Harem of the Mind

There are times when a man becomes so engorged with desire he feels he might explode, as though his scrotum might rupture and send a million swimmers westward into the night.

He wakes and his penis is as stiff and as straight as a lightning rod. His skin is hot to the touch, as if his whole body were infected. He can think of nothing else but sex; his mind becomes a harem, a place of fragrant heat. Women in tight-fitting body suits crawl about the floor, beckoning to him. Exotic music can be heard in the background, a flute or a citar. The walls are draped with silken banners, and from the ceiling hang bulbs in the shape of wombs.

The man’s wife is not allowed to enter this room. It is the province of promiscuous passion, and it is his, his alone.

They say the mind is a terrible thing to waste; I say the mind is a terrible thing to chasten.

If he cannot have the flesh of the body, he must invite the flesh of the mind. Otherwise he’ll lose his sanity. If he did not have this silk-bannered harem, if it was not stocked with four-legged nymphs, if there was not sandalwood burning in the air—he would be a criminal: a rapist, a stalker, a Peeping Tom. It is those men who realize the harem, who make it tangible, who present the biggest danger to society.

Me, I am innocent. My mind has run amok, but my body—my body is a mere thermometer.

I just dare you to touch it.