When he awakened, he didn’t know how long he had been out. Things were jumbled in his mind and he couldn’t organize his thoughts properly. He didn’t know where he was but the feeling coursing through his body was pleasurable. It was a recognizable sensation but he couldn’t pin it down—couldn’t put his finger on it. He blacked out again before he could make sense of it all.
A few hours later, he was aroused by a chill and struggled to open his eyes. A whirling sound and moving ball circled above his head. He had a strange feeling he was being hypnotized. Where am I?
A memory started materializing. He remembered a horrible argument he had with his wife that morning. But, was that yesterday or last week or last month? He couldn’t exactly recollect. He started shivering again, but not from a chill in the air. This was something else. I wonder if I should be afraid.
His cloudy vision dissipated and he realized that what he heard was a ceiling fan and what he saw was a hanging ornament, a ball at the end of a chain. No, I’m not being hypnotized.
He looked around the tastefully decorated and furnished room and took it all in. A soy-based candle was burning on one of the end tables. The scent of exotic woods and figs permeated the air and relaxed him. The room was a decent size too, much larger than both the bedrooms combined in his condo, and it was painted a Khaki color with chocolate trim. This was definitely a bachelor’s bedroom. Not that frilly, womanly stuff he endured all his life being surrounded by nothing but females—his grandmother, mother, aunts, and three sisters—with no man in sight. Not a father, an uncle, a brother—nothing with a penis.
A brown colored, abstract comforter covering six-hundred thread Egyptian sheets draped the king-size bed. The headboard and footboard were covered with beautiful, cowhide leather. Handsome accessories decorated the walls: African masks were cascaded on two walls and another wall displayed Joseph Holston’s collection: “Journey Along the Underground Railroad.”
What really surprised him was his attire. He had never seen these clothes before. Matter-of-fact, he hadn’t worn PJs since he was twelve. He adamantly refused once he turned thirteen. Teenagers don’t wear pajamas, he had sighed loudly, rolling his eyes at his mom.
He felt like a king.
As a grownup, he wanted a pair of well-designed, satin pajamas but could not afford them. And now, somehow, he had a pair on that was classically masculine. The top sported a single pocket, cuffless sleeves, and mother of pearl buttons that handsomely complemented the satin finished sleep pants, which was styled with pockets and contrast piping. A silk drawstring was cinched at his waist, not tied in a bow, but hanging loosely to straddle the one-button fly. These pajamas had understated taste and felt luxurious against his skin.
Still mesmerized and trying to keep at bay the question continuously popping to the forefront—why am I here?—he went to the bathroom, which was almost the same size as the bedroom. Before his eyes was the largest Jacuzzi tub he had ever seen, up close anyway. Adjacent to the tub was a two, or it could have been a three-person shower stall. There was a rainfall showerhead above and several smaller showerheads sprouting out throughout the entire stall. From the reflection in the mirror, he could see a double walk-in closet with at least ten more beautifully styled pajamas and matching robes arranged on wood hangers. He turned quickly to see if his eyes had deceived him. They had not. On the floor, there were different slippers aligned. Not the Adidas flip flops he wore, but Australian Ascot slippers, Mason Sheepskin moccasins, and L.B. Evans Finn driving moccasins.
He continued to scope out the bathroom. On the granite countertop, adjacent to a vessel sink, was a display of assorted bottles of what he could only assume were expensive colognes because he had never seen or heard of the names on the bottles. He picked up a bottle of Ambre Topkapi. He sprayed the air and was exposed to a pleasant fragrant. There were two bottles by somebody name Clive Christian: one was “C” and the other was “1872.” He sprayed one in each hand. He sniffed “C” and it reminded him of a woman’s smell—a bouquet of freshly cut flowers. “1872” had a nice citrus scent. He pulled the top off of “Men’s Kilian Straight to Heaven” and inhaled it. “Wow!” he said, and spritzed some on the back of his hand and smacked it on each side of his chin. It had an aroma of cedar, nutmeg, and rosewood. These colognes were definitely not what he was used to spraying or slapping on—Calvin Klein, Halston, Givenchy, and Hugo Boss.
He made a three hundred sixty degree turn. He took it all in. This place is truly magnificent.
Out of nowhere a thought surfaced about the good feeling he had experienced. It was a wet dream. But, for some peculiar reason, he didn’t believe it was a dream at all that caused the sensation. It seemed too real, felt too real. And he thought he had glimpsed a vision leaning over him, below his navel and between his legs. But it made no sense because the vision was only an elaborate mask. He shook his head as if to clear this thought.
Then, the questions finally forced through the murkiness.
Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here?
Ian Ferguson had no clue.
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