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
|
内容加载中，请稍后...
商品评论（0条）