Oxford Circus, that giddy epicentre of consumerist frenzy, is where London’s flesh-and-fabric economy pulsates loudest—a place where bodies brush with bodies not out of eros but of necessity, of congestion. Yet, behind the jittering storefronts and glassy-eyed mannequins, there lies an entirely different rhythm, slower and decidedly more carnal. At Tantric Affairs, we operate in the deep counter-current of this hyperactive quarter—offering sanctuary amid the retail stampede. Our sessions are acts of reclamation, coaxing the body back from the desensitised digital spasm that defines modern life. Here, in discreet premises tucked between Soho’s last gasps of louche charm and the regimented sterility of Regent Street, we invite clients to drop their masks—metaphorical, physical—and sink into an older form of consciousness, something pre-commercial, quasi-mystic, and unapologetically erotic.

Historically, this area has always been on the edge of transformation, where Victorian restraint collided with Georgian bawdiness, and now, our work picks up that frayed thread. The ghosts of courtesans drift through these streets if you know how to look, and we like to think they’d nod in amused approval of our practice. We offer a subversion of the frenzied choreography above ground—a slow, deliberate awakening of the senses. Our massage is not a transaction, it is a ceremony; not titillation, but initiation. Oxford Circus may wear the polished sheen of global capitalism, but underneath that facade is a city that has always hummed with sex, mystery, and the human hunger to be touched and seen. We merely give that hunger a private room and an oil-warmed welcome.