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