Covent Garden is where the ghosts of London’s theatrical lust still roam, masked behind colonnades and café laughter, their perfume mingling with Chanel samples and the sweet grit of performance. At Tantric Affairs, we find the area deliciously appropriate—once a red-light district spilling out from Seven Dials, now a polished playground of monied hedonists, culture tourists, and City spillovers in silk ties. Our practice here hums under the surface of the spectacle. Beneath the facades of opera and artisanal gelato is the raw pulse of Eros. We don’t pretend otherwise. When clients come to us in Covent Garden, they step into a discreet sanctuary a breath away from the piazza’s juggler clowns and violinists, but spiritually centuries deep into Dionysian ritual.

This isn’t Chelsea’s antiseptic elegance or Shoreditch’s tattooed performativity—Covent Garden is where refinement meets its opposite and makes love in private. We bring our tantric craft to this place with full awareness: the body here has history. The space where Nell Gwyn once dropped her bodice to rapturous applause is now where clients surrender their breath and boundaries in whispered consent. At Tantric Affairs, our sessions in this neighbourhood are informed by its double life—public theatre, private release. And as with all good theatre, the climax is less important than the tension: the build, the gaze, the possibility.