Drunkenness

Author Saeed Tabatabaee was one year old when the Islamic Revolution took place. He belongs to the generation of young people who has grown up in the regime's big brother society—always guarded, always reviewed. In this short story, he revolts against this and writes about the most taboo subjects in Iran: sex, masturbation, adultery, prostitution, drugs and alcohol.

June 10 2013 Text: Saeed Tabatabaee

I am drunk; drunk as a skunk. I usually drink a little and rarely get intoxicated. But this time, I indulged in drinking. I was pouring and drinking since that evening, alone. This was my first time of drinking alone. I usually drink a little. I try a little in parties or gatherings. Before intoxication, I stop drinking. I am afraid of drunkenness. I am afraid to get sick and intoxicated. I am afraid to get drunk and lose control of my behavior. I am afraid to do something that will make people gossip about me. I am afraid to behave in a way that is not befitting someone of my position.

I hold a PhD in psychology and I am an expert in what I do. I am a reliable psychologist; for all of the patients. I am afraid to do something when I am drunk that would make people talk behind my back. I am afraid that the doctor does something that is not suitable. I wish I were not a doctor. I wish I were a low-level employee of an agency with adequate salary, so that I could do whatever I wanted. I wish I could get drunk, walk on the streets and cry out. I wish I could hook one of those second rate street whores when I got back from work, after all those intense consultations, and drive the tiredness of eight 110 000 tomans consultations out of my body just by paying 50 000-60 000 tomans.

I wish money could solve everything; like this Jack Daniel bottle which has made my night or like the Hensley which is blinking up there in the bar. I wish I were a permanent employee of an agency and I could pick prostitutes up without any concerns, without being afraid to be seen by my patients. I wish I could drink to death and get drunk and get a blast of fun, dance with all the girls and squeeze their big hips, or stealthily talk dirty to girls and do something to make them roll on the floor laughing. I feel fear. I feel fear when I am with others.

I am afraid that there will be a potential patient among the guests and … I am afraid that a colleague may pass by when I am hooting at a girl.

I am still young and my path of progress is ahead. I should go up the steps of progress. In my job, there is no way but progress. You will have more patients and expensive services if you have a luxurious clinic, and also reputation. But tonight I am drunk; drunk as a skunk.

Since this evening, I have drunk half a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a bottle of soda. I wiped off the tiredness of the two meetings I had today, and the six meetings that I did not have, with the help of Jack Daniels. Now is the turn of Hensley. I want to have a shot of Hensley and go walk on the street. I want this psychologist with his formal manner to stumble a little. I want to be seen. I want to distance myself from my pants ever present ironing line.

Here the streets are dark and crowded, full of dark coffee shops, narrow pavements, and distorted trees with bending trunks over the pavements, as if they are flaunting their never had asses. Here is a street on which you have to walk so straight not to jostle any one; the pavement is narrow as is the street. You should be careful because you may suddenly touch a woman’s breast in the crowd or touch a hip smoothly. It may make a woman scream or attract the attention of someone. Here is not a street for drunks. Here is the street of formal people, street of sobers. Rich sobers who are looking for entertainment. Just the eyes can work. Mascaraed and shadowed eyes, eyes bloated of sleep, eyes bloated of sleeplessness. Here is the street of rich ones, street of 110 000 tomans per hour consultation. Street of failed loves and cold bodies. Street of quiet love competitions and silent betrayals. Street of triangles, squares, hellos, good byes and endless nervous masturbations. Here is the city of sexual perverts, 50 000 tomans whores, or 100 000 tomans, 150 000 tomans with special services like opium, grass or alcohol. Here is the city of shrunk balls, because of fear and Viagra. Here is the city of laser hair removal and smelly mouths. Here …

I am drunk; drunk as a skunk. I should let go of all these thoughts. I should take the car and see around, get around and drown myself in autumn’s smell. I should take the car and drive drunk. I should go to high areas or old neighborhoods of the city, or park or …

I am drunk. I am so drunk. I put on my clothes and get out of the house. Narrow pavement swings and I swing. It is late and the street is quiet. No one is here, but some occasional passers: a young couple, an old man, a family of three, a mother and two daughters, a young boy and an aged man. I get tired. I cannot walk normally. I swing a little. I feel fear again. I am afraid to be seen by someone, especially the neighbors and that nosy front door neighbor who peeked at me through the door eye when I left home; the woman at the front door, with those plump lips and that short stature, those big hips and spindle-like body, with that white hair and ever present thick cheek make up; the woman at the front door with that strange name, Rosita; and those free consultations in the doorway; her weak and reluctant husband and abundance of young boys’ lust and josh about her jutted body; her ever travelling husband and his ever present wife by the door eye; the stingy gossipmonger of Sarv apartment. I need to go back home.

I need to go back soon. Then take my clothes off and sleep to sober up. A cup of coffee or something would also be good. I should go back quickly. The dangerous night of capital city, thieves and cops … pickpockets, venal cops … I should go back. I should go back before someone sees me.

I go back home. I take off my clothes; all of my clothes. I drink another glass of Hensley; another shot. I want to get drunk. I want to drown. I want to distance myself from all reputation. I want to go to the neighbor’s house nakedly and knock the door. I want to make Rosita suck me off in the doorway. I want to take Rosita’s panties off her legs and keep it as a memento. I want to slam on her hips with my hands and make them red. I like to leave Rosita surprised in the doorway. I want to go back to my apartment, her panties in my hand, and sleep. I want her to knock on the door and beg me to give her panties back while I am sleeping. I want to dream about Rosita’s red hips and her husband’s depressed limp penis. I want to eat chocolate with the next Hensley shot; dark chocolate that I do not have in the house. I should go to Rosita’s place, with an excuse for chocolate. I have to put on suit and tie, without any underwear. And when Rosita goes to bring chocolate I should go in and hug her from behind. Then I should hold her breasts in my hands and kiss her bud-like lips. I should tell her that I am drunk and I need chocolate to drink with Hensley. I should invite her for a shot. If necessary, I will give her consultation to come and pull up her skirt. I should claw her fleshy thighs and smell between her legs. I want to have sex. I want to sleep with a woman. I want to experience sex. A doctor without experience in sex disgusts me. Sex expert, sex consultant; I want to push my penis into a warm vagina. I want to grasp big hips. I want to roll drunk in a woman’s arms.

Rosita’s hot body is ten meters away from me and she is probably alone in her apartment. Her panties are probably wet. She probably likes to flirt with me. She is probably willing to have sex. Rosita is ten meters away from me. Rosita’s panties are ten meters away from me. Rosita’s vagina is ten meters away from me. Rosita’s hips are ten meters away from me. Naked and holding a glass, I am sitting at my desk and Rosita is in the kitchen. She is definitely talking on the phone. She is also paying attention to the door way. If I open the door, she will jump behind the door and the door eye will darken. Her mascaraed eyes will see my nudity; my erect penis and my hand rubbing it; my rubbing hand, my penis and cum spewing quickly. That is Rosita’s story. First she would call the woman upstairs, then the one downstairs. Mrs. Shahin, the old woman living in the old house in the end of alley, and Mr. Ehtesham’s wife, would be the next ones. Dr. Masturbation, hard penis psychologist of the neighborhood …

I do not know. Even Hensley cannot give me courage; cannot drag Rosita under me or me on Rosita. For a year, I have been living ten meters away from Rosita’s vagina. For a year, I hated Rosita’s face and free doorway consultations; her makeup, her perfume, her body and her punchy disabled husband. For a year, she has been checking me out. For a year, she has been observing every move of mine through the door eye. For a year, her waiting vagina has been behind the door. For a year, my erect penis has been here, polite and shy; without thinking about any woman that I know, about my patients, about the secretary, about the nurse or my female colleagues, or about Rosita.

Rosita and her vagina are behind the apartment wall and I drink the last shot of Hensley without dark chocolate, without Rosita’s vagina …