Previous Issue
Issue 6
20 Articles • 0 Surprises
Start the Issue

Global Issue

Table of Contents

John Fraser

The Michelin-starred chef has a story to tell you through his cooking

Pundy’s Picks for Conscious Travel

Six tips for considered and conscious travel

Genmaicha Martini Recipe

The classic martini plus the health benefits of green tea

The Spread Love Project by Nicholas Konert

How Nicholas Konert’s rainbow heart design became an international icon

Wade Davis

Anthropology is the antidote to today’s nativism says the scholar and author

Carla Sozzani

The future of retail according to the founder of legendary concept store 10 Corso Como

The Art of Migration

The power of art to inspire empathy and social action

John Pawson

Zen Buddhism and minimalist purity drive the celebrated architect

Amy Duncan

As the CBD line Mowellens expands into skincare, its founder shares the personal story behind her company

Sila Sveta

Moscow’s favorite media studio finds the perfect balance between art and commerce

David de Rothschild

In his calls for environmental awareness, the modern explorer finds harmony between man and nature

Can Fashion Be Sustainable?

Shaping a better world through what you buy – or don’t

Brendon Babenzian

Supreme’s former creative director wants to end the cycle of consumption with his new brand Noah

Lily Kwong

Nature invades the urban jungle in the landscape designer’s expansive projects

House of Yes

Behind the scenes with the Bushwick nightlife collective promoting inclusivity and consent culture

Vivie-Ann Bakos

DJ Extraordinaire

Chez Dede

A medium in which two world-traveling, adventurous spirits absorb the globe’s vast curiosities and share them freely

Jesse Israel

A meditation guide for extraordinarily large groups

Liya Kebede

The Ethopian model, activist, and entrepreneur uses her label Lemlem as a force for change
Zoë Buckman
Zoë Buckman
Alicia Keys
Alicia Keys

Lver since I can remember, hotel rooms have incited the most profound form of eroticism within me. As outrageous in its mundanity as it may sound, hotel rooms are my fetish.


When we think of fetish it usually evokes images of leather,
whips, and dungeons into our consciousness; however, fetish is far more democratic than those rather old-fashioned connotations. Defining fetish often perplexes people, more so because it is so simple but simultaneously so abstract. A form of sexual desire for something ‘unsexual’ is usually how dictionaries explain it. To describe it more fluidly, it could be deemed as sexual arousal from something common and nonmortal that is incapable of intentionally interacting with you. So uninteresting that in its totalitarianism it becomes carnal—a total role reversal from its populist and shared functions.


Of course the fact that a hotel room has a bed enhances its direct sexuality. But perhaps what is so special about hotel rooms is that you can feel totally alone there—an equitable solitude that is incomparable to anything else.


It wasn’t until I was alone in a cheap hotel in Milan last year that I fully realized the depths of my sensual infatuation with these semi-permanent homes. This hotel room was dated: the bed had a pine wood headboard and watercolor prints with horses and sunsets hanging over wallpapered walls. The sheets were a crisp white and the bed had that European decadence of being the size of two large single beds pushed together. There was a palpable yet anonymous history to the space.


The way it was decorated was so democratic, devoid of any personality, making it impossible to irritate anyone’s taste. In fact, so much effort went into not displeasing anyone that the longer I concentrated on the timidly ornate wallpaper—with its pleasant hues of cream and yellow—the more incredibly titillating it was in its tedium.


The tension between privacy, an unfamiliar city, and a shared unknown history of a hotel room heightens the erotic potential of the space. Even the motions of checking into a room at reception, being handed your key, and having to navigate an unknown building to find your temporary place of privacy for the evening is ritualistic. A build up much like foreplay, almost as if the carpeted hallways hint at an experience they know but you don’t. Then, once inside, you have no real responsibility to the space. You are both happily non-committal, with a sense of freedom from your daily routines, the normal stresses of life discarded for one mutual night.


But perhaps the most alluring aspect of a hotel room is the humid electricity of anonymous lust—knowing that countless sexual acts have been performed in the room and you will never know exactly what has happened. After all, is there anything sexier than a room with so much potential?