Harem today, gone tomorrow

Editor's note: The following column contains material unsuitable for children.

For far too long, I've wanted to be the Tuesday-Thursday girl of a harem. In America, the country my Eastern European grandparents thought would bring them better lives, that isn't an easy gig to get, especially if you're not a renegade Mormon.

Although briefly, I confess, I was friendly with my ex-husband's then-mistress, and we all hung out together – platonically!

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This is, of course, a wish best kept to myself, trotted out in secret to think about when there's nothing on television, not paraded around during those interminable conversational lulls at cocktail parties, lest folks get the wrong idea.

Actually, my desire to be the Tuesday-Thursday girl in a harem was predicated not upon filthy sex, but dirty ... dishes. I'd have fewer to do, with the week's chores split somewhat equitably between the other concubines. Besides, Tuesdays and Thursdays should be slow nights on call in a harem, nothing like the oh-so-demanding major revels of weekends.

I figured when it was my turn for amatory duty in one of those nifty carved and inlaid Moroccan bed-like structures reminiscent of Saddam's bunkers, I could simply lay there like a log and give a convincing bogus wiggle now and again, moan my pseudo-conqueror's name backward, then be home-free for the rest of the week, to concentrate on my crocheting, or whatever concubines do in their down-time.

Probably, if Yetta my "Yiddishe mama" were alive today to see me type this, she'd be rending her garments and "oying" all over the place. Bad enough she had to deal with a divorced daughter who collected Pez dispensers (me), and a homosexual son.

Not that she knew about my brother – let's call him Deep Closet – but he wasn't exactly running out to get married, have grandchildren, and reward her with tons of nachiss (joy) for her considerable maternal sufferings in bearing and rearing two "good-for-nothing kids."

Mater /Martyr.

Interestingly enough, the word "harem" – which the Merriam-Webster dictionary says has been used in English since 1623 – traces its roots back to the Arabic harIm, literally, something forbidden, but also haram, literally, sanctuary:

• "A usually secluded house or part of a house allotted to women in a Muslim household."

• "The wives, concubines, female relatives and servants occupying a harem."

• "A group of women associated with one man."

• "A group of females associated with one male – used of polygamous animals."

Which brings us to polygamy.

Supposedly, it's in the air after the Supreme Court's recent controversial decision striking down state sodomy laws.

Apparently a "Christian polygamy" movement has, er, sprung up, based on the so-called sanctity of marriage.

Gee, why don't we ever hear anything from, or about, the chattel-women in these ultra-marital patriarchal adventures? I mean, besides Elizabeth Smart, who was forcibly conscripted into polygamy before she'd stopped playing with dolls.

Echoing that great philosopher, Sanctum Sanctorum, dissenting Justice Antonin Scalia aggrievedly declared, "State laws against bigamy, same-sex marriage, adult incest, prostitution, masturbation, adultery, fornication, bestiality, and obscenity are ... called into question by [this] decision."

Masturbation? Why bother with statutes against that, anyway? Don't they know masturbators grow hairy, warty palms or get struck blind?

As for bestiality, although definitely repugnant, it could be the next trendy thing, perhaps the latest online fad, rapidly crowding out bondage among jaded Internet dabblers in the forbidden. Just the other day I bade a vaguely innocent hello to a man in an intellectually oriented AOL chat-room. Noticing his profile mentioned his devotion to his dog, I gamely inquired, "What kind of dog do you have." His reply rendered me momentarily speechless: "A Golden Retriever with a long tongue. Interested?"

Dear readers, like you, I was stunned. And way disgusted. After summoning, then suppressing, my indignation – At least say hello, ya bozo, before launching into your tacky fetishes – I primly replied, as I deleted him from my screen forever, "I'm an animal lover, not an animal-lover."

The bottom line is, basically a bunch of powerful white men are huffing and puffing about whatever we do with our bodies in the privacy of our own homes. Listen, it's not about homosexual sodomy, guys, it's about individuals' rights of privacy: Let the Government Leave Us Alone in Our Bedrooms. And – while you're listening – Keep the State Out of Our Panties.

Nunya bizness, guys. Get it?

Clearly, one person's hobby is another person's vile perversion. Oh, and did I tell you my cat wants to marry me?