Something—padded cuffs, hospital restraints?—held my arms to the sides of a bed, held my legs apart near the foot. How it seemed. Seemed was the word. There seemed to be straps across my chest and waist, seemed. All vague and fascinating and uncertain. Euphoria was there, too, and a thick, underwater dreaminess, an uncertainty about everything.I was drugged. That was it. Drugged by a dream of a white clown made from Gemma. Something like that. Did I have that light blanket covering me? Was I naked under it? I had an erection; there was no mistaking that. White clown’s curse. Terrible arousal.I stretched, shifted, felt myself held. It had to be restraints. Something. There was no sitting up, no leaving the bed.I’d been medicated before. I knew drug euphoria, the sweet, heavy lassitude, the craziness. I tried to focus, tried to plot it back. What? How? The wine. Of course, the wine. The good wine. White clown’s wine. And now the after-effects of whatever drug Gemma had given. But no nausea, thank God.
