Excerpt from Soulana Freidkley – the Legend Behind the Myth
Now for an eyewitness account of what happened next we turn to a transcription from a review written for the French publication, PARIS MATCHES:
“Knees pressed against knees, as Paris’ finest male species got to know each other in a way they thought they never would. The scattering of fashionable women were ignored, desperate to contend themselves with drink as they melted in the heat. Some men sat transfixed, staring with a look that reminded this reporter of a glazed donut…that had been in the pastry shop window too long…three weeks too long. Some men seemed to have trouble speaking; each syllable seemed to thicken in the back of their throats. Others sat rigid in their seat daring not to move for fear of breaking apart. White-hot blue smoke encircled the room as if a sulfur experiment mixed with equal parts male hormones had gone haywire and was about to explode and envelope the entire planet. I kid you not. A sense of some unspeakable liquid danger bubbled just underneath the wilting composure of the opening nighters. A volcano was about to implode. It was now time…time for intermission to be over, time for fantasy, time for dessert as art.
Hot pink curtains parted. Behold food as fashion, the incongruous sight of food as musical revue hypnotized all those present; body, soul and sweat glands. TRIPLE CHOCOLATE THREAT was before them and nothing else mattered, not the past or the future, the stock market or sports. On the left of the stage stood one young woman, beads of cherries encircling her lithe body, I believe she was beginning to undulate. On stage right stood another comely miss covered in dollops of whipped cream, she too began to gyrate…and then there was the semi-sweet vision in center stage. La Soulana completely covered in nothing but chocolate, rich milk chocolate, brown liquid velvet caressing every pore. She was swinging on a gold swing, her hair hung wild and unchocolated. The music and lyrics of the song she may have been singing (her moving lips indicated they were) was inaudible over the din of the writhing, baying mass before her.
Soulana swung harder; pushing her swing free from the confines of the stage, out into the audience, about four feet over the heads of the dumbstruck, near hysterical lovers of art below. The air practically foamed. The body odors of 1,000 men in heat permeated the confines of the room. Nostrils flared under the pungency of this primordial sweat soup that is this seething nightclub. Waves of heat undulated toward the stage unrestrained causing the hot pink curtains to bow, ebb and crinkle. Bodies pressed together in some dare-not-to-be spoken ritual to get closer to their goddess. (Who ever said pagan rites was passé?)
Then, as if the walls could not stand any more, chocolate rain began to fall off the candied Aphrodite as she began to melt from the intense heat. Each drop was causing frenzy to the swarming masses below, like ecstatic acid on the heads of starving chocoholics. Some men graced by the droppings could not take it. They howled and then collapsed onto the seething floor. They had to be dragged off by attendants before they were crushed. Others held their tongues, mouths gaping, groping for the sweet faux negress’ nectar like full grown baby chicks of some monstrous near hairless species, famished for mother’s chocolate milk.
In five minutes it was all over. The chocolate vision de-swung, and with Miss Cherries and Ms Whipped Cream, clasped hands and bowed to the fevered swarms. The hot pink curtains closed, slammed shut actually. The audience continued to scream for another 15 minutes, some cried, then fell strangely silent. The crowd did not move. Moaning could be heard. A retinue of beefy bouncers in bright orange outfits descended with clubs into the club convincing the refined people to vacate the premises, after all, they had another show to do in an hour. How they cleaned up the room in the junked wetted state it was in; tables overturned, chairs smashed, unspeakable stickiness everywhere in such a short time is something for philosophers to ponder.”
“Knees pressed against knees, as Paris’ finest male species got to know each other in a way they thought they never would. The scattering of fashionable women were ignored, desperate to contend themselves with drink as they melted in the heat. Some men sat transfixed, staring with a look that reminded this reporter of a glazed donut…that had been in the pastry shop window too long…three weeks too long. Some men seemed to have trouble speaking; each syllable seemed to thicken in the back of their throats. Others sat rigid in their seat daring not to move for fear of breaking apart. White-hot blue smoke encircled the room as if a sulfur experiment mixed with equal parts male hormones had gone haywire and was about to explode and envelope the entire planet. I kid you not. A sense of some unspeakable liquid danger bubbled just underneath the wilting composure of the opening nighters. A volcano was about to implode. It was now time…time for intermission to be over, time for fantasy, time for dessert as art.
Hot pink curtains parted. Behold food as fashion, the incongruous sight of food as musical revue hypnotized all those present; body, soul and sweat glands. TRIPLE CHOCOLATE THREAT was before them and nothing else mattered, not the past or the future, the stock market or sports. On the left of the stage stood one young woman, beads of cherries encircling her lithe body, I believe she was beginning to undulate. On stage right stood another comely miss covered in dollops of whipped cream, she too began to gyrate…and then there was the semi-sweet vision in center stage. La Soulana completely covered in nothing but chocolate, rich milk chocolate, brown liquid velvet caressing every pore. She was swinging on a gold swing, her hair hung wild and unchocolated. The music and lyrics of the song she may have been singing (her moving lips indicated they were) was inaudible over the din of the writhing, baying mass before her.
Soulana swung harder; pushing her swing free from the confines of the stage, out into the audience, about four feet over the heads of the dumbstruck, near hysterical lovers of art below. The air practically foamed. The body odors of 1,000 men in heat permeated the confines of the room. Nostrils flared under the pungency of this primordial sweat soup that is this seething nightclub. Waves of heat undulated toward the stage unrestrained causing the hot pink curtains to bow, ebb and crinkle. Bodies pressed together in some dare-not-to-be spoken ritual to get closer to their goddess. (Who ever said pagan rites was passé?)
Then, as if the walls could not stand any more, chocolate rain began to fall off the candied Aphrodite as she began to melt from the intense heat. Each drop was causing frenzy to the swarming masses below, like ecstatic acid on the heads of starving chocoholics. Some men graced by the droppings could not take it. They howled and then collapsed onto the seething floor. They had to be dragged off by attendants before they were crushed. Others held their tongues, mouths gaping, groping for the sweet faux negress’ nectar like full grown baby chicks of some monstrous near hairless species, famished for mother’s chocolate milk.
In five minutes it was all over. The chocolate vision de-swung, and with Miss Cherries and Ms Whipped Cream, clasped hands and bowed to the fevered swarms. The hot pink curtains closed, slammed shut actually. The audience continued to scream for another 15 minutes, some cried, then fell strangely silent. The crowd did not move. Moaning could be heard. A retinue of beefy bouncers in bright orange outfits descended with clubs into the club convincing the refined people to vacate the premises, after all, they had another show to do in an hour. How they cleaned up the room in the junked wetted state it was in; tables overturned, chairs smashed, unspeakable stickiness everywhere in such a short time is something for philosophers to ponder.”
