Stifling foundation garments could mean only one thing; I was dreaming again. Even in my dreams, I found some way to torture myself. I looked around to see if I was back in the jungle room, but I didn’t spot any animal prints, so it looked like that was a big no. This room looked more like something out of Marrakech: all silk pillows and floor cushions. I couldn’t understand why if the location changed I was still sporting circa-1950 undergarments, this time a one-piece full body girdle that went all the way to my knees. Oh yes, tres sexy. I heard a door open and looked up at the beaded doorway (yes, a beaded doorway, I was completely encased in the most clichéd of Moroccan fantasies—didn’t say much for my imagination). The beaded curtain parted to reveal Daniel dressed in a long cream-colored kurta and pants. He even had the traditional slippers on. His five o’clock shadow was more like ten, and I was itching to get my hands on that truly beautiful face. I still couldn’t figure out why he was so dressed for the part and I was still stuck in the ‘50s, but I decided to just go with it.
