Greatness Is in the Hole of the Beholder

There are two main reasons why Gideon always chooses the penthouse suites of the Palm d’Or hotel chain. One are the voice activated blackout window panels: to keep his one-night stands fast asleep as he quietly hotfoots it out; that way, he never risks awkward and pointless morning-after banter. The panels are impeccable at their job; not a sliver of light creeps in, and there is never any talk of next encounters.

The other distinguishing feature which pleases him greatly is the layout of the rooms and furniture, which is identical in every penthouse suite the world over. Complementary to the first reason, it further allows for seamless, soundless exits. There is never any noisy bumping into misplaced furniture, as the Palm d’OR hotel, whose ethos is discretion, caters primarily to nymphomaniac rock stars and philandering business moguls, designed with one-time lovers in mind.

An ideal customer, Gideon delights in sex—more than that, he is a full-blown, self confessed sex addict, with no intentions of recovery. Easily bored and always on to the next best thing, he abhors connection. This luxury hotel, and luxury brands in general help him curb the excessive eagerness of others, and Gideon Popplewell derives great comfort from this.

A stickler for detail, and leaving nothing to chance in the subject of his stealthy exits, he regularly commissions bespoke tailors to cut him the finest-fitting suits of the lightest fabrics, not only because of their look or feel, but because they are soundless in motion. Ninja-style in his morning-after flights, the cheap noisiness of materials such as rustling viscose is not for him.

When in the past some detail or other got overlooked, and his one-night-stands woke up on occasion, the previous night’s pleasure was dissipated by chatty mornings, or what he likes to call "rude awakenings.".

As he takes his blazer from the chair with slow, studied movements, he hears the heavy, deep breaths of slumber coming from the young man in bed, and they make him shudder.

His plan, however, is foiled by unexpected coinage in his blazer pocket which falls, with the loudest of percussive chimes to what should be a silent, carpeted floor. Cursing the empty vodka bottle, muttering under his breath, Gideon stiffens in the pitch-black of the room as if he can be seen, and holds his breath. Hopefully, he thinks, he’s too smashed-drunk to wake up.

He hears a stirring of sheets from the bed. It occurs to him in a matter of seconds that fantasies are as powerful as they are delicate. They could and should be glutted, but always with a new person every time. Repeat indulgences are, he thinks, the death of desire.

The previous night at Holborn’s members-only “Peacock Palace,” over a “Short Trip to Hell” cocktail—his favorite—Gideon had locked eyes with that night’s young Adonis-like hookup. Dancing by a speaker, was a ruddy-cheeked boy in his early twenties, who danced with his eyes closed and kept biting the corner of his full, wide lips which had the most pronounced cupids bow.

His face seemed as if mapped out by nature in perfect tune with the golden ratio: his eyes, though shut, were wide and sat under thick, naturally arched brows of the same length. The tips of his round, discreet ears began at the height of his eyebrow and ended in a fleshy lobe precisely in line with the end of his nose, the bridge of which was straight and thin, ending as a well-rounded, lightly upturned snub nose. His low, square hairline in its tousled short style formed the perfect frame for a diamond-shaped face, all elements of his physiognomy conspiring towards a perfect, polished gem. Furthermore, he was tall, and wore a tight t-shirt which joked, “Does this t-shirt make my cock look fat?” As he danced and it hoisted up towards his navel, it revealed a tantalizing happy trail. His was a body which had never seen, nor did it need a gym. With meaty biceps and natural, curved pectorals, his torso sloped into a “v” at the waist, supported by strong, lean thighs and the tightest bubble-butt Gideon had ever seen.

In his mind Gideon had groped, fondled, licked, bit, sucked and penetrated his way through every permutation of balletic positions and strokes he would be gracing him with, savoring the anticipation, before even approaching him. He was indeed spunkily handsome.

Only now, but for all his beauty, The Nameless One stirs in bed, his breathing anticipating wakefulness. He will most certainly attempt to communicate; and then the dream will shatter. They always bloody do, thinks Gideon as he clenches his jaw and silently curses the coins in his pocket...the shame! Explaining himself over petty cash! He tries to recall the night’s bar-hopping, but gives up, assuming it must have been a particularly seedy one for him to end up with metal in his pockets.

“Drinking already?” enquires a husky, sleep-laden voice in between yawns. “Without me? Get back into bed, will you?” Raising the tone of his voice and inviting the day in, The Nameless One commands: “Windows up!”.

As the voice-operated blackout panels part and light slowly floods the room, Gideon shields himself from the harsh midday light with a whimper, instantly putting on his Prada aviator shades.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” mutters Gideon under his breath. Caught in flight. He puts on his Cavalli blazer and attempts to smooth it over.

It is easy to see why so many men fall under Gideon’s spell, and why designers love to send him free samples: at 6’2”, elegantly but proportionately thin with well rounded, firm shoulders and a v-shaped torso, he is a perfect fit for most clothes. Blessed with a square face and sharp jaw; a slim, small nose and full lips; hooded, ice-blue eyes and thick, jet-black straight hair, cut into the ultimate Pompadour fade and—if not for last night’s contortions—ordinarily styled into an impressive quiff.

“Leaving so soon?” yawns The Nameless One, seductively propped up in bed. “What about a morning cuddle?” He casts off the satin sheet to reveal his morning wood.

Gideon rolls his eyes and tuts. “Oh, please…what are we, married?” he asks as he preens himself in the mirror.

Sensing distance: “Do you always talk this much after great sex?”.

“Greatness is clearly in the hole of the beholder.”.

“You really are funny. Can I have your number?”.

“Christ, you’re a bloody fool and a masochist. Absolutely not!” he says, gliding towards the door. “Ta-da! Order room service if you wish, its included. Out before midday, though, I won’t pay for your luxury living.”.

“Was it something I did?”.

“You were amazing. But I don’t do reruns.”.

“You’re an asshole!”.

“Well, everyone finds that out one way or another. I’ve got one for you, how about this: it’s not you…it’s me. There. Is that enough closure for you?”.

As the nameless guy looks at him slack-jawed, sitting up on the bed, Gideon opens the door and shuts it behind him without so much as a backward glance. Dwelling on the past isn't his thing.

As he enters the elevator, continuing to groom himself in the mirror on the way down, he wonders why they always have to ruin it by speaking?

The elevator door opens on to the lobby floor and the concierge makes as if he, too, is about to speak.

“Nothing, I want nothing,” Gideon says with a wave of the hand, making a swift beeline for the door. “What’s wrong with everyone today?”