Free Your Princess is in Another Castle by Richard Fore Page B

minoring in creative writing.”
    “Really?  That’s where I’m doing my thesis on Vonnegut.  I don’t write any fiction myself, I just criticize other peoples’ work.”
    “You ever think about just hiring Vonnegut to write your thesis for you?”
    Montana laughs.  “Vonnegut understands his own work quite poorly, remember?”
    “I’m looking forward to having my own work grossly misinterpreted by critics some day.”
    “Well, maybe I’ll run into you one day on campus and you can show me something.”
    “I’m just an undergraduate.”
    “Still, I might see you.  And you can also come back here soon and take me for another ride.  Do you like the cowgirl theme I’m sporting?”
    “Absolutely, though you might want to try a southern accent to complete the motif.”
    “You know I used to, but I just got so sick of saying ya’ll all the time and how fake it was.”  She glances at her chest.  “I hope the irony of that one isn’t lost on you. Well, I’d best go back out there and see if I can earn any more tuition money.  It was nice to meet you, anonymous young man.” 
    “ It was nice to meet you, Montana.”  She kisses my cheek.
    Montana had to go and humanize herself.  She’s real to me now, someone more like Jessica than a fantasy like Montana Wild or Power Girl.  I try not to dwell on Jessica as I head back to the table and fail.                   
    “Hey, you get yours?” asks Chris, finally emerging from his own room and slapping me on the b ack.  “I spent a little more than I should have, but it was money well spent, let me tell you!  I think I just about sucked Beth’s toenail polish right off!”
    I walk with Chris back to our table, glancing behind me and seeing Montana sitting on the lap of another guy.  I paid twenty-five dollars to buy her affection, now he will.  I imagine Jessica being affectionate with me.  And I wonder what it costs to not have to pay for it.

Chapter 3 : The Riddle of Pong
                 
    I must say something.  Last semester my writing professor told me that I should participate more during story workshops.  Since then I’ve attempted to make at least one substantial comment per class session.  The problem is the quality of the stories written by my classmates.  Being discussed now is the tale of a lad who at a fraternity party enters a completely darkened bedroom and engages in sexual intercourse with a girl whom he knows to be under the false impression that she’s actually having sex with her boyfriend.  Post-coitus the truth comes out and ramifications follow, all presented in a humorous fashion.  The author may well have a future writing direct-to-DVD National Lampoon Presents sex comedies, but if that’s the niche he wishes to carve out for himself he really shouldn’t be seeking constructive criticism from me.  But I have a participation grade to consider, so I must say something.  And since I have no comments, I decide on asking a question that I admittedly wouldn’t mind having answered.
    “I find it odd that people at a fraternity party are playing Pong on page thirteen,” I say after raising my hand.  “I mean it’s described as beer Pong, but what does that mean exactly?  Did they take a Pong system out of the attic, dust it off, and then take shots while they play?  These guys aren’t really described as being overly geeky, either.  I think this concept either needs to be made clearer or dropped entirely.”             
    The room becomes completely silent and everyone stares at me, as if an unwelcome stranger had just pushed open the doors of the town saloon in a western.  Of the dozen or so students, half appear baffled, the others wondering if I’m being serious. My professor covers her mouth with her knuckle to keep from laughing.
    “Are you for real , man?” I hear someone ask.
    “You’re c onfusing your pongs,” says the professor, composure regained.