CLEA banged open the door of her dressing room. She bolted<br >out into the corridor， encased in an aura of rigid control that<br >protected the wispy innards of her femininity like an eggshell<br >protects its developing egg.<br > As she hurtled toward the stage in her trademark deer-hoof boots，<br >her waist-length punk mane streamed behind her. Her painted Betty<br >B0op face was set and grim. The stagehands， who scrambled to get<br >out of her way， were aware of her sexuality only because her breasts<br >bounced in an obligation to physical science.<br > She was like one of the brightly colored Mexican saints backed by<br >a silver oval that one sees at roadside shrines. Or a figure that s part<br > of a feminine lamp. She dashed forward， oblivious to the many<br > her， to the cables beneath her feet. Her arms stuck out beyond her rhinestone-studded cocktail dress in a clearly in-<br ><br >
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