I don’t know which is the greater sin: parting from the most important issue of the day — Palestinian-Israeli conflict — by telling you another pointless personal story, or cheating on my wife? I think the former because technically I didn’t cheat on my wife. I had the right to have sex outside of marriage. I was a practicing Muslim. I knew my rights as a man as far as women were concerned. Yes, I acted like a dick according to decent universal norms of conduct, but in the eyes of God, all I had done was satisfy my natural carnal desire. So nooshe joonam.
In the summer of 1983 I was a 21-year-old translator in the English Section of the Islamic Republic News Agency (IRNA). I worked hard. I fought to grab and translate the juiciest news items. Plus I had the greatest faith in the Islamic Revolution. I understood the horrific crimes and excesses taking place in the name of Islam and the Revolution, but in my mind these were minor and inevitable side-effects of a much bigger and more significant movement toward freedom, independence, equality and fair distribution of wealth. Basically kheyli khar tar az alaan boodam.
One day my boss at IRNA asked whether I would like to attend a two-month crash course on journalism at London’s City University? I immediately said yes. I had come back to Iran after finishing high school mostly in the U.S. and had no college or professional training at all. An all-expenses-paid trip to London would be fantastic.
The classes were organized by the Muslim Institute, a group of English Pakistanis led by Dr. Kalim Siddiqui, a Sunni intellectual who supported the Iranian Revolution through his books and publications, namely Crescent International and Muslim Media. After my trip to London, I contributed articles regularly from Tehran under my new and not-so-improved name, Mohammad Javid.
About 15 people attended the classes. All Muslims and sympathetic to the Islamic movement. The objective was to give them basic journalism training and create a network of writers who would report on events in their country from an Islamic revolutionary perspective. Besides the Iranian contingent (me and two employees from the media section of the Islamic Guidance Ministry), there were people from Pakistan, Turkey, Greece, Kenya, and South Africa, as far as I can remember. The age group was from early 20’s to early 30’s. All were men, except for two women from South Africa.
Among the Iranians, I was the only one who attended classes every day and was genuinely interested. The two others showed up sporadically at best. They treated this as a vacation and had no interest in journalism. And despite working for the Islamic Guidance Ministry, they could care less about the Islamic Movement. But I was really into it. There were four English professors, all of them current or veteran reporters for major British newspapers. They taught us the very basic, general rules of journalism. They made me into the journalist I was to become. The emphasis on facts and common sense helped me over time to move away from idealism and propaganda towards honest truth and reality. To this day I admire the British press and their style of journalism more than any other.
Our international group was housed at a dormitory which was mostly empty for the summer break. The beautiful garden/square in front was an invitation to start jogging again. I would wake up early in the morning and run half an hour to 45 minutes around the square. After just a couple of weeks I got me into pretty good shape. We had our meals in the dorm cafeteria and got together in the common room to watch TV or have a chat. We were close and many of us became friends, if not good friends.
I’ve given you all this as a background for the main point of this blog: sex, in this case as a married Muslim man. It all really comes down to men’s incredible sex drive. I’m only telling you my story, and I’m acknowledging my actions, but I strongly suggest that women especially see this as just one example of the power of testosterone or whatever it is that makes men do uniquely stupid things to get sex.
While I was in London, and I’m sure before I got there, I thought a lot about this question: Can I or should I have sex while I’m away from my wife for two months? The answer I always ended up with was yes, absolutely. I was a Muslim man. I believed in God, Mohammad and the Imams, and prayed every day. And I had devoted my life to the Islamic Republic. My religion gave me the right to have sex with women other than my wife. I could have more than one permanent wife and as many temporary ones as I liked. Excellllllent!
The truth of the matter was that I didn’t want a harem. I didn’t want to exercise my full rights guaranteed under Islam. All I wanted was a little taste, while I was far away from home. Just like non-Muslim husbands who go on business trips and famously surrender to temptation for a quick, convenient fuck. The difference was I didn’t have to feel guilty about it. All good and easy to say, in theory. In reality I was scared shitless. I mean how was I going to approach a woman and ask her if she would marry me, temporarily, for an hour and a day or two? :o))) Why did I not realize how incredibly desperate and stupid it all looked?
Well, for one thing, I was a man in heat, which is the normal every day state of all men, unless the poison in their body has been released two seconds ago, in which case they can think straight for half an hour, an hour max. Two, I was me, a man who finally lost his virginity on his wedding night and immediately thought my God, this sex thing is the greatest thing ever! Ever ever ever! So even though the marriage was a disaster, the intimacy department was active and well. I was very concerned that I was not going to have sex for two whole months in London, where the women did not cover themselves the way they do in Iran. I had forgotten how much better the infidel ladies looked. Thank God there was Islam to take care of my urgent problem and guide me to do the right thing.
Initially I thought I would feel a lot less guilty if the whole thing was more halal and kosher. It would have been so much more appropriate if I could find a Muslim woman because she would have understood and not offended if a Muslim man approached her for sex. She would have appreciated that my intentions were honorable, that I was doing what God had sanctioned for all Muslim men, from Mohammad Rasoolollah to Mohammad Javid!
Coincidentally, one of the South African sisters in our international brotherhood of Muslim journalists was very attractive. She was a petit woman with a cute round face and the sweetest demeanor. Her pomegranate-colored scarf and long boots were such a turn on. We were about the same age. Her name was Khadija, the same as Prophet Mohammad’s wife. How perfect was that?! Me Mohammad, you Khadija! She seemed to like me too. You know, she would talk to me, about the Islamic movement and stuff :o)
Several weeks passed. A young Muslim man, all alone in London, dying for sex. I was going nuts. (Back then I didn’t know how effective masturbation was in maintaining sanity.) I don’t remember how I ended up in Khadija’s room. Did I make an appointment with her earlier that day? Probably. Did I just rush to her door unannounced and knock like a maniac? Possibly. But anyway, there I was in her room. She was sitting comfortably, cross-legged (long boots in full view) on a chair by the desk and I sat opposite on the bed. The poor girl had no clue what she was about to hear.
I don’t remember my exact words, but it went something like this: “Um, I don’t know how to put this. It’s kind of embarrassing but, um, this trip has been really difficult for me, away from my wife and stuff, and I keep telling myself that I should stop thinking about intimacy. But I can’t. And, um, I really like you and, um, I was wondering if, um, you would be interested in, um, temporary marriage?”
I wish someone had taken a gun and shot me. Take me back in time and I would do it myself.
Khadija, I’m sure, was shocked. I heard her say no at some point and the rest is a blur. I must have felt so cheap and pathetic that I completely blacked out. But was I ashamed enough to stop thinking about sex? Testosterone does not understand shame, especially in a Muslim man who knows his rights!
Having been rejected by a sister, my attention shifted to infidels. One particular infidel in fact. Suzanne was a German archaeology student with long frizzy brown hair and thin round glasses. She had done archaeological work in Syria and loved Arabs and Muslims in general. She lived in the dorm and often joined our group in the common room. She hung around me a lot, which made me uncomfortable. I did not want to explore possibilities with a non-Muslim. But now, I had no other choice.
One night I asked Suzanne if she would like to go to the movies with me. She was delighted. So was I. I picked the latest hour possible so that we wouldn’t be seen by members of our group. What would they say if they saw me going out alone with a woman, especially an infidel? We walked to the theater, which was about 20 minutes away — and packed for the opening night of a big Hollywood movie. Whatever it was, neither of us liked it. We talked about it walking back to the dorm. It must have been close to or past midnight, cold and foggy. As we were crossing the garden towards the dorm, our bodies slightly bumped a few times. I couldn’t take it any more. I turned and kissed Suzanne.
Like any terrified maniac, I very much expected to be pushed back. But, praise be to God, she held me tight. I was so anxious and desperate that I dragged her behind a bush and wanted to have sex with her right there in the mud. She stopped me and said, “Why here? Let’s go to my room.” Yes, yes, of course. That was a much better idea. I can wait five minutes. My heart was racing.
The sex was as exciting and guilt-ridden as the first time you have sex with a woman outside marriage in a dorm room in London on a trip aimed at becoming a reporter for the international Islamic movement. My only wish was that she wouldn’t make so much noise. Oh my God she was so loud. I thought the whole dorm heard us (her). It wasn’t as if I was doing anything special. The missionary position was all I knew (in fact Suzanne later told me I should learn a few other moves).
Like any sordid, thoughtless affair, this one got complicated quite quickly. The next morning I showed up at the cafeteria for breakfast and pretended, as best as I could, that nothing had happened. Suzanne on the other hand, could not contain herself. She handed me a piece of paper. I opened it and it was a poem she had written for me. Oh shittttt! In the remaining few days in London there were more poems, which I would throw away as soon as she would turn her back.
Such a jerk on so many levels…
I didn’t cheat during my second marriage. My jerky character manifested itself in other ways. Bemaanad…
