Cathy B Erotica
Somehow, the name "Angel'' never seemed more appropriate. Angel Kelly floats through the audience and onto the stage at Show World's Triple Treat Theater like a divine creature flying in a swirl of white gossamer. She is a mocha cherub, her ebony curls spiraling down her back. Her smile is like a dream. Her perfectly upturned breasts strain through the ivory fabric of lace lingerie. Her fingers are long and expressive. They rouse her chocolate nipples into attentive, erect peaks-candy kisses of flesh. Like a warm, sweet breeze, she is always moving. Like a cloud in the autumn sky, she swirls.
The second song is slower. Kelly's fingers trail their way up to the strings at her neck. She unfastens the robe and liberates it from her body, spreading it like silken wings, then letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, she wears a sparkling white g-string and milky fishnet stockings. Her silver pumps make her long legs seem achingly endless.
A man from the audience approaches shyly. Kelly smiles a peaceful smile, then gestures toward the top of one stocking. He understands but is hesitant. His video goddess is granting him permission to touch her, to slide a folded dollar bill against her thigh. He does, then quickly disappears back into the blackness of the seats.
When the third song is about to begin, Kelly spreads a fluffy pink blanket on the stage. Bracing her fingertips on the low ceiling, she slips off her shoes, then kneels, displaying her cunt like a sacred offering. She holds the petals of her pussy apart, an exquisite two-toned tulip, moist and luscious with life. On her belly, Kelly opens her thighs and rhythmically pumps, as if riding the curves of some unseen lover. Oil is drizzled onto her plump, dark mound. Kelly now grasps a golden dildo. Her tongue and ready lips encircle it. The metal shaft is every observer's throbbing cock as the dildo makes its way down between Kelly's breasts and along her belly before it reaches the glistening spot between her thighs. The head of the dildo disappears.
When Kelly is finished dancing, the audience doesn't applaud, not at first. They are stunned, shocked beyond arousal with being taken to erotic heaven and then back to the damp, sticky seats of this smut emporium. Somehow Kelly had elevated the crumbling sleaze palace to something more, just for a moment.
After the show, there are Polaroids to be taken. Virtually every man in the audience files out into the lobby, but they are too bashful to approach their video queen, even though she smiles and speaks to them in a friendly tone. In the brightness of the room, you notice that they are of all ages, all colors, from all walks of life.
Like shy young boys, they choose their places along the walls and silently watch. They watch Kelly smile. They watch Kelly talk. Finally, one fan gathers the courage to step up for a photo. Kelly shows him to a chair in the center of the room. "Just the top or a spread?" she wonders aloud.
"The top," he almost whispers. Kelly parts his thighs and perches herself on one of his legs, her knees demurely drawn together. The man's eyes are glazed with good fortune. Afterward, she personalizes the photo. He manages to stammer out his name.
Joe is a bit more brazen. He wants a full spread. Once he is seated, Kelly eases his legs together. He seems startled at the gentleness and surety of her touch. Balancing herself carefully on his thighs, Kelly instructs Joe softly, "Hold my tits together." He does. Her own hands spread her pussy apart.
"Can I kiss you?" Joe asks hesitantly.
"Sure," Kelly answers with a smile. He plants a chaste kiss on her cheek, his face glowing like an embarrassed schoolboy's. She is gracious, much like a hostess who offers nothing but herself.
In the hallway, a policeman waits for his turn. First, Kelly politely shakes his hand and asks his name. They stand together arms encircling waists. A small, round, pink-faced man in a blue uniform and an exotic Kelly.
Back in the dressing room, Kelly relaxes in a chair. Tired but radiant, she cleans her golden dildo with a damp cloth. "It's been a rough week," she confesses. It is the fifth day of her engagement. The schedule is very hectic: five shows each day, plus interviews with men's magazines and her usual Wednesday night appearance on The Robin Byrd Show. Kelly lights up the Show World stage at 42nd Street and 8th Avenue in Manhattan a few times a year, gladly making the trek from her home in California. "Most of my fans are here," she explains. It's been an odd week, though. While the theater seats are full, the Polaroid customers haven't been as fruitful as in the past.
"The men seem like they're in awe of you," I tell her.
"Is that it?" she asks wistfully. "I just thought they didn't like me!" Kelly's mouth widens into the easy grin that makes her eyes sparkle. "I never saw it that way," she says, then bursts out laughing. "Maybe I'm not nasty enough up there."
In Kelly's tiny dressing room, we talk about everything from the situation in the Middle East to the Book of Revelations to an article in an adult publication that delves too deeply into the suicide of Kelly's friend Megan Leigh. Kelly shuts the magazine with a hard thump. "Some things are just too private," she says quietly. Like the personal piece of herself that Kelly gives to her audience each time she dances? Yes, something like that.