ON A night her feet ached so bad that it was an effort to grind her hips, a sailor at a ringside table began hooting at Kate Piro. \"Knockers like those you don t trip over, doll,\" he hollered. \"Pick up your dogs.\" Three expense-account types guzzling watered mar- garitas traded catcalls with a party of bulldykes in a private booth. Kate edged close to the bank of speakers, taking shelter behind a wall of sound. \"What do they expect, these jerks?\" she asked the organ player in the three-piece house band. \"A donkey show?\" The organist was an aging hippie with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair, a saddle nose from a bad coke habit. \"Hee-haw,\" he said. Kate danced away from the speakers and the booing grew louder. Going blindly through the motions she felt her body bathed in warmth, sensed a rosy current wash down her bare breasts almost to the gold chain around her hips that was the bulk of her costume. Some frat rats ap- plauded the show of color like it was part of the act. Kate s feet quit hurting and she tossed her shaggy, jet black fall. Her rouged nipples became erect and the frat rats cheered some more. The sailor pounded his hands to- gether, tipping over an eight-dollar bottle of Bud. Kate spun across the stage showing off her tight little ass. The perfect assmshe wanted that in quotes on the mar- quee. This week, for five shows a night, she was M. Anita Supreme. Matinees, under the curly platinum wig, she was Hellen Bedd. Of all the ways of trading off your looks, this Q
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