Bayswater, where we often welcome discerning clients to Tantric Affairs, is a liminal sort of place — a nowhere-in-particular rendered erotic precisely by its cultural ambivalence. It isn’t Notting Hill with its smug pastel certainties, nor is it Paddington with its raw commuter thrust; instead, Bayswater is an echo chamber of London’s secret desires, murmuring through stucco facades and faded Regency grandeur. This is a neighbourhood where embassies squat next to converted bedsits, where Arab jet-setters and reclusive pensioners pass each other like ghosts in the mirror of Queensway. It’s here, beneath the ornamental cornices and behind discreet curtains, that we find the ideal setting for our tantric practice — unshowy, historic, slightly bruised by time, and perfect for the exploration of the deeper, darker pleasures that don’t need to shout.

The area has always known something of the clandestine. Victorian gentlemen came here to disappear into rented rooms and chase the silk edge of deviance, and in that spirit we continue the lineage — but with intention and grace. At Tantric Affairs, our sessions are more than the sum of perfumed oils and arched backs; they are ritual acts of reclamation, a recalibration of the body’s inner truth. Bayswater understands this instinctively — it’s too worldly to be shocked, too faded to be prurient. It’s the kind of place where the past leans in close, smelling faintly of sex and sandalwood, and whispers that you were always meant to surrender to sensation.