Narisa

By C. Stanton Leman

Chapter 1

The summer I was fourteen was the most traumatic and life-changing year of my life! My little teenaged microcosm of a world had been turned upside down and so many things happened to me all at once that in hindsight it seemed that God, Fate and circumstances conspired to thrust me into adulthood in the twinkling of an eye.

My parents, Steven and Marie Williams, are both college professors specializing in Persian studies. They met at a seminar on Middle Eastern studies at Princeton early their careers and as they say, the rest is history.

During the course of their careers, Mom and Dad had become rather well noted, respected and widely recognized in their field of studies by the Academic community the world over. They’ve published numerous papers in journals and have even co-authored several books that were considered reference books in college.

Mom and Dad are quiet natured, amiable, very empathetic and tolerant people that love and respect the dignity of life, human rights, diverse cultures and peoples. My parents hardly ever raised their voice at me nor did they ever hit me: not even a swat that I can remember. They’ve tried to instill in me their values of empathy and respect for others, never consciously wanting to hurt anyone. I could never be an innocent bystander and watch someone else be hurt. I’ve gotten into a few scrapes taking up for someone being picked on or knocked around just because they were weak or timid.

My name is Josh ¾ Joshua Williams. Being academics, Mom and Dad married in their late twenties and had me when Mom was thirty and Dad was thirty-two. I’m what you’d call just an average fourteen-year-old kid, about five-foot nine and 160 pounds with dirty-blonde hair, deep blue eyes and kind of quiet. I really liked my life up until we had to move from Boston to Vienna, Virginia because both my parents obtained tenured positions with Georgetown University at the Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. It meant that they could work, do research and teach together for more money and guaranteed positions.

Their new jobs were great for them, but the pits for me! Now I’ll be going to Robert E. Lee high school in good ole Virginny where everyone probably listened to stuff like Achy-Breaky Heart. I was just beginning to settle into and become comfortable with high school life and would be starting my sophomore year. I got good grades and played JV soccer with the hopes of making varsity this year. I had a cute freshman girlfriend named Nicole that I’d met at school three months ago and she was a really cute petite redhead with emerald eyes and a luscious smile. She was almost fourteen, petite and didn’t have that typical, killer cheerleader body with the bodacious boobs and Jennifer Lopez butt, but she was pretty, nice, a lot of fun to be with and we just seemed to get along great.

Like most fourteen-year-olds, my sex life consisted of regular dates with Martha and her four sisters (if you know what I mean). Luckily for me during these pubescent hormonally “challenging” (we must be politically correct, right?) times, I discovered masturbation in the shower at age twelve. Nicole and I would have our occasional make out sessions usually in her basement or mine, but when we started to get into it and I’d try to cop a feel of her small pert breast, she’d only let me rub right up under her bra line. I touched her little bra-covered booby once and she slapped me hard and told me to be a “good boy”. I apologized and respected her wishes although that momentary touch gave me fodder for many a jerk-off fantasy at night.

And so it was. My buddies and I, we “men of the world”, would trade expositions of acquired mythical pearls of wisdom and knowledge regarding the female gender and that elusive nude anatomy with expectations of someday experiencing the real thing. We’d play the big-shot role and say obnoxious things to each other to bolster our imaginary prowess and knowledge like “Look at the way she walks: I bet she’s got round heels,” or “Hey look at the hooters on that babe!” Invariably, one of my buds would retort, “Yeah, she looks like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.” But I never, ever talked about what Nicole and I did: that was sacred to me.

My dad would just laugh when him and I spoke of male teenage angst regarding girls and told me that most of us guys wouldn’t know what to do with a girl if she stripped naked for us and said, “Come here, big boy.”

He’s probably right, but it’d sure be a lot of fun to see head cheerleader Cindy Molten nekkid in real life! Besides, girls were a frustrating enigma to me. They’d tease us by dressing sexily, bat those pretty eyes and sash-shay their cute butts then shut you down just when things were getting good. There must be some unwritten law that says all young girls have to give guys blue balls or else they’re labeled a slut. Somebody must have told them that some guys talk. There’s always hope though; most girls don’t but some girls do (wasn’t that a line in a song?).

Anyway, all that’s gone now and I’ve got to start my life all over. No friends, no girlfriend, no familiar surroundings ¾ no life! On top of that, my parent’s new job came with a caveat: they had to go to Iran for ten weeks at the behest of the University of Tehran for some studies on Persian writings and artifacts or something like that and I had to go with them.

Neither one of my parents have siblings and my grandparents are up in age so Mom and Dad decided that it’d be better if I went with them for this amount of time. Great! I at least expected to be able to check out the babes in my new Virginia digs, but nooooo… now I get to spend my summer with blinders on because looking at a girl covered from head to toe could get you sent to prison, caned or both over there.

See what I mean? No life!

Once we were moved into our new home and just crashed for a few days, we three drove into Washington D.C. to the State Department’s passport office and expedited obtaining our passports and received them the same day. I had to get mine while Mom and Dad had to get theirs renewed. Since Iran doesn’t have diplomatic relations with the U.S. or have any embassies here, their affairs are handled through the Pakistani embassy. The next morning, Dad went to the Pakistani embassy on Wisconsin Avenue, N. W. next to the Chinese embassy, presented the letters of invitation from the University of Tehran and all the documents needed to expedite getting our visas and entry/exit stamps to Iran. He picked up our passports with visas enclosed the next day.

Dad told me that the University of Tehran made all of our living and travel accommodations. Tehran is eight and a half hours ahead of our time. The flight over this coming Friday departed from Dulles at 4:40pm and arrived at Imam Khomeini airport in Tehran, Iran at 4:40am that Saturday, local time.

Mom explained that while we’re there, we cannot, and she emphasized cannot, leave our apartment without a government-approved Iranian “guide.” These guides, furnished by the university, would arrange for cars or any other transportation we needed in and about the city and would make sure we didn’t go anywhere or do anything that the Iranian government didn’t approve of that might land us in trouble with the police. These guides would be staying in an apartment next to ours (how convenient) and be available at all times for our convenience. Mom said she would also have to dress in traditional Muslim garb to keep from being stopped by the morality police because they were cracking down on women and girls that were trying to be more westernized in their dress. In fact, if she weren’t dressed “properly,” they would even refuse her entry into the country at airport customs.

Because of my parents shared interest in things Persian, they spoke, read and wrote Farsi fluently, but I didn’t. I knew a few words I’d picked up from growing up with them, but basically I’d be stranded in a country alone while my parents worked during the day, not knowing the language or what one could or couldn’t do out in public. When I expressed these concerns to my parents, Dad told me that the “guide” that was assigned to me was a young college student, fluent in English and that he’d see to it I was occupied and had some teenage-boy-type fun. Dad apologized and ribbed me by saying, “Well, Son, it looks like your angst will get even worse. No chattin’ up the babes in this country.”

“Just great, Dad,” I grumbled, “Do they have the apartment bugged too?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Mom replied sadly. “They will certainly restrict what we watch on TV and listen to on the radio. Just be careful of what music you bring with you.”

Shaking my head in disgust I thought to myself my life seriously sucks!

“Listen, Honey,” Mom said while giving me a little hug, “I know this is going to be hard on you but it’s only for a few weeks and it means so much to our work. Despite the hardships, this is a great opportunity for us — especially since we’re Americans ¾ to be allowed to study there, even if it’s just for a few weeks. There’s probably going to be some things we’ll see there that will make all of us have to bite our tongues and cringe with disgust. We’ll all get through this and soon, life will get back to normal. Can you do this for us?”

“Sure, Mom,” I uttered in resignation.

See? Literally — no life!

Since we’d be leaving for Iran in three days, we set to packing for the trip and ate out every night so there wouldn’t be anything in the ‘fridge that would go bad while we were gone.

I was feeling pretty depressed and feeling sorry for myself about how miserable my life sucked. In the evenings, just hid in my room and surfed the net, watched some TV or listened to music. I figured that since I wouldn’t be trying to find some young exotic Iranian babe to occupy my time, I could surf the net for some good old-fashioned cheerleader porn. The only problem with that was, all the “so called” high school cheerleaders looked like twenty something silicone-breasted bimbos. During my forays on the net I found an erotic story site called SOL and after reading a few that sounded preposterous, I picked up on a story by JIMC called “Lucky Tickets.”

Yeah, I thought with a sigh, that’s what I need over there: some lucky tickets. THAT would certainly shake up their fundamentalist world! Maybe have my own harem: Sheik Ali Josh and his forty concubines.

There I go again with that hormonal angst again. Reading that story was fun, but I knew my Dad was right: I wouldn’t know what to do with a naked girl if I had one standing in front of me. Yeah, I had some sordid ideas I’d love to try, but I know what kind of person I am and I wouldn’t treat any girl like a sex toy. Even with Nicole, no matter how hot she got my motor running, I respected her and her wishes despite my blue balls.

I’ve always had a great relationship with my parents and even though I could talk trash with Dad (in a bawdy but clean manner) about the woes of being a teenage boy, it was Mom that was the real purveyor of my sexual education. She told me to always keep in mind a girl also has raging hormones and that she’s a person too, not just a pair of tits with a coochie attached (her words not mine). She told me she trusted me, tried to teach me respect and the rights of others and that no matter what I did with a girl that I should always respect her feelings and her person.

In a way, being taught a moral code sucks also. I mean, no matter how much I’d like to be like Jim in that story, I could never take advantage of a girl for my own pleasure and I don’t like to see a girl harassed either — even if I don’t know her. This struggle with morals and fantasy was just as bad as my body popping a woody at any time of the day or any place.

So yeah, I guess I am just an average fourteen-year-old kid: a sexually frustrated kid whose life sucked with blue balls. Jeez! I shut my computer down and went to bed frustrated: frustrated with my life and with this horrid upcoming trip.

Things were kind of hectic the next two days packing and getting ready to leave and although Mom and Dad were excited and anticipating this new adventure, I was somewhat sullen and quiet as I went about putting my things together. I think they both knew what was bothering me and just politely gave me my space.

Friday unfortunately came, and today we’d be off to Iran for ten long, agonizing weeks. Our flight took off at 4:50 pm so we had to be at the airport at three to check in for our international flight. We skipped breakfast but went out to eat and had a big lunch because with the layovers, we’d probably be hungry at some point.

I hate flying. It isn’t so much the flying part as it is all the security garbage you have to go through at the airport just to make it to the plane. I wondered if life in Iran was like being at the airport 24/7.

After clearing security and sitting at the gate waiting to board, I recalled all the things I’d researched on the net regarding this belligerent, extremist country. We’d learned in school about the Shah of Iran being deposed in 1979, the American embassy takeover and the rise to power by Ayatollah Ali Khomeini that same year. That was all history. What bothered me most was happening over there now.

Maybe it was my youthful imagination at work, but it seemed to me that they had a secret policeman (some were even women) on every corner watching what everyone did or said. One false move and zip ¾ off to prison you go. People were being arrested for the most insane and stupid infractions: censorship of the press and speech — even a Nobel prizewinner was arrested and jailed.

Two or more people talking on the street constituted a possible illegal assembly, women being arrested, raped and executed and labeled as prostitutes simply because they were outside without the escort of a male relative or spouse. One woman was jailed for ten years after she reported that she was raped on a college campus. She was unaccompanied and was told the rape was her fault because she acted like a prostitute. In the town squares they even stoned and hung teenage boys and girls from cranes as young as my age (which is against the international human rights laws). It seemed that they could arrest you for anything as simple as not liking the way you were dressed.

From what I’ve read, men treat their dogs better than women are treated. The legal marriage age for a girl to be given in marriage is nine and for a boy, fourteen! I couldn’t even picture myself getting married at my age with my whole life ahead of me. I didn’t have a clue as to what I wanted to do with my life much less being responsible for someone else’s; I was just trying to be a good kid, get through school, having some fun along the way and not get into any real trouble along the way. I simply couldn’t imagine trying to grow up in that kind of environment. Segregated schools, no dating, you can’t even talk to a girl without getting her in trouble. They always put the girls in jail or executed them while the boys got a caning and were sent on his way. I was getting myself into a funk over this and dreading it even more. Waiting to board the plane to this God-forsaken land of existence wasn’t helping and only increasing my agitation to go there.

My mother saw my discomfort and squeezed my hand with a reassuring smile. I looked at her with tear-filled eyes and uttered, “I’m scared Mom.”

“I know, Hon,” she replied calmly, “We’re all a little frightened. Just be yourself and try not to let things worry you. Just remember don’t do or say anything that might get yourself into a sticky situation. You can probably converse or meet and interact with boys your age, just stay away from any girls or talk about girls and sex with anyone. You never know who might be listening. I wouldn’t put it past some to try and bait you into talking about forbidden issues. Stay away from any discussions about sex, politics or religion and you’ll be just fine. Now stop fretting over things. You know how to act with people, just trust your instincts. I happen to think they’re pretty darn good.”

Mom… she always knows how to say the right thing to calm me down.

Soon enough, it was 4:15 and we were called to start boarding. After stowing our carry-on luggage and everyone was seated, we taxied to the runway and had to wait a few minutes for clearance to take off. As the whine of the engines increased and the plane began to vibrate, we shot down the ribbon of asphalt and lifted into the air. As we banked to the left and up into the clouds, I looked down and silently said good-bye to the good old U.S. of A as we began our journey to the land of Scheherazade.

While airborne, I was going to continue reading “Lucky Tickets,” but I figured that with my Mom sitting next to me, that wasn’t a very smart thing to do. Besides, why fantasize about something I can’t get anywhere near: a girl. So I instead decided to check out some of the cultural and tourist sites that I might like to visit. See, I can be a good boy when I want to.

I found several places that looked promising besides the Museums. The Golestan Palace, the carpet bazaar, the Eram Garden Shiraz and the tomb of the great Persian king Cyrus to name a few, but I slept most of the flight. Arriving in Geneva, our one and a quarter hour layover was pretty well occupied by moving from one terminal to another. Plus the fact, there were agents that rechecked all of our documents, passports, entry/exit permits and the females were warned to make sure they were dressed properly in traditional garb or they would be refused entry in Tehran.

Mom went to the ladies room and changed into a blue abaya (the traditional dress that looks like a nondescript loose dress that covers the entire body except the hands, feet and head) and a white hajib (a head dress that covers the entire head except for the face, even hiding the hair). When she came out, she looked strange because I wasn’t used to seeing her dressed like that but she looked like a very attractive Muslim woman. Go Mom!

Mom is petite, just about five-foot-one and a small build with dirty blonde shoulder length hair and blue eyes. Dad is about six-foot with a bit of middle-aged baggage, dark brown hair speckled with grey and medium brown eyes.

After all of this hoopla over documents and dress, it was time to board to make the final leg of our journey. I didn’t get much sleep because of some turbulence and just plain nerves the closer we neared our destination. I didn’t know what to expect when we landed because this was my first trip abroad to a foreign country.

We landed about thirty minutes late because of a head wind and all the turbulence and arrived in Tehran at a little after five am. Things seemed to go better than I envisioned until I stood before the policeman at the customs desk. Because I played sports, I kept my hair cut short and used a little bit of gel and he looked at me and simply said in a perfunctory manner, “No gel.”

What? Is using gel a crime here?

After clearing customs, we were met by our “guides”: three young Iranian men that were college students from the university that introduce themselves as Shamir, who would be Dad’s guide, Amir, Mom’s guide, and my “controller” was named Hasan.

We retrieved our luggage and loaded everything into a small minibus and headed to our new home away from home. We were all exhausted when we finally got to the apartment and it was 6:30am when we got things settled, said good night (?) to our guides and went to bed for some much needed rest.

Mom woke me from a deep sleep around noon and said I had to get up and get used to the time difference here. Groggily, I dragged myself out of bed and hit the shower. Once I was awake and had finished my morning ablutions I checked out our new digs and noticed the apartment was actually pretty nice. It had two bedrooms with a small bath for each, a small living room and a small eat-in kitchen.

We had some eggs and toast with some strong, bitter-tasting tea so I changed to bottled water. I still couldn’t get over how odd Mom looked dressed like a Muslim woman. Since today was scheduled to be a rest day, our guides took us for a walk and we visited a couple of shopping bazaars. It was kind of funny watching men and women, with arms and hands flailing, rattling off Farsi so fast it’s a wonder they understood each other as they haggled over prices. Hasan asked me if I wanted to buy anything and jokingly said, “If you do, its tradition to haggle price. It’s a way of life here.”

“No thanks,” I replied, “maybe when I get a little settled first. Besides, you’ll have to haggle for me since I don’t speak Farsi.”

He chuckled and said, “No problem. Haggling is like a traditional game. They overcharge you and you have to fight to get the price down to where it should be. If you don’t argue price, they lose respect for you, but they still smile when they take your money.”

“Sounds like a used car salesman to me,” I replied with a smirk.

After cruising the bazaars, we had dinner at an outside café. The food was a little spicy for my taste. I think they used a bit more cummin than I’m used to when eating in Persian restaurants in America. Overall I thought the food was pretty good.

After a filling meal and an interesting day window-shopping we’d come full circle and arrived at out apartment door. Leaving our guides at the door, we said goodnight and went inside. We sat relaxed and talked some about our day, the bazaars and the food when I quipped, “Well, it was a pretty good first day and we didn’t even get arrested.”

Mom frowned and Dad got serious on me and with his “Pay attention, Son” look and scolded me saying, “Look Josh, I know we dragged you into this, but these people have been friendly, courteous and accommodating. Don’t go making life hard on yourself with your preconceived prejudices. Remarks like that only foster distrust and animosity. They can also get all of us into a lot of trouble. Clean up your act.”

“You’re right, Dad,” I answered, “The people here aren’t anything like I thought. People have been friendly and courteous and our guides seem to be a pretty nice bunch of guys. I was just being sarcastic I guess. I’m sorry”

“Good!” Mom said as she clapped her knees with her hands and stood, “I think we should go to bed and start fresh in the morning. Your father and I have to go to the university tomorrow so you’ll be spending your first day with Hasan. Maybe you two can even have some fun. Just keep an open mind, Josh and things will work out all right.”

“Okay, Mom,” I replied. “Maybe things won’t be as bad as I thought after all.”

Mom got me up at seven for breakfast dressed in her traditional Muslim garb. This is going to take some getting used to. We finished breakfast and as Mom and Dad got ready to leave, I said goodbye and headed for the shower.

It was late June and the weather was hot and muggy. I opted for a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt and after finishing my morning routine I went next door and knocked for Hasan. He answered with a wide smile and said, “Well, Josh, what would you like to do today?”

Before my brain could stop my mouth I blurted out, “Why don’t we go check out some babes?”

Oops!

Hasan took it in stride and replied with a smile, “Sure! It’s one of my favorite things to do! I’ve got to warn you though, you won’t see much. They’re covered from head to toe and they aren’t as attractive a package to look at as those western girls you’re used to seeing. You first have to train your eye to look without looking if you know what I mean. You can look into a girl’s eyes once, but twice is a no-no. Once you get used to seeing girls dressed like that, you can kind of get an idea what they look like underneath. Know what I mean?”

“I’m sorry Hasan,” I replied apologetically, “I didn’t mean anything disrespectful. It’s just that this culture shock is gonna take some getting used to and I spoke without thinking”

“Hey,” he retorted, “No problem. We’re both young, handsome, virile men and it’s all a part of nature the world over. Boys like girls and girls like boys. It’s just that here, you have to be more discreet and don’t do anything too obvious. How do you think we make more Iranians if we don’t interact in some way?”

“Men?” I asked surprised, “I’m flattered. Maybe you’re a man but I’m just a fourteen-year-old kid.”

Wagging his finger back and forth Hasan answered, “Number one, you’re fourteen, right? Number two; you can shoot semen, can’t you?’

“Duuuh!” I retorted in defense of my manhood, “Of course I can shoot.”

“Well then,” he concluded, “In the Islamic Republic of Iran, you meet all the qualifications to be a man. Look at the bright side: if you see a girl that captivates you, you can even ask the girl’s father for her hand in marriage. If she’s nine or older, she prime marrying material.”

I just gave him an open-mouthed stare. “You’ve got to be kidding! Nine?”

“No, that’s the law, but on second thought,” he said stringing me along, “you’d better not. He’d curse and beat you as a corrupt, imperialist American infidel pig and kick your butt out of the house.”

“What? I’m not good enough for an Iranian girl?” I asked feigning insulted.

“It’s not that,” he answered. “You’re not Muslim and anyone who isn’t Muslim is considered an infidel: a nonbeliever. A Muslim man can marry a Christian or Jewish woman but a Muslim girl can only marry a Muslim. It all has to do with the kids. A husband can prevent or coerce his wife from practicing her faith and not raising their children as Muslims. I don’t think you’ve got too much to worry about since we won’t be trying to make any marriage proposals. We’re young and youth is fleeting. Why be happy with one fish when there’s a whole ocean full of them out there, right?”

He saw my hesitation on the subject and quickly asked, “Do you have a girl friend back home?”

“I did,” I replied, “but we had to break up when I moved from Boston to Virginia. Now I’m a free agent.”

He laughed and said, “Hmmm, free agent. I like that term. I’ve gotta remember that one.”

I was still pretty quiet pondering what was said, so Hasan slapped my shoulder and said, “Look Josh, I don’t know what you’ve been told or what you’re thinking, but I’m just a college kid that’s getting extra credit for taking care of you. You’re fourteen and I’m nineteen. I’m not some spy or secret member of the morality police. We hate them and what they do as much as you do. As long as we watch ourselves and don’t raise any eyebrows, we can pretty much talk about anything. You just have to know when and where to talk about things that could get you — and me into trouble that’s all. Just follow my lead and we can have a little fun in the process. Loosen up; just don’t go around looking so uptight because as a foreigner, it makes you look even more suspicious like you’re already guilty of something. Oh by the way, change into some jeans: we don’t want the buggers hassling you over showing too much skin. Not! ”

“That’s okay, I’ll be right back,” I replied with an easy grin.

“Hey dude, I was just kidding.”

While changing, I realized that Hasan was sticking his neck out and trusting me. In doing so he sought my trust also. He seemed to truly want to be my friend. From what he’d said, we weren’t really too much different except for the age difference. These next ten weeks might not be so bad after all.

When we joined back up together and headed out for the day, Hasan said quietly, “That talk we just had is between you and me, okay? I’m supposed to be all “official” (as he hooked his fingers in quotation marks) you know and I don’t want to get into trouble with school or your parents.”

“Hey,” I replied, “us free agents gotta stick together, right?”

“You’re my kind of guy, Josh,” he said with a smile.

As we walked and talked, Hasan pointed out people that he said were morality police and said, “After a while, you can almost spot them a mile away. It’s the women that fool you. Usually the men are dressed in black or grey and black traditional dress, trying not to appear like they’re watching people but are always looking around in a condescending manner.”

“I understand,” I acknowledged with a nod. “It’s kinda like what they say about spotting an FBI agent in America. They stick out like a sore thumb.”

“If you just take a little time and observe people,” Hasan pointed out, “You can see the interaction between guys and girls but it’s like everybody plays a discreet game of looks, smiles and subtle nods. They push the boundaries without going over. No matter what the police do, they can’t stop human nature.”

Hasan and I spent about three hours just walking around observing people and I found it very interesting and enlightening. I even got a couple of sly smiles as we passed several girls. Hasan slapped my arm and ribbed, “There you go Josh. They like what they see. But really, I’m just boosting your American infidel ego. It’s really me and my dark manly looks that caught their eye.”

How about that: my guide is talking trash! Now it was my turn to slap him on the arm and retort, “Dark and manly my butt; it was these baby blues that caught them and you know it.”

Hasan shrugged in feigned resignation and replied, “I give, you’re a foreigner with blue eyes and the girls might find that attractive in a freaky sort of way.”

On the way back, we spotted four guys a little older than me, maybe about sixteen, kicking around a soccer ball at the park. I nudged Hasan and said, “Come on, let’s go. Maybe we can get into a pick-up game. Do you play soccer?”

“Hey, you ugly Infidel,” Hasan rebutted, “this is Iran: all boys play football. We’ll show you hot shot Americans how the game is played.”

We trotted over and Hasan asked the guys if we could get a game going. They all agreed and Hasan translated as we made introductions. We chose sides for teams of three each and started to get down to some real fun.

It became clear real quick that these guys were good — really good. I’d say as good or better than some varsity players I’d seen. We played for a good hour and after the other team scored their last goal, we were all tuckered out and called it quits.

We were walking back across the field when a group of girls were walking along the park and making eyes at us. I caught the eye of one really cute-faced girl with beautifully alluring, huge doe’s eyes and when she smiled at me I gave her a quick wink. All the girls started giggling and tittered away. One of the guys named Omar pushed me from behind and joked, “Hey, you infidel pig, that’s my wife you’re looking at.”

I was shocked and spun around to apologize when all the guys got quiet. Omar closed one eye and brought his hand up with thumb and forefinger out resembling a gun and fired an imaginary bullet. He blew the smoke away from the “barrel” and smiled. He said something and Hasan said, “Gotcha!”

All the guys broke up laughing while I stood there in shocked relief. With girls here being able to marry at nine, I almost peed my pants thinking he was really serious.

After slaps on the back for being a good sport, we sat in the grass and talked about football with Hasan translating to keep me in the revelry. We agreed to meet again tomorrow for another game and Omar quipped, “If you’re lucky, I might let my wife out of the house and you can get another look at my wife.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “You must not be taking care of business because she looked like she was looking for a real man.”

“That’s bull,” Omar replied smugly and grabbed his crotch, “I’m gonna divorce her this week because she can’t take my thirty cm dool (penis) in her rahem (vulva or vagina).”

“Whoooh,” came the groan in unison from the gallery.

“Thirty cm is right,” I rebutted with gusto, “He did her three times with his ten cm finger.”

Now it was Omar’s turn to get shoves and “Oooh’s.” This was great! Just like home with the boys talking trash about girls. It seems by that last exchange, these guys were probably just as clueless as I about girls and that guys my age the world over were all the playing the same games when it came to girls. After exchanging goodbyes, we agreed to meet here the next day at about one to play again then went our own separate ways to go home.

Walking back to our apartment, I told Hasan that I had a great day and also had a lot of fun. He shook his head knowingly and remarked, “Yeah, even with things being less open than in America, we find ways to get on with life and have some fun.”

We came to a small knee wall close to our home and Hasan motioned me to sit and talk. After we’d hopped up to sit I looked at him waiting for him to speak, but he had his head down with his hands on his knees as if contemplating for a moment. He cocked his head in my direction and began to talk.

“Let me explain a little about life here,” Hasan began. “We’re staying in a richer, more affluent area of Tehran. Most of the people here are government workers and their families. They’re militia, police, teachers, mullahs and such. You’re here because the government doesn’t want you to see some of the other things that may embarrass the government if some things were reported. Those guys are all sons of governmental officials. Omar’s dad is a teacher at the university and that shy kid Rafi’s dad is the police chief of this district. Omar is more daring with his remarks but he was testing you to see if you would be as open with them as they were with you. They’re interested in westerners and you’re the first American they’ve ever met.

“Although the government gives everyone a free education and medical treatment, many here are very poor.” He continued as he looked out over the horizon, “There’s a lot of drug addiction, especially among the young. Kids, mostly girls tired of being poor, being dominated, humiliated and repressed, run away from home. These kids are taken advantage of and a lot of young girls are still secretly sold as slaves to other Middle Eastern and European countries. Kids like me in college find ways to make ourselves aware of the facts in the hopes of making them better in the future if we are ever in a position of power to do so. We also do it in the pursuit of the truth: truth in Iran and also the truth about world events.”

“Let’s face it,” He said turning to look at me, “Repressive societies throughout history have always had a subculture of resistance that over time have prevailed to make things better and overcome their repression. The colonists in early America against British tyranny, the underground resistance against the Nazis during World War II are just a couple of examples. Invariably, many die who are innocent or unjustly accused in that fight to overcome oppression. In the end, those innocent victim’s voices are heard by the world. I am a Muslim and indoctrinated to hate Jews, but what happened to them in the Holocaust shouldn’t happen to any race. That remark, by the way, could get me executed.”

With a slight smile Hasan then said, “Let’s compare societies for a moment. People in America are aghast at child marriages here but yet in America, there are ten, eleven and twelve year-old girls getting pregnant in full view and acceptance by your society. These young girls must be having sex to get pregnant all the while their parents acquiesce and just say that there’s nothing they can do about it. So what’s the difference between an eleven year-old married Iranian girl and an unwed American girl the same age getting pregnant? Although kept under wraps, Iran has a drug problem just like in America and kids are the ones that use a lot of these drugs. Where’s the difference?”

I started to speak but Hasan put up his hand to silence me and continued, “Although 95 percent of Muslim men have only one wife, we are allowed to have four. The world shakes its finger at the Muslim world but at the same time, men around the world in monogamist countries marry and have numerous affairs, keep mistresses and have illegitimate children: which by the way, is perfectly acceptable in your society. Where’s the difference? The difference being, if a Muslim has four wives, he has to support them and treat them and any children they have the same: the kids are raised in a family by both parents. Look at all the illegitimate children in non-Muslim countries. Which way do you think is better?”

“Mind you,” he continued, “I’m not trying to make excuses for things here, just pointing out some of the facts. In every single country of the world, the power to dictate laws in a country is held by a rich few whether in America, Iran or any other country. It’s always the average person with a family to raise and support that has to bear on their backs the dictates of others. The lobbyists in your country control your government and buy and sell power just like the imams and mullahs here. Their motives are just different. Both sides are greedy for power but in America, they use the guise of more productivity and wealth for the masses: a piece of the American pie as their creed. In Iran, it’s to further fundamentalist Islam that’s the reason.”

Hasan stopped talking and a deadly period of silence passed between us when I looked at him and replied, “I never saw things that way. I guess that the key words are understanding and tolerance. Like you said, we should look for what we have in common to find ways to our solve problems, not distance ourselves because of our differences. The way you put it, we’re more alike than I ever thought we could or would be.”

“Speaking of being alike,” Hasan remarked, “I’ll bet you ten U.S. dollars you can’t give me the correct answer to this question. Are Iranians a Semitic people like Arabs and Jews?”

“Sure they are. Everyone in the Middle East is Arab or Semitic people, right?”

“Wrong! Iranians are Persian — not Arab. I’ll bet you didn’t know that there are lots of Iranians with blonde hair and blue eyes. There are a lot of Christians that live in Iran also.”

“Wow! I never knew that! I’ll be on the lookout for people with blue eyes.”

“Now, give me my ten bucks, Infidel.”

“Hey, smart ass, I’d rather owe you than cheat you out of it.”

“I’ll forgive the bet because I’m such a nice guy. I simply wanted to prove that most westerners don’t know the truth about other people on the world — Iranians in particular — and form opinions based on incorrect perceptions.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right again about Americans. We think our shit doesn’t stink and that we’re better than others.”

Hasan silently nodded and said, “We both love our countries: warts, faults and all. You and me, we’re both the same. We want to find a loving, amorous and beautiful girl, make mad passionate love to her, have beautiful babies, have a good job to support them and just be happy. What more could a man ever need in life than a beautiful woman, beautiful kids and security to be happy? Ah ¾ that’s the life!”

“Amen to that brother!” I agreed.

On a much lighter note, Hasan slapped my arm as he hopped off the wall and said, “Well infidel, since no beautiful, amorous and upright Muslim girl — with blue eyes or brown — would ever marry you (chuckles), so we’d better work on your football skills tomorrow: they suck!”

“Suck this!” I retorted as I grabbed my package. “You looked like a fool when I tunneled you and scored that goal.”

“Being a tender young foreigner,” Hasan rebutted, “we didn’t want you to cry in front of “Omar’s wife” and look like a fool so we made the young boy look good.”

“I may be young,” I chided, “but I bet my dick is bigger than yours.”

“Maybe,” he smirked then grinned slyly, “but unlike you, I’ve used mine”

“Ouch!” I resigned holding an imaginary dagger to my heart.

Goading me Hasan teased, “Ah, to be between the slender thighs of a dark-haired, doe-eyed nubile Iranian girl! Her lips full and taste like honey, her breasts: cone-shaped mounds softer than cashmere and her puffy nipples like brown chocolate candies. Her plump, ripe peach juicy and wet weeping the sweet nectar of the gods… It’s a shame you’re an infidel!”

“Well,” I replied, “you’ve never seen Cindy Molten!”

“Who’s Cindy Molten?” Hasan asked, broken from his dream-like state.

Wagging my head I explained, “Only the prettiest blonde-haired, blue-eyed, bodaciously gorgeous piece of American pie you’ve ever seen! High, proud breasts you could get lost in; long graceful legs that lead up to the most firm, round and tightest ass you’ve ever seen! She’s so fine, guys have said they’d suck her daddy’s dick just to drink her bath water.”

“Oh yeah?” he inquired skeptically, “Would you?”

Shaking my head with a chuckle I replied, “No girl is that fine!”

We both cracked up laughing.

About then our parents pulled up in the minibus with Sharif and Amir. After everyone had piled out of the van, Mom asked, “Well, Son, how’d your day go?”

“Great!” I replied, “We found a few guys and had a pickup game of foot-ball (making fun of the term to Hasan).”

“Yeah,” Hasan added, “his skills are really rudimentary so we’ve decided to take him under our wing and show him how the big boys play.”

My parents snickered and Mom replied, “Even in Tehran there seems to be no lack of posturing testosterone.”

“Human nature, Mom,” I replied with an inside smile to Hasan.

With some backslapping male bonding, we went inside our apartment. We shared the day’s experiences with each other as we each drank bottled water. I explained to Mom and Dad that it really was a good first day and that Hasan had been great.

I told how we just walked around for a few hours and observed people as they carried on their everyday lives, and the great bunch of guys we’d met and played soccer with. I could see in their eyes that my parents were happy for me and they no longer felt so bad about bringing me along.

Anytime my mother talks about ancient Persian writings or artifacts, she lights up with this kind of child-like glow and rambles on like a schoolgirl. I think that’s why Nicole and I got along so well because she was small like Mom and her eyes shone when she was excited.

Mom went on to expound about some ancient tablets that were found in an excavation site for a new office building they were building downtown. Like many cities in the Middle East these cities were built upon layers and layers of buildings that had either been destroyed or razed in the past. Having to dig deeper for modern buildings’ foundations, workers sometimes found valuable relics of the past and the construction was halted and turned into an archeological dig in search of more priceless gems of antiquity.

She went on to explain how these tablets was a very rare find for several reasons. First, they were a sequential set. Finding a complete set was a rare and monumental archeological find in and of itself. Second, they were in pristine condition. They revealed how a certain decisive battle took place between Cyrus of Persia and Sippara of the Babylonians at Opis in 539 BCE that brought the downfall of the Babylonian empire; how Cyrus’ soldiers had diverted the waters of the Euphrates River and entered the city of Babylon without a fight. Evidently, these tablets gave some small but hereto unknown details of the battle and resulting events and would be received throughout the world as a great archeological find. She explained that scholars would be studying these tablets for several years before gleaning all their secrets.

Both of my parents felt humbled and proud to be part of such a discovery and our Iranian guides could see the love my parents had for their historical culture.

Our guides politely excused themselves for the night and our family continued to exchange the day’s experiences as we ate dinner. I didn’t mention to Mom about checking out the babes or Hasan’s instructions on how to have limited conversation through discreet gestures. I may be young, but I’m not stupid!

The rest of the week was more of the same. We’d watch the girls in the morning and play soccer (or as they keep hassling me, football) in the afternoon. Our little clique of female admirers was also present on the sidelines every day. At the end of the week after we’d finished our game and we were sitting about twenty-five yards or so away from them on the sidelines, my doe-eyed beauty blushed when I glanced at her and slowly blinked her eyes. Omar slapped me on the back and said (through Hasan’s translation), “Hey Josh, my wife just kissed you!”

Blushing red I said stunned, “Huh?”

“He’s right, Josh,” Hasan agreed, “When a girl slowly closes her eyes to you, it’s her way of kissing.”

Well, with that tidbit of info I glanced at Doe Eyes and slowly blinked back. That did it! They all went into a giggling fit and took off for home like freshly kissed middle-school girls.

“You did it now,” Omar said jokingly. “She’ll be playing with her rahem tonight dreaming about an infidel American pig!”

Being proud of myself for having “kissed” a girl in two countries I quipped, “What can I say, good looks are universal.”

After two weeks of watching girls, playing football (hey, when in Rome…) and visiting a few museums, this was turning into a really nice and fun vacation.

Feeling a little more comfortable and aware in my new surroundings gave me a sense of security that I didn’t think was possible when I was waiting in fear to board the plane over here.

I’d witnessed one incident a few days later that involved the secret police and a young girl of about sixteen or seventeen. She “appeared” to be standing alone about four feet away from a group of four older boys of about eighteen and she looked like she was waiting, occasionally looking over at the group. A middle-aged man dressed in grey and black traditional dress with a turban suddenly walked up to her and grabbing her forcefully by the arm, started to take her away as she screamed and flailed. Immediately, one of the four boys shot over and grabbed the man’s forearm and began shouting at him.

We slowly eased our way towards them until we got within listening distance and Hasan was explaining that her older brother was escorting the girl, but he was talking privately for a few moments with his male friends. After some heated words and angry shouting by the crowd that had gathered, the man let the girl go and the brother, with his arm around his sister walked her home as she sobbed in his arms.

“See what I mean?” Hasan instructed. “These things usually happen within moments and if that boy would have been any further away, she’d have been lost. It only takes a few seconds.”

Shaking from the adrenaline caused by the tension of the scene, I couldn’t speak and just nodded. Hasan asked me if I was up for some football, but I shook my head no and told him I wanted to go home and crash for a while.

Walking back to the apartment in silence for a long while, I finally asked Hasan, “What would have happened to the girl?”

“Who knows for sure?” he replied morosely. “She could possibly have been raped at the police station for acting like a lone whore on the street, and if she was lucky she’d be caned and sent home. If the mood strikes them and there’s more than one of them, after they’ve raped her, her loss of virginity would be used as evidence against her and she’d be convicted of prostitution and executed by the courts. I saw them strip a sixteen year-old girl naked and stone and kick her to death right on the street last year not far from here.”

“God,” I replied shaking my head, “I’d sure hate to be a girl in this country.”

“I guess you’re right,” Hasan answered. “Boys have a lot more freedom and we can pretty much travel as we want but girls have to either travel in groups or escorted. Otherwise, they can pay a very high price for breaking the rules.”

On the way back, close to the soccer field where we played, we passed a row of houses and there appeared to be a group of six of these morality police standing around talking. I asked Hasan what was up with that group of men and he explained that one of them lived there and a lot of times a group of them would congregate and talk in front of his house. He said that Rafi’s family lived in the next block down.

Hasan went on to tell me that the man who lived in the house where the group of men were outside talking supposedly wants Rafi’s father’s job as district police chief but that Nazir Asaad, Rafi’s dad, was an honorable and fair man and that the mullahs at court favored him highly because when he brought cases before the court, they were guaranteed a conviction. He was even commended by one of the Ayatollahs who is head of the Judiciary Ministry: a great honor. Nazir isn’t as fanatical about harassing young girls because he has a daughter himself.

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“The Chinese have a saying,” he replied, “if you don’t anyone to know a secret, don’t tell anyone.”

Hasan and I bid good day as we each entered our apartments. I flopped on my bed looking up at the ceiling as that scene replayed over and over in my head. What haunted me the most was the sheer terror in that girl’s voice and eyes.

I guess I’ve led a very sheltered life because I’ve never been witness to or experienced that level of terror before and it upset me deeply.

I had been lulled into a false sense of security here because the guys I’d met along with Hasan had carried on about girls like nothing was unusual about it. I then thought of that moral code my Mom had instilled in me and even though I thought it was normal to talk about girls like they were sexual objects, I decided that from now on I’d take the higher road and try to think of girls as something precious and to be protected.

No girl: no matter what country she lived in deserved to be treated like a slave or someone without any rights at all. I wasn’t deceiving myself but as I recalled all the girls I’d seen here in Iran, I was pretty positive that probably 99 percent of them were virgins. I couldn’t say that about the girls back home.

Instead of feeling sorry for the women and girls here, I came to a sudden admiration for them. The girls here prized their virginity hoping to give it to one man: the man she’d share her life with. She’d give her husband something no one could ever have. In contrast, girls in America saw it as a rite of passage by losing it, somehow making them more accepted and mature.

Us guys are such dicks! That’s because we think with them so much. Whether it’s Jim in a fantasy erotic story or a frustrated fourteen-year-old kid like me, we are all thinking about the same thing: getting laid.

Even if it isn’t getting laid, just the desire to violate a girl’s modesty and touch her breasts was an admirable goal. Somehow in this long evolution of the species, the male has always been the one to conquer the female, bend her to his will and breed her as if that’s all she’s good for. It seems we’re not that far evolved from our hairy cousins in the trees.

Girls, I surmised were probably thinking the same thing. Does a guy think I’m worthy or pretty or sexy? Can I get a good one before they’re all taken? They play the opposite game, for the most part, teasing the male to see if he’s worthy enough to take her. Now the reason girls gave guys blue balls seemed to make some sense. She’d give it up, but you’d have to earn it. Blue balls or not, I guess that’s the way it should be.

I thought again about that moral code my mom kept hammering into me and although my hormones drove me to be like all horny guys my age, I decided before I try and touch another breast or even get laid I’d have to have some really deep feelings for her before I did anything.

Coming full circle back to that incident with the girl this afternoon and the terror she displayed. What would I do if I were witness to a girl being stripped in public as she was about to being stoned or beaten to death?

Maybe those bygone times of chivalry when knights protected the honor of women was the zenith of their existence. I pictured my Mom and what she meant to me and concluded that every girl: young or old deserved a knight in shining armor to protect her honor and virtue. As the gender of our species that has the gift to bring forth life didn’t every girl deserve that?

Hopefully Mom and Dad can help me put this into proper perspective and help me overcome this sudden fear…