Sex in Hotels: Blake's Hotel, London

The rock 'n roll hideaway

The fourth of five in this series, originally written for the late lamented Garage magazine. I arrived in London last night. If only I was staying at Blake’s!

Blake’s Hotel, London

You’re a research chemist working on a cure for multiple sclerosis. There’s no time to waste. Your weakening legs mean you’ve had to give up wearing high heels, and soon you’ll need a wheelchair. This is what’s called motivation.

You’ve derived an enzyme from the stem cells of a seahorse; it seems promising. When you tried it, the threadbare London University lab disappeared and before your eyes was a coral reef, blazing with color, and the warm drag of seawater against your skin as you swam strong and free. This is what’s called inspiration. A tweak or two and you’ve created the ultimate drug—a pill that makes your fantasies seem totally, utterly real.

You’ve found a group of chemically knowledgeable hippies who will take charge of production. It just needs one final test-drive, and you know the perfect place.

Every room of Blakes Hotel is a fantasy: the licentious skulduggery of the Borgia popes; the glittering mirrors of a Venetian courtesan’s lair; the pristine whiteness of a Mediterranean isle whose ancient sun makes all bodies perfect; the buttoned-up mahogany of a gentlemen’s club, with naughtiness lurking beneath the pinstripes. But now you will make your own fantasy, and where better than in a room swathed in delicate grays that envelop you like a cloud, soothing away sight and heightening your other senses to pinprick sensitivity. In a cloud room, anything can happen.