Paris Hilton titillates the surging masses at Ultra Supper Club
At 11 o’clock last night, the swarm of paparazzi was thick all the way down Ultra Supper Club’s black carpet as dozens of folks waited for one Paris Hilton. The rain was falling and the swarm of media hacks was ready with giant umbrellas to scooch under to protect their cameras. We were among them. This was not a moment to be missed; we just had to deal with the man pressed up against us, the bulge in his pants locked to our behind. But not this, nor the rain, nor the choking clouds of cologne was going to keep us from leaning in to get an utterance from the world’s most famous young blonde. Prior to her arrival, we overheard every line imaginable being spat at the bouncers, as desperate Paris look-alikes clamoured to see their idol. Suddenly, we had overwhelming sympathy for every doorman in town. After the jump, the arrival of Paris and why fame is so easy for her.
Paris arrived late, of course—with not one but two tinted-window SUVs as traffic stoppers—stepping out of a whopper of a stretch limo. Flanked by a dozen hefty bouncers, she was escorted through the rain, her shiny locks protected by a roof of umbrellas. Hitting the carpet, it became abundantly clear why fame is so easy for Paris. She manoeuvred into about 30 calculated poses before subjecting herself to a barrage of interrogation. Unlike most celebrities, her voice was soft and sultry—barely rising above the pitter-patter of rain and camera clicks.
Paris was born to be a star, and she appeared to get off on the attention. It was almost incomprehensible how well she worked the crowd. Once hustled inside the club, she didn’t hesitate to storm the stage and frolic with her latest over-branded product pressed to her neck: Rich prosecco, a sparkling wine that comes in wee cans. She sipped and swayed and hugged badass boyfriend DJ Benji Madden as he spun. Paris kept cranking up the titillation; there were even moments when she stuck her finger in her mouth and provocatively sucked—we doubt that she was nursing a cut. Looking around, we were almost concerned by the number of young girls ogling, mouths ajar, mesmerized by our contemporary version of Marilyn Monroe.
M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes” came on, blasting the lyrics “all I wanna do is—bang bang bang and a ka-ching—and take your money!” and the thought that came to mind was, Does anyone see the irony in this? What came first, the prosecco or Paris? We aren’t sure, but what we do know is that cracking open a can and swigging the bubbly made us feel like millionaires.—Jen McNeely
More from inside TIFF parties:• Welcome to the Holt Renfrew TIFF party, where Gael Garcia Bernal has to pee just like the rest of us• Puff Daddy pops and Lindsay Lohan texts at the eTalk Daily party• Zack and Miri Make a Porno after-party finds us dancing near Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Smith, Adrien Brody and Edward Norton• Hitchin’ a ride with Moby
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