Tura Satana

This weekend marks the seventh anniversary of the death of cult icon Tura Satana. I wrote this obituary seven years ago and wouldn't change a single word.

“I never try anything. I just do it.”

~Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!

Model.
Gang leader.
Exotic dancer.
Martial arts expert.
Miss Japan Beautiful.
Elvis Presley’s one true love.
Actress.
Cult Icon.

Tura Luna Pascual Yamaguchi, aka Tura Satana, didn’t TRY any of the above. She DID them all, and excelled at each and every one. Tura didn’t JUST dance; she was named one of the 10 Best Undressed Burlesque dancers of the 20th century by Bill Hanna. She didn’t JUST date Elvis; she taught him how to kiss and turned down his proposal of marriage. She didn’t JUST model; she posed nude for Harold Lloyd, who encouraged her to pursue an acting career. She didn’t JUST act; she was Russ Meyer’s muse, the iconic Pussycat, the penultimate leather babe, the very definition of Amazonian Goddess. 

Every man wanted her, every girl wanted to be her, and neither dared fuck with her. She was Tura Satana, a name that has always evoked images of race cars, astro-zombies and huge, proud breasts. It is a name that will always define that rare class of woman: tough but sexy, butch and beautiful, sweet though intimidating, both trashy and classy. It’s a class of women so rare that it can only have one member: Tura. 

She shone as bright and garishly as a sequined nipple tassel. She was the personification of Flesh As Virtue. She moved like a living oil slick, spoke in a voice like a red satin ribbon, threw a punch like a queen panther and smiled like a Raphael cherub with a mouthful of melted candy. She was a walking contradiction: serious sinuous solidity one second, velvet pink femininity the next. Legs like alabaster columns in an ancient Greek temple and an ass that didn’t just stop traffic but dented every chrome bumper within a five mile radius. Black bikini biker babe, opium scented dragon lady, go-go booted candy doll; Tura changed personas faster than a pussycat changes her panties. 

Tura’s body – that vast, curving landscape of creamy softness and cast iron muscle – finally surrendered yesterday, giving up the inevitable fight against time. But Tura isn’t dead. How can she be? She was our generation’s Cleopatra, a fierce and radiant idol carved out of gold and ivory, the reigning queen of all she surveyed. She didn’t have blood in her veins, it was pure honey. There cannot be a funeral for her; instead, an altar should be constructed at her feet and offerings of coins, chocolate, dove feathers and blood left by her mourners. I think she’d get a kick out of that, rolling those cats eyes of hers and laughing her worship-worthy butt off. 

Tura Satana did not die on February 4th, 2011 in Reno, Nevada. Heaven needed a burlesque goddess. The stars are taking turns being her pasties. The clouds were begging her to sit on their faces. Elvis missed her. Satan wanted to look up her skirt from the pit below. She got a better offer and moved on. But she’s not dead. No one – not now, not ever – can possibly hope to fill the boots she left behind. She’s not dead because she’s absolutely irreplaceable, devastatingly unique. She is, was and always will be: Tura fucking Satana. 

“You’re all shook up, aren’t you baby?”