Your Princess is in Another Castle by Richard Fore Read Free Book Online Page A

into the back as the DJ announces that for the next five minutes all dancers are available for dollar table dances.  Chris returns to the table, says nothing.  I’m not sure if this should be addressed.  Seth simply smirks.  
    “Fellas,” says Chris, his eyes darting back and forth between Seth and me like the eyes on a sinister looking portrait in a bad horror movie.
    “Chris, why didn’t you tell us? ” asks Seth.  “This isn’t that big a deal.  Why hide it from your closest friends?”
    “What’s there to tell?”
    “Oh, give it up,” I say.  “You were sucking on Starry’s big toe like it was a tootsie pop.”
    “Oh, that?  She asked for it.  Guess she’s into that kinda thing.   Kinky, huh?”
    Seth rolls his eyes.  “Please, man.  Please.” 
    “Who’s up for some dollar dances?  I’ve seen a few that might be just your type,” says Chris to no one in particular. 
    “Epic failure on the transition there, my friend,” says Seth.  “Look, just admit to it.  We don’t care.”
    “I do feel a little betrayed that you just feigned agreement whenever I mentioned that Tarantino’s foot fetish was becoming a little too apparent in his films , though,” I say.
    “Yeah, around Kill Bill it started getting out of control,” says Seth.  “I mean you’ve got a scene that exists solely to have Uma Thurman wiggle her toes for the camera.  But anybody, even if you’re not a foot fetishist, would have sucked on Salma Hayek’s toes when she poured beer on them in From Dusk Till Dawn.  Great song playing during that scene, by the way.”
    “Hey, yeah, so what, I’ve got a foot fetish,” says Chris, admitting it per haps out of agreement that anyone would have indeed sucked on Salma’s toes during that scene.  “Go on, give me shit about it.  I don’t care.  I don’t care.  And you wanna know why?  Because when you have a foot fetish, every day of your life is like a fucking Mardi gras!” Chris takes a large chug of beer, as if to demonstrate the hard-partying lifestyle of a Bourbon Street regular.  “You, college boy,” he says, pointing directly at me.
    “We all go to the sa me college, Chris.”
    “Exactly!  And you’re a breast man, correct?”
    “Well, speaking purely physically, I’d say that’s what I look at the most.  Yeah.  But my friend Jessica isn’t busty at all and I still think...”
    “Yeah, ” interrupts Chris, “well you think about this.  When the warm and sunny weather comes round spring semester and all the girls start wearing lesser-covering tops, you might get the occasional side-boob or be walking down a flight of stairs and catch a nice little bit of cleavage from a girl coming up the stairs in a low-cut top, but that’s all you can really hope for.  Me?  I’m gonna get it all.  Because cleavage-bearing weather is also flip-flop weather.  Now you’ve probably never really noticed, never fully appreciated just how many women wear flip-flops in the warmer months if you don’t share my… enthusiasm.  But pretty much all of them do. 
    “And for me and those like me, looking at a woman in flip-flops is the equivalent of you checking out a woman showing off her cleavage.  And again you’ve probably never noticed, but whenever girls are on campus be it outside studying under a tree or relaxing on a couch in the university center, there’s a high probability they’re going to just take off their flip-flops all together while they do it.  Maybe even while they’re just sitting at their desks in class.  And looking at the sole of a woman’s foot, for me that’s the equivalent of you getting to see a woman’s bare breasts.  Only it’s even better for me, because women don’t realize this.  A girl flashes you it’ll last for a few seconds.  Stare at her cleavage too long and she’ll catch you.  But since women don’t even know I’m looking, I can look as long as I want and they’ll never pick up on