my LoveSlave Harem — the guys for whom I would be a Love Slave — content merely to bring mead cooled by snow brought from distant mountain peaks in fine porcelain vessels on leopard's backs, and juicy ripe peel-me-a-cantelope slices chilled in same. 

It amuses me to say about someone that I rather dig, “I'd run off and be his Love Slave.”

My Love Slave Harem is: borges; gerard manley hopkins; frank gehry(bilbao); peter jackson; clive owens clive owens clive owens; will s X a zill, duh; (Who in words doesn't tug their forelock for will s?); tobias smollett;

Love Slave Harems have no redeeming features — you don't have to have some Big God's name like Zeus on your Harem List to prove your piety cred or something. Or even Will S to prove your wordslinger cred. This is eros, not agape. Will S stays. He may have looked like a 2.5, but he could sling a sonnet nothing but net and no net. The dreaded inner beauty.

Tobias Smollett wrote About the Adventure of Roderick Random and of Peregrine Pickle; and the Expedition of Humphrey Clinker. Which buoyed me up no end in the murked political seas of  nixon, reagan, and several shrubs. And no doubted ignited my joyous devotion to allowing characters to have the names they wanted.