When I first saw Angel and the Mambokatz at the swank Fenix Club on Sunset Boulevard, I only came for the music. I knew that Angel and his band had created quite a sensation at the Kasbah Club the year before, drawing such hardcore fans as Quentin Tarantino, George Clooney, Mark Wahlberg, and Leonardo DiCaprio to Angel's "mambo soul." And I knew that the handsome, sultry singer had the credentials: Angel was a principal dancer on Madonna's "Who's That Girl" tour. And his previous band, Black Mambo Combo, with their acid combination of jazz, rap, cha cha and secret agent horns, had a deal with Virgin Records--lost in the shuffle when Virgin was sold to EMI. Angel was king of the underground cocktail scene.
With Mambokatz, Angel continues to play only the exclusive clubs in Los Angeles. Places where men who have too much money hang with women who have too much time on their hands. Naturally, when Angel invited me to his new gig at the private Jockey Club in Beverly Hills to celebrate his new CD, Horizontal Mambo, I eagerly accepted. The Jockey Club is part of the legendary Chasen's restaurant--faux lush--with the usual assortment of older men smoking cigars and slapping the round, perfect asses of younger women. Angel was crooning about sex backed up by his talented and mostly Cuban band, 10 strong, each an expert player and easy on the eyes. I was in the back, watching this sexed up Ricky Ricardo for the new Millennium, waiting for the heat to reach between my legs. Then came the dancers. At first, only a tall, awkward blonde; she flailed around like a pillowcase on a clothesline, wearing her sequined top like a vaccination. Too fleshy.
Then Sonia. Oh my God, Sonia.
The band slowed into a slow mambo and Sonia, dressed in a short black satin dress with slits up the
sides, sheer black stockings, garter belt and fuck-me pumps, took her place in the middle of the dance floor. Sonia, with luxuriant coral lips, had her straight dark hair pulled back severely into a ponytail so long that she could have been tied up with it.
The guys in the band licked their lips expectantly and blew their instruments in lieu of eating her pussy; each one devoured her with their eyes as she began her slow, sad dance.
Sonia used her body like syrup. She languidly poured herself across the dance floor, her hands close to her hips, her eyes looking at every man like He Was The One. Sonia moved like women in the dreams of men who have never had such women. Simple, sexual, hungry steps and looks. She walked rhythmically around in a circle, her
head high, proud, certain. I was wet between my legs. She grabbed a small cane-back chair and dragged it around the dance floor; she looked like a filly, eager to be ridden, as she kicked her knees up high to the erotic music. Then, she stood on the chair as if it were a pedestal and presented herself to Angel.
He, no stranger to women such as these, put his hands on Sonia's slim waist, buried his face in her groin, then lifted her off the chair. They danced beautifully together--Angel, tall and impeccably dressed in white shirt and vest, looking for all the world like a Ricky who has left Lucy for a Girl Who Isn't Funny. Except for the music, there wasn't a sound in the crowded room, save for the groaning and stretching of engorged cocks.
