Sounds like the title of a Margaret Atwood novel, doesn't it? Last night I dreamed of the Iranian. I haven't really thought about him in ages. Although I learned something from the experience (and therefore it was not all in vain), I am still filled with a sense of shame over it. I guess that's why I push it out of my mind when it comes up.

I give you total permission to blame the victim. I do.

I was 17. It was early summer, and a group of friends and I were planning on camping out for Metallica tickets. Some outdoor show at a racetrack in Quebec City. I don't remember much about the show, since I didn't wind up going. We showed up at the ticket center around 6pm, and there was no one there. So we decided to have a party in Tanya's backyard instead, and just head over to the ticket center around 5am. Off to the liquor store, where we stocked up on nearly $400 worth of mickeys. Tanya's boyfriend Jean had the Big Book of Shooters, so we were just going to mix all night. There was myself, Tan, Jean, a girl named Heather, and the Iranian. His name was Ahmad. I had never met him before that night. He spoke very little english, so we communicated mostly in French. I thought nothing of him, good or bad. He was just a friend of a friend.

And so we drank. And drank. And drank some more. Almost all the bottles were empty by 2am when we finally retired to the basement to catch a couple of hours sleep before heading out to line up for our tickets. It is a testament to my constitution at that age that the idea of throwing up all that liquor never even crossed my mind (if I did such a foolish thing today, I'd be in the hospital!). But I did pass out. Cold. Gone. Wendy had left the building.

I remember that Tanya had put on Disney's The Rescuers. I think I managed to get through the first fifteen minutes before I blacked out.

I don't know how long I was out for. I didn't check the time again till I got home. But I woke up because of a pain. A discomfort. It took a while for it to really register. And when I opened my eyes, I was looking at the Iranian. He was naked. And he was inside me. I didn't scream - not right away. Instead I just looked at him, a little quizzically. I couldn't believe he had the effrontery to get naked, pull my jeans down, and shove his Iranian dick in me. What gall! And then it dawned on me through my haze - I was being raped.

With a Bronx Cheer, I threw him off me. He rolled off the couch and into a sleeping bag I had been using, leaving me exposed from the waist down. I didn't waste time trying to cover myself. I kicked my jeans off the ankle they were still dangling from, and began striking downward with my heels. Over and over I kicked the sack of shit at my feet, and occasionally heard the crunch of bones breaking. Must have been his ribs. I stomped, and he cried out. The others woke up.

Tanya scrambled over to me, trying to calm me. Her parents, who had been asleep upstairs, came down to the basement. By now I had another blanket covering my nether regions. Tanya told them I'd had a nightmare. I had grown up with these people - they were like a second family. They had been dealing with my night terrors my whole life. And I didn't argue with Tanya's assumption. Stupid code of teenagers: don't rat.

Of course, Tanya wasn't lying. She had no idea what was actually happening. No one noticed that Ahmad had disappeared. He was still rolled up at my feet, and couldn't be seen. And I kept slamming him with my heels. His glasses broke under my feet.

Jean figured it out. He threw himself against me, knocking me off the couch and onto the floor where he pinned me down. Pinned down, half naked. If he thought that was going to calm me, he had another thing coming.

And then he said he didn't mean it

What the fuck? He didn't mean it? He didn't mean to take off all his clothes and fuck a complete stranger who was passed out on a couch? Angry, I have the strength of ten men. Tanya's father was perpetually working on the house, and there was always carpentry debris lying around. I reached for the closest weapon - a 2"x6" piece of lumber. And I swung. And I heard Jean's shoulder come out of its socket. and I ran.

Up to the kitchen. I grabbed a serrated knife from the counter - the sharp one we'd used on baguette for our little booze picnic that evening. I flew back down the stairs. The Iranian was now standing, clutching his chest. I threw my weight against him, knocking him to the floor. I raised the knife. I aimed for his neck. I was going to kill him.

And then suddenly, it was Tanya's flesh beneath the knife. She was trying to wrest it away from me, and her hand caught the blade. My oldest friend on earth, and I sliced open the tender web between her thumb and forefinger. Her blood stopped me cold. She looked at me. She wasn't scared of me. She wasn't angry that I'd cut her. She looked at me with concern, love, and worry. Worry for me, not for her. Not for the Iranian. I dropped the knife and looked away. I stood up. The Iranian stood, threw on his boxers, grabbed his clothes, and hobbled out at quickly as he could.

I put my jeans back on. I got in my car. And I left. Still drunk, I drove the 5 blocks back home. I could have walked it, but I wanted the safety and protection of my car. And I wanted its sheer killing power, on the off chance that the Naked Iranian was in my path. Lucky for him, he was not. It was 7am when I fell into bed that morning. I never did get my Metallica tickets. Funny, the band lost its appeal after that...

I never forgave Jean for his remark about Ahmad not meaning it. And I never forgave myself for putting myself in such a stupid situation in the first place. But I did learn one very valuable lesson I've taken with me throughout the rest of my years:

Never drink with anyone you wouldn't sleep with if you were sober.