I took his lovely face in my hands and kissed his innocent eyes and told him how wrong our relationship was
Shana Yazdi

About three months ago we met at a party. He is only 22 years old and one of the most handsome men I have ever met in my life, very similar to the early years of Cary Grant. The fact that his parents were close relatives and the age difference between us (13 years) did not have the simplest effect to stop me from having him. I had seen him last when he was a child and I had no idea he had grown to become such a good looking lad. In fact I could not take my eyes off him during the party and took the first opportunity to go forward and talk to him. "Wow are you Meysam Koochooloo? You are a grown-up man now." And questions like "what are you doing and where are you studying?" So it turned out that he was a student of computer in Tehran University and still lived with his parents>>>

Napoleon mon amour
Part 1: That is how much I love him. I rather see him with her more often than less without.
Sarvenaz

It is difficult to write about love, when in love, and not sound pathetically corny. It is difficult to name feelings and sort them out into neat paragraphs. I have had an affair with the subject of this essay for more than a year now. It actually started four years ago. But at the time I was in love with someone else and I just saw it as a physical turn in a long friendship. Last year, when my husband and I separated and I came to Paris, my present love and I started a sexual affair. He was seriously involved with his present girlfriend who is more like a wife and I was just breaking up with my husband. We spent many secret two-hour rendezvous having great sex. We also met socially with his girlfriend and friends>>>

Napoleon mon amour
Part 2: I am old enough to know that a little of something that gives you so much joy is better than none at all
Sarvenaz

I have decided to write a chronicle of this affair that I am having. The one I wrote about last week with the guy we called Napoleon. This way I may be better able to exercise some control over an otherwise rather dangerous and out-of-my-hands affair. I may be able to sort out my feelings and separate the erotic from the romantic and keep the thing at a proper distance. Also if I treat the affair as material for my writing , I won’t feel used or victimized like I usually do when I fall in love and the other doesn’t. This will intellectualize the damn thing a bit and make me, a forty-five-year old single mom with a bit of an education and enormous amount of experience, feel less like a bimbo>>>

Napoleon mon amour
Part 3: The Libertines’ Club in Nice
Sarvenaz

We went to Nice this last weekend. He had to attend a conference for his job. I had to go to show an old manuscript book of mine that I had inherited from my father to Christies’, the antique dealers. Of course I could have gone another time but the thought of spending a weekend with Napoleon in Nice was too enticing. He had booked a hotel from a long time ago and told me he would be happy to have me go with him. I booked my flight and coincidently, though in different flights, our departure time was the same. He called me in the morning and told me that he would call me the minute his plane landed in Nice so we could take a taxi to town together>>>

Napoleon mon amoure
Part 4: Breathless
Sarvenaz

Ok it happened. Wednesday night I finally saw Napoleon alone after one whole week and he couldn’t hold his erection for long. Now, this week his girlfriend was here let’s call her, Josephine, and I had a fight with my mom. I called him in tears and he calmed me down. He told me, “man yekii keh nokaretam,” That was sweet and made me feel better. That night he invited me over to his place to watch Real Madrid play Barcelona. They both were nice and he was all civility. He asked me over almost every night since-- but Josephine being there we could not do anything. Until last night>>>

Napoleon mon amoure
Part 5: The Zoroastrian professor
Sarvenaz

Marriages may become sexually boring for men but they hurt women. The less the man shows interest the more the woman feels inadequate and undesirable. Most of the time the man, instead of trying to find something in the woman to keep him interested and to maintain intimacy, feels also inadequate. Instead of their relationship evolving it stagnates. This happens probably due to the fact that we still have a very narrow view of male/female role-playing. The woman wants the kind of attention she got while she was being courted and the man having fulfilled his pursuit loses his erection before he knows what is happening. Using the penis as a barometer for the quality of a relationship only promotes infantile behavior. No one talks, no one experiments and things become excruciatingly drab and boring>>>

Napoleon mon amour
Part 6: Facial
Sarvenaz

words, although when spoken in kindness have great remedial value, are still just words. Our situation remains the same he does not accommodate my need to be loved and cared for. So no matter how cool I try to be, no matter how much I love the sex and do not want to give it up I cannot hide my deep-down unhappiness. I have learned through the years that unhappiness with a relationship does not necessarily ruin the sex. Not if neither partner wants to give up on the sex. And right now, in case you have not noticed sex is the most important ingredient in a relationship for yours truly. I have tried really hard not to let Napoleon know, as you do, to what extent I love him. For me, being eternally expressive and verbally exhibitionist, secrecy is about the most difficult thing to demand of me>>>

Napoleon mon amour
Part 7: They all fall in love with you when they realize they can be easily replaced
Sarvenaz

No matter how cool I try to be at some point in every relationship that I have, of the sexual kind-- needless to say, I some how bring the question up, “what is it that we are having?” I have a feeling that most women are this way. I am not sure. There are better and worse ways of bringing this up. It is a delicate question especially in a relationship like mine and Napoleon where I am really just the mistress. So I wrote him a letter after one of our nights and defined what I thought we had: a friendship that is deep and a sexual affair that is an affair but one that I hope will last and one in which my feelings as the second woman in his life are respected and treated with the tenderness they deserve>>>

Napoleon mon amour
Part 9: The trip to Avignon: City of the Popes
Sarvenaz

Well I am not such a pushover after all. I am just mature enough to know that sometimes it is better to settle for less. So, once again, I settled for less with Napoleon. I mean I don’t really have many options. There is not even a single prospect of a boyfriend or girlfriend or even a late-night lover here where I live. The Iranians are mostly octogenarian monarchists who still want to bring back Reza Pahlavi to the Peacock Throne! There are some Iranians my age but they are either married to my friends or belong to the Anghayee sect, which makes them even more untouchable as far as I am concerned>>>

Sex, love & football
Napoleon mon amour, Part 10: I would rather watch the Iran-Mexico match with my man rather than with David Beckham in the nude
Sarvenaz

I have always been a football fan (I mean soccer for all of you who live where mostly women play it!) ever since the days when I played in the alleys of Darrous with my posse of mostly male cousins and friends. As a young child I remember being a Manchester United fan in Tehran. I had a big George Best poster in my bedroom and collected all their cards. Those were the days, in the late sixties and early seventies, when footballers, starting with George Best, had just begun taking on rock star proportions. My love of football and boys grew together>>>

Fat love
Napoleon mon amour, Part 11: Picking on some mid-aged woman, twice divorced, single mom, with no social life and a weight problem!
Sarvenaz

Where do I begin? It has been so long since I wrote for you, dear faithful readers. I feel like a disloyal mistress. A deserter. Much has happened, since before the World Cup, when I wrote for you last. This summer was so tumultuous and packed with activities, emotions, pleasures and pains that there was little time left to write. How could I maintain this degree of sincere description when so much was taking place? But, alas, I have come back. I have come back to you to beg forgiveness and ask you to once again sit at my side and listen with your eyes to this tale of love and lust spread before you in black and white It is a sign telling of the nature of the affair that not much has changed though much has happened between Napoleon and I. It also reveals the highly skilled nature of our rather experienced lover>>>

French dance
Napoleon mon amour, Part 12: What I know is that I met the person whom surely god had sent to keep me from being hurt by my dear absent lover
Sarvenaz

Where do I begin? It has been so long since I wrote for you, dear faithful readers. I feel like a disloyal mistress. A deserter. Much has happened, since before the World Cup, when I wrote for you last. This summer was so tumultuous and packed with activities, emotions, pleasures and pains that there was little time left to write. How could I maintain this degree of sincere description when so much was taking place?>>>

Jealous uprising
Napoleon mon amour, Part 13: “It was great. Jaat khaali,” I answered with a smile that deliberately revealed too much
Sarvenaz

I saw him that Sunday. He was not supposed to call until Monday. But since she suddenly had to go to work he was freed up to see me. And moi, the ever accommodating mistress, was delighted. He picked me up and we went to lunch. I acted a bit distant but could not hide a certain lightness that comes with having been naughty. Now, the truth is I don’t feel like I owe Napoleon, my love, any loyalty. Not only does he live with another woman but he is the type, as I mentioned early on in these series, who will not hesitate for a moment to fuck someone else should the opportunity arise. So being disloyal to him is an oxymoron and in fact to use Islamic parlance, not only halal, meaning legitimate, but even vajeb, absolutely necessary. To my delight I realized this summer that with all his libertinism and echangism, he is fully capable of ordinary jealousy>>>

My story
I have always wanted to write about my sex life
Shana Yazdi

I have always wanted to write about my sex life but I have always had a big hesitation talking about my sexual and personal matters. However my adventures in sex and relationships are so great that I would like to talk about it, especially with women who fall in love with more than one guy. This is a completely true story but I had to make slight changes to the Persian names for the sake of anonymity. It may sound a little bit too explicit or offensive to you but I am sure this text will be quite enlightening for those of you who want to get wind of the recent sexual revolution which is happening in Iran. I am a very beautiful woman of 35 coming from a very old and noble family. My father is a successful businessman and my mom is a dentist>>>

Gole gandom
Rolling in the hay
Mohammad Hossainzadeh
>>> In Persian

Model of love
Sexuality and marriage: What heterosexuals may be picking up from homosexuals
Hamid Karimianpour

It is my impression that two assumptions are deeply rooted in the way we understand our society and culture: firstly, marriage as a formalized union of a male and a female is taken to be the basic unit -- the atomic component -- which renders our society stable. Secondly, it is thought that there is no other way of organizing the society at the atomic level, i.e. family life and its sexual practices have always been and necessarily have to be the way they are today>>>

Beyond your wildest dreams
Muslim women have always had sex lives, but they have not always spoken openly of them
Jasmin Darznik

Muslim women have sex lives. There’s proof of it now: an Arab woman has just written a pornographic book. To judge by the attention now being paid to the The Almond, in the West this constitutes a stunning revelation. I must confess here that I am prone to one prurient habit above all others: watching the West watching Middle Eastern women. The publication of two recent books, The Almond and Embroideries, is giving me fresh opportunities to indulge. The Almond is a semi-autobiographical novel first published last year in France by a North African woman writing under the pseudonym “Nejma.” >>>

So could we
Virginity and the incredible pragmatism of the Iranian woman
Shahla Azizi

When I was a teenager I made a bet with my cousin that I would lose my virginity before him. I remember we were sitting in our garden in Tehran, under the walnut tree, by the swimming pool. It was the seventies, I was around fourteen, and my cousin, who was my best friend and confidant, was a year older. I had not yet lived in the West but I did attend the American-style Community School. My mother had attended the American missionary school in Tehran and was one of the founding members of the Saazemaan-e- Zanaan, a women’s organization, headed by the Shah’s rather notoriously promiscuous sister, Ashraf Pahlavi>>>

Heaven forbid
God-given right to a happy sexual life
Mattbina

I really enjoyed reading your article on virginity [So could we] and I just want to tell you how much I appreciated it. You have touched on a very important issue for all Iranians who have to consider this very fabric of our being. Your bold view about your own virginity at the age of fourteen only reveals your curiosity at a very young age and yet the awareness of the external ideologies even during the liberal Shah's regime which was much more agreeable to such viewpoints. At the same time, when I talk to the older Iranian women from that era, they all have late failed marriages or very unhappy ones at best. This makes me wonder and question as to the whys? >>>

Truth of sex
While trans-sexuality in Iran is made legitimate, homosexuality is insistently reiterated as abnormal
Afsaneh Najmabadi

What all these [Iran sex-change] reports have in common is a certain celebratory tone about recognition of trans-sexuality and permissibility of sex-change operations, sometimes mixed with an element of surprise [How could this be happening in an Islamic country/state?]. And why not? Why should any of us not be happy about such possibilities for persons who desire sex-change? But I have been one of those uneasy people, even though it isn't nice to introduce a discordant note into a celebratory circuit. Like Aresu Eqbali, every time I read one more of these reports I want to say BUT, BUT, BUT, because there are some scary things going on that have gone almost un-noticed>>>

Iranian guys suck
Do you think we are going to go out with you, knowing that you fuck anything that so much as moves?
Tuff Wild Chick

First of all I'm not a writer or anything, but I just had to get all this off my chest. Of course this article doesn't apply to all Iranian guys, but it does to most of them. I am slowly loosing faith in the whole idea of relationships, for a number of reasons. But the one that I find the most disheartening is the misleading act that Iranian men put on the first few "days" in a relationship. This is most likely done because they figure they have to be on their best behavior in the beginning or they will not possibly stand a chance. Everything seems to be all about sex with them. How much they can get, how quick they can get it and for how cheap. Women like sex too, but they also have other words in their vocabulary like "relationship" and "cuddle">>>

You've got them. We want them. Why?
I have been doing a lot of research on men's attraction to breasts
Shahriar Zahedi

Like most men in this world, I am fascinated with the woman's bosom. The subject of my fascination has different names in the English language; breasts, boobies, mammary glands, knockers, hooters, racks, etc. This very multiplicity of names illustrates how powerful an effect this external organ of the female anatomy exerts on the psyche of the male. The more important a thing is, the more nouns a language offers to refer to it. You may know that the Arab has many different words to describe his favorite beast of burden, the camel>>>

Yek naameh az Washington
Letter from Washington
Alborz
>>> In Persian

Merry Christmas
Short story
Sophie

He was eager, as always. Nothing had changed. Fingers fumbling and curious about this present he had opened many times before, but now for the first time, again, after well over a decade. Like an impatient child on Christmas morning, he wanted to rush and break open the boxes to find whether Santa had delivered all that was on his wish list - for indeed, he had been a good boy. The glint in his eye, the heat in his touch; how could she remain unmoved. While he talked, she thought, her mind racing back and forth, madly leafing through the chapters and then pages and then paragraphs of her life, which had so unfolded to bring her right here into this hotel room, in this bed, in between these sheets, once crisp, now crumpled underneath them, while his hands explored the inches - Seattle>>>

One fine day
The first time I did it
Fatemeh Parsa

Every girl has a beautiful fantasy about the first time she is going to sleep with someone and not just somebody but the man of her dreams. I was one of those girls, imagining a beautiful night, feeling love in every inch of my body, roses everywhere, romantic music, a nice breeze on my skin and having the man of my dreams in my arms. Well that was only a fantasy because when it came true it wasn't what I had always dreamed of. There was no music, no roses and it wasn't even at night. Can you believe it?! I was at his place. Like always we were talking about our daily routine. He came closer and start rubbing my shoulders>>>

Dar anfvaan javaani...
Doomed Jewish-Muslim love
Alborz
>>> In Persian

Mehmaankhaaneye Madame Beaujean
A story of addiction
Hossein Nushazar
>>> In Persian

I want to see it
The Persian prick you love to hate still raises a sardonic chuckle
Kristopher Kolumbus

She stepped into the bus with a deep mediterranean tan covered with orange blossoms and her vulva with fresh crabs. "I want to see it," she said. Quiero ver lo. Khayyam looked at her hand. Her nails were polished in five different colors: blue, red, yellow, black and green. Colored beads covered her wrists like a Persian carpet. On her left hand was tattooed BAKHTIARI and on her right KHAYYAM. She filled the bus with sand and orange blossoms handing out the Rubaiyat. He threw gold Spanish coins at her feet, laying down the red carpet, get down on it>>>

The night flight
From Paris to New York
Sarvenaz

It was Paris Charles de Gaulle airport at the end of the summer. I was waiting in line to get on the night flight back to New York. I had slept the entire trip from Tehran to Paris and was feeling refreshed. It was a tearful goodbye leaving Farhad, my fiancé. But the minute I got on that flight I felt an enormous sense of relief. I loved Farhad once but the more my mother approved of him, and the more he became a de facto member of our family the less I really wanted him. I no longer desired him. When I waved the last good-bye to him earlier that day I knew that I would never marry him. Sitting in that Air France plane flying away from mother, fiancé and Iran, I felt happy, light and giddy. Once the pilot announced that we had left Iranian air space an almost physical feeling of optimism spread through my being and appeared as a smile on my face>>>

Opium dream
Summer in Iran
Sarvenaz

I went back to Iran the next summer to see my parents. I arrived in Tehran and was immediately reprimanded by my mother about having abandoned poor, old, loyal, Farhad. Who was a Mohandess, like his father, and ran their lucrative air conditioning factory and business in Tehran. To tell you the truth Farhad too had lost interest in me. To my, subconscious, disappointment he was not too unhappy about the break up -- he in fact, seemed to secretly wish it. Our emails and telephone conversations had seemed to fizzle off like an abandoned bottle of half empty coke. I tried to explain all that, but my Mom approached the subject of my future with the wedding-white tunnel vision that is peculiar, maybe, to Iranian mothers.

Poolside swing
Never afriad of a dare
Sarvenaz

I sat at the breakfast table with my mom and her friend Mehri Joon. We sipped on tea prepared by Zeynab Khanom, the ancient lady, who had been my naneh. I love Iranian breakfasts. The sangak bread, fresh from the bakery at the bottom of our alley, Bulgarian feta cheese, moist, crumbly and just a touch pungent, and morabaaye albaaloo or sour cherry preserve that Mehri joon my mom's close friend and recognized-by-all culinary magician, had prepared, she said, especially for me. But I think her son's fancy of the stuff had something to do with this labor of love in a jar. Together this combination of the crisp bread, white feta and ruby sweet morabaa, and the sweet tea, make a heavenly balanced symphony of tastes and textures. This breakfast quartet, like Iranians themselves is full of contradictions: at once sweet and sour, crispy and liquid>>>

Sad almond eyes
The way he avoided looking or talking to me spoke volumes
Sarvenaz

I stood there for a few minutes peeking at Banani and Leila who were deeply engaged in the mechanics of their afternoon rendezvous. Then, feeling tired and silly about my nosiness, I turned around and walked silently but quickly out of that house. As I was shutting the gate I saw a Nissan Patrol belonging to the government intelligence or komiteh (revolutionary guards or police). A man with black hair and a clean cut short beard stepped out. My heart skipped a beat in fear. "Khanom in khaaneye keeye? Faameele shomaast?" ("Is this the house of a relative of yours?") I started thinking quickly: do I ask this guy for an i.d like they do on American TV shows, or do I just answer his question?>>>

Open curtain
I really wanted to see what was going on
Sarvenaz

We sprang to motion and put ourselves together with the expertise of those who are used to betrayal. Banani kissed Goli and told her that he had invited some important business guests. The kind that are devout and do not drink. He apparently did not just write poems. She frowned and said, "Akhhhhhhh. I hate these hezbollahi friends of yours." He said, "can't you make some of your ghormeh sabzi. And just leave it on the stove. You can go back to Tehran after that if you wish. You cannot be in their company anyway. It has to be an all male dinner, you know these are religious types.">>>

Her lips to mine
My heart fell to my toes and came back up to my throat
Sarvenaz

I could smell her clean powder scent before I awoke. My eyes opened and fell on Goli's face. She was lying next to me on the bed -- turned on her side. Awake and staring at me. The room was still and I could hear her breathing lightly. Her eyes seemed to have tears in them. The kind that just stays so -- intent on not falling. She smiled. I smiled back thinking how meager a smile mine was next to this perfect one of hers -- surely this is what Plato meant when he spoke of ideal and ordinary forms. She had her head propped in the palm of her hand leaning on one elbow. Her long black hair was flipped to one side accentuating the tilt of her head>>>

The second time
The gazebo was tucked away in the far corner of the baagh
By Sarvenaz

I jumped down from the seat against the bathroom wall and made my way back outside the house in silent haste. As I was driving back home I thought about what I had seen in amazement. Who would have thought the sweet, willowy, and beautiful Goli, could be so assertively decadent. I smiled thinking of the way she ordered the etelati guy around. It had simply been one of the most erotic scenes that I had ever encountered. What, I wondered, had brought the two of them to this point of engaging in erotic play? He a hezbollahi agent spying on her husband, a young man of a different class and a different culture and she a completely westernized, Americanized, Iranian party girl. How did they end up in that bathroom like that?>>>

Limits of fear
I started with a blank screen
Sarvenaz

I woke up from my dream dehydrated and went downstairs and drank half the jug of cold water that was always kept in the refrigerator. Then I went back to my room, to my bed, smoked a joint and felt much better. It was a warm dawn. I took off my T-shirt letting the cotton shamad act as my only cover. I was trying to remember my dream: something about going to a roezeh with my old friend Zahra. Strange is indeed the realm of dream and fantasy. I wanted to stop thinking and the grass had made me feel euphoric. There in the stillness of the dawn I felt a lonely yearning between my legs>>>

Almost genetic
That was enough. I could no longer pretend that I was not eager or happy.
Sarvenaz

I went downstairs to breakfast. My mother was sitting at the table with her tea. We talked about Mehri joon's party. This post party conversation was so familiar that it rolled without effort, like a dance preformed by two long time partners who read each other's move before it actually happens. We sipped tea and chatted about every detail of the party: who was there, what they were wearing and who was with whom. I told her that I was impressed by Mehri joon's taste and attentiveness as a hostess. My mother agreed. After a few minutes of talking she got to the real question she had for me>>>

Scarlett's story
She bit me. I felt pain, no, just a little pain but pure ecstasy
Layla

They say there's no place like home. I disagree. This "other world", this "earth" was bloody great, and I do mean bloody. Lots of willing young men so easy for the picking. All I had to do was flash a little skin and they were under my spell. Didn't even have to go for beguilement which is good as that tires me out. I had everything whenever and wherever I wanted. Then they found me. This Faction. This faction of mediocre telepaths and precogs. They would never be as good as me. I can read minds over continents, squash peoples thoughts like ants and kill with a stroke of my little fingernail>>>

The moth's end
Short story
Majid

The day lingered on like the breath of death hanging over the graveyard. It was as if the ulcer of time had exploded and had briefly crippled its own invincible advance. Her eyes were fastened on the door and would not relinquish their hold to any disturbance. She sat like a doomed empress at her throne waiting for her conqueror to storm into her world. The nervous twitch in her eyes the trembling of her hands betrayed the mummified look that had possessed her being. The acidic memory of the night past had burned a hole in her consciousness>>>

The last waltz before rape
Short story
Majid

All her life she had chased her own reflection in the depth of their eyes only to see it disappear... vanish in the dusk of their lust. She seemed completely lost, a prisoner of their seducing stares in which there were always hints of a violent ending. But there was something dull and arduous about the stare of this man; this roughhouse of ideas and ideals. She had looked long and hard into his eyes, but the picture had not changed; she could not see herself. There were no fading shadows, no disfigured shapes or shades, but an undiminished emptiness; a complete void>>>

The cockroach murder
Short story
By Majid

It was quite unnerving to see its dark ugly head before my eyes as I opened the door to my flat. The very thought that it had sat there anticipating my arrival disgusted me. The horrid expression on my face did little to discourage it; almost nothing did. It did not budge an inch. It stared at me intensely, sizing me up like a prizefighter measuring his opponents before a fight. I locked the door behind me and walked pass by it pretending that it was not there. I rushed into the walking closet and symbolically pulled the curtain behind me and went about disrobing out of my work clothes>>>

Come here
Short story
Azar Dokht

I'm sitting in a train, outside the window a vast expanse of white, endless but for the mountains in the distance. I'm writing in longhand for a change, notebook balanced on my knee, paper as white as the view outside, and my lover is playing with the fingers of my left hand while he reads... I shall write him a story, and later he will read it. He will read it intently, his whole body absolutely still. Only his eyes move. Behind him the white plain rushes by, featureless and absolutely still. The story begins in a garden>>>

This moving shadow
Short story
Zolaykha Soleimani

I work in an office on the second floor of a building, overlooking a nondescript parking lot and a residential building built of now-discolored bricks. My computer, across from which I spend most of my day faces the window. The window takes up the entire wall of the office. I often look out of the window from my chair, searching for a sign of life outside the confines of this office, this screen, this imaginary world of business and bytes. And often, on these visual searches, I find my sign in the shape of a young woman who lives on the second floor of the brick-layered building across the parking lot>>>

Will not repeat itself
Brief history of relationships between men and women in Iran
Massoume Price

Relationships are one aspect of male/female socializing processes that are hardly dealt with by Iranians and their media. The origin of direct relationships between males and females in Iranian culture is relatively new and started with other modernization processes that took place at the end of the 19th century. Before then, religion and tradition governed all such relationships and there was no question of males and females openly dating or socializing with such intentions. Veiling kept women at home and totally inaccessible to other males. Sexuality was controlled and carefully confined to the home and was male oriented>>>

Where is it?
Beep beep beep beep. BINGO.
Siamack Baniameri

I'm thinking out loud here, so bear with me for a moment. It seems to me that everybody out there is looking for something. We all need answers to our questions. Some people look for happiness, some look for spirituality, others look for money, fame, love, God, forgiveness, kindness, or the meaning of life. I too, like everybody else, am looking for things in life -- things that are meaningful and important to me. I, for example, am looking for the G-Spot. That's right folks. For the life of me, I can not find the damn thing. Forget about it. I don't even think it exists. I'm convinced that women have made it up to make men act like bunch of idiots>>>

The man who would sleep with his angel
Short story
Reza Ordoubadian

He only had a glimpse of her in the mirror of his car as she crossed the road in the rain and disappeared almost instantaneously beyond the opaque crystal sheet of water that coated his car's windshield; the red clay road was soaked with the rain, and the water ran down the hill, exposing stones of different sizes as the current washed the mud to the river below. He had driven over the stones, the cushion of air in the tires barely holding the car precariously in balance. He was surprised to find anyone walking in that rain without an umbrella, but the woman had wrapped herself inside one of those bright-yellow plastic rain-coats that after a long period of use turn to many shades of brown and greenish-yellow, proving the wearer unafraid of rain water or, old age>>>

Bahram
Short story
Nooneh

So a while back I told Bahram it was time to call it quits. He didn't seem particularly shattered but suggested we have one last date. No harm in that, I felt. It wasn't as if I had a replacement for him already just that the whole thing wasn't going any where and our days together were turning into white bread, the really doughy kind. That's okay. Bahram never gets my metaphors either. White bread, doughy white bread. Stale, doughy white bread. okay? I let him pick the place. Made him feel more in control. Although he denies his need for being in control it's obvious to everyone around him>>>

Dariush
Short story
Nooneh

The moment I laid eyes on Dariush I knew I wanted to fuck his brains out. I don't know exactly how I knew but I knew. I had gone to that party alone as Caveh, my boyfriend at the time was feeling a bit neglected and had put up a fuss about us always being surrounded by others and never having a moment alone. He longed for an evening with just the two of us. I longed for an evening with just the twenty of us. As I see it we both got what we wanted: he, his peace and quiet, and I, my crowd. Of course when I returned home after the party that night, or morning as it were, Caveh was gone, never to be seen again. He had taken his few belongings from my place and departed. His toothbrush was the first missing item I noticed. No note, no call. I was worried about him at first. He was the poet type and I feared the worst. But in a few days I heard he had moved back up north where we first met at a Creative Writing retreat. He will surely create more writing without me to remind him of his idiosyncrasies>>>

Farhad
Short story
By Nooneh

Valentine's Day is a precarious time for those not officially involved. There is always the hope that a secret admirer would send you flowers or some such gesture. Rarely does this happen. It's only happened to me once, in high school. Even when you are officially involved with some one there is no guarantee that you will actually receive anything on Valentine's Day. There is usually some sort of acknowledgment of the day by the partner even if it is in the form of criticism of its commercial values. This has often been the case with me. My partners have often been the self-declared intellectual type who diss the capitalist commercial machine for turning every ritual and historic event into an excuse for heightened consumerism>>>

Hamid
Short story
Nooneh

Yesterday my friend, Alexandria, had an abortion. Hamid, the "father", insisted on being with her during the procedure. He told me it was the most difficult experience of his life. She, said nothing. He said he knew exactly when "it happened". She was ovulating, she had said, and he was feeling "extra frisky". "It was as if we were playing Russian Roulette, it was the best sex we had ever had," he said. Why was he telling me this? We were friends. Actually, I was really his friend. Actually, we used to be lovers or rather we used to have sex in between relationships. Alexandria was his neighbor. I remember exactly when they met. We were returning from grocery shopping for that evening's party and as we unloaded the car we noticed a woman we had never met before was trying to unlock the next door unit's door>>>

June
Short story
Nooneh

Separations are a fact of life. I've come to accept that. As frequent as falling in love, and as natural. When you walked out of my life I realized that no matter how logical or natural leaving is -- it sure as hell breaks your heart. One day you're sharing your life with someone, making all sorts of optimistic promises and the next day, you're not, and they're not. And you're alone, and they're not. And you cry and they don't. Or even if they do and they are lonely too just like you or even worse than you, it doesn't change the fact that you've lost something you once thought of as beautiful and everlasting. You've been gone for over six months now. I sleep alone, eat alone and watch Jeopardy alone. Life goes on. The bleeding of my heart has stopped but the tears roll freely as they choose. I've taken up smoking>>>

Lateef
Short story
Nooneh

When the doorbell rang I sprang out of the shower, through the bedroom and down the stairway impatient to bring to a close the seconds that separated us. I loved the fact that he was early and he would watch me dress. He would be wearing a dark blue sweater. Dark blue would bring out the black in his eyes and the gray of his hair. He would be standing there, comfortable at my door, an air of confidence around him not because he feels in control but because he takes life as it comes. I saw him holding something in his hands. Not flowers, what was it? A box? I couldn't tell. I could smell his scent from the hallway but as I approached the door it was another scent irritating my nose and the shadow visible from behind the glass door was not that of the man I imagined but one that I had archived long ago>>>

Nader
Short story
Nooneh

Today is my birthday. I am 39. Here at a friend's party, another fellow Libran, I seem happy and well adjusted to my single life. Which understandably takes less to adjust to than would a double life. A little joke there to amuse myself. It has come to this. A man I don't know is staring at me from across the room. Undoubtedly due to the fact that not only am I speaking to myself but I'm laughing in response to this self-entertainment as well. Another freak, he must be thinking. No, honey, just one woman who doesn't need the likes of you. No, I'm not bitter, just tired. Tired of it all. Perhaps even too tired to ever experience love again. I remember the first time I stayed awake all night thinking of a boy. I was twelve; he was seventeen>>>

Peyman
Short story
Nooneh

On a day like today I say I'm lucky. Lucky for being alive. Lucky for not being in love. Loving has become very difficult in our time. You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. He calls. I am friendly. He thinks I want him back. He calls. I'm short and aloof. He complains that I'm a cold bitch who treats him like dirt. My nature is the former but it seems to cause more problems than it is worth. He plans to come back and propose. Why? Why now? Why do men want you only after you've made it very clear you no longer want them? It's the hunter instinct. They enjoy the chase and afterwards simply long for more chasing. Keeping the cave clean and the food warm just isn't on their agenda. They must roam the hills constantly looking for fresh prey>>>

Rick
Short story
Nooneh

This is how it all started. My long distance relationship with the American-Indian with strong hands and distinguished cheek bones. As I sat there listening to him talk on that cold November evening sugar cubes were melting in my heart, as Iranians would say. The saying could be translated as sugar cubes melting in my stomach but that's not quite as romantic, you see. The word for heart and stomach is the same in Persian, dell, like the computer. As in stomachache which is Dell-Dard. Dard being pain. We don't really have a word for heartache in Persian, now that I think of it. When it comes to love, it's the liver that responds. We would say my liver burnt for him or her>>>

Taymoor
Short story
Nooneh

Sunday afternoon. All I can do is think of you. Slow, lazy, not much to do. My life goes on. No you. You've never really been here. With me. We've never really been "together". Yet, I think of you as an old lover. One who left me, didn't desire me, ever. Or maybe did, once, for a fleeting moment, a smile, a look, one breath taken in a bit deeper than usual. That's all. I was hooked and you walked away. Not being wanted is a new concept to me. I've always been loved, desired. I've always depended on that fact, taken it for granted. I learned early in life exactly how to win hearts. Once you've experienced that drug there's no going back. The need to be wanted supersedes all else>>>

Vartan
Short story
Nooneh

As I stood there watching the sweaty couples gyrate to the African rhythm my aunt was playing in her tiny apartment in the Upper East side, I noticed a cuddly guy observing me with a smirk. I questioned his analysis in the dirty look I shot his way. He laughed standing up as if it were a chore, took his time finding his drink, turned, and walked towards me with a Zelam look. Oh, now I have to explain what-who Zelam is. Okay, this has to be really quick. When my sister and I were kids -- some would argue we still are; let's not go there right this minute -- we developed certain fictional characters. One was Ms Yooyooyoo. Her distinguishing trait was that her manner of speaking involved much yooyooyooing, as in heyoo, howayoo, soy nyce tyoo meet yoo. She possessed the tall, thin and wobbly limbs to go with the speech. The other personality was Mr. Zelam. Salam in Persian means hello>>>

Xerxes
Short story
Nooneh

I'm staring into his eyes as he describes his ideal vacation spot. The images of ocean waves and sand dunes dance in front of my eyes but my mind is elsewhere. I think back to the past year, an entire year of reflection, solitude, and evaluation. Where I sat myself down and conducted lengthy interviews asking some very pointed questions. Last year this time I felt completely lost. My goals, values, my way of living, my way of loving all were under question. I was certain of nothing, absolutely nothing. So many of my relationships seemed unreal. The people around me, unimportant. None of them really knew me or cared for me. What was I doing with them? What was I doing at all? An entire year of searching inside every pair of eyes to answer one simple question: do I care if I never see this person again? Often times the answer would be no. Gone. Dropped. In one swift move the name came off the list. Now I am more alone than I've ever been in my life>>>

Zereshk
Short story
Nooneh

I have been replaced, simply, swiftly, conclusively. The realization sinks into my heart like a lead submarine. He was standing there, a woman at his side. I could tell they were still at the early stages of their relationship. He was putting on the charms looking as immaculate as ever in his raw silk suit presenting his thrilling ideas and deep insights. She will quickly recognize his brilliance. It will take much longer to discover he is heartless. The pain will cut deep, it will be too late. The cycle repeats, a new lead actress, take 15. There is a certain level of freedom gained in the realization that the man who claimed to love me, no longer does. The chains breaking one by one force me to move on, to not look back expecting to find him there looking in my direction. The hope of love gone forever, I realize this is an exaggeration but under the circumstances, only melodrama will do>>>

Harming whom?
Do stories about sex harm anyone?
Naghmeh Sohrabi

I got an email the other day about why the publication of Nooneh's material is unacceptable. According to the the author, my logic -- "don't read it if you don't like it" -- does not hold water; it is weak. So in an attempt to strengthen my logic, I have decided to publicly break down the issue. I figure the issue is that somehow and to some people, the publication of sexually explicit material in iranian.com is offensive. The offense must come from the ability of such material to do harm or else, why the objection if it is neutral or beneficial? Three groups of people can be harmed by this: The publisher, the writer, the readers.>>>

Not a love story
Merry Christmas, Sandy. Wherever you are
"Shahrokh Zarnegar" aka Jahanshah Javid

It was Christmas Eve, 1987. I was sitting under the cupid in Piccadilly Square, staring at the giant neon lights. Coca Cola. Sanyo. McDonalds. Flashing bright colors. Reds, yellows, blues. They were telling me: Buy! Buy! Buy! And I loved it. But it didn't cheer me up. Not that night. It was probably the most turbulent time in my life. My wife and I had separated after six years of marriage. I had lost faith in everything. My daily prayers, which I had started after the revolution, had stopped months ago. I was eating Big Macs, even though I knew the meat was not halal. And I wanted to quit my cushy job at the London office of the National Iranian Oil Company, better known as KALA>>>

Nice ladies, amigo?
Iranians have cornered the brothel business in Tijuana
Kamran Behzadian

So I went down to southern California for a week. I was to hang out at a cousin's, go to the Iran-USA soccer game at the Rose Bowl and check out a trade show. The game was cool. There were over 50,000 Iranians of all sorts there from an old lady in a chador to cute teens dressed like Los Vegas show girls and boys eyeing each other. Amazing how peacefully Iranians can live together in California. No one cared if the other guy was a Jew, Muslim, or whatever. They were all Iranians. But hey, I am not writing this to tell you about the game. Nor am I going to lecture on democracy. I am here to tell you about the most popular brothel in Mexico. Why would you be interested? Well ... >>>