It is December in Marrakesh, and I am sitting in a circle with 30 naked women, staring down the barrel of a heavily vajazzled vulva. The vulva belongs to a woman in the centre of the circle, who is lying on her back and slowly touching herself. A few sobs erupt from other corners of the room. One of the women is holding her unoccupied hand, another gently strokes her hair.
“Everyone, watch how Elena’s* p***y physically responds to my words,” Mama Gena commands the group. She crouches down, face inches away from the vajazzles. “Your p***y is divine, it is inspiring, it is a work of art, you are living in your turn on,” she whispers, with a distinctive New York twang.
