Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Channel Hopping
Ten: Her last name starts with a "G"
9 reviewsHe doesn't remember names anymore, just bodies.
5Moving
Ten: Her last name starts with a "G"
A crowded club, the techno beat's blasting across the dance floor where it envelops the dancing masses.
Next to the bar a twenty-something year old guy takes a sip from his cocktail and allows his eyes to wander over the commotion, greedily taking in the rocking bodies and flying hair of the females.
A few moments later he is joined by a woman who looks as if she could easily take part in any beauty contest and rule out most of her competition with a wink of her perfectly accentuated eyes.
Confidently she accosts him, "I like strawberry daiquiries best."
The man smirks at her and turns to the bartender to order her drink, "One strawberry daiquiry for the lady, please."
After she's received her drink she raises the glass to her lips and lets the liquid pour down her throat.
"Wow, you look like a lady but you downed that stuff like a... well, not like a lady at all."
She raises one eyebrow at him, "And you look like a smart guy but your insults sound like... well, not smart at all."
He laughs amusedly and nods his head towards the dance floor, "Shall we?"
She waves her hand dismissively in front of her face, "No, thanks. I've had enough for tonight. Do you know a place more quiet than this?"
The man flicks his bangs out of his eyes and says with a straight face, "My place is pretty quiet."
She flashes him a bright smile, "Sounds good. Let's go."
24:00:00.
That's Esmé for ya.
I really only learned her first name after the fun was over and we agreed on exchanging numbers for whenever I'd be back in town. I just assumed that she knew who I was. She pretended she didn't know from where she knew my face but I could tell that she was lying. I'm not sure that's because I was such an assiduous liar myself or because I just thought it impossible that any good-looking American female between the age of 15 to 30 could not know who I am. Was.
Esmé... Something. Something with "G", I think. It's on the tip of my tongue, really, but I just can't pinpoint it. I know she said her last name shortly before she left my apartment, after I've led her to the door. G... Ge... Ga... Not that it matters so much.
I met her about less than a year ago. I've been with her... maybe a dozen times? Give or take a few. She's actually been the only woman I've slept with more than once ever since I broke up with Caren. I'm not sure why.
Well, there's the fact that Esmé wasn't clingy. Not at first, at least. The problem with groupies is that they always want more. They're not just grateful that you spent some of your time with them, that you picked THEM out of all the girls you could have. No. They just want to see you again, they wanna have a conversation with you, get to know the "real" Pete.
I don't even fucking know the real Pete. For all I know there's no Real Pete. There's Show Pete, there's Video Shoot Pete, there's Photo Shoot Pete, there's Posing for Clandestine Industries Pete... The list never ends. And actually, they're all the same, those Petes. There used to be a Real Pete, a Pete that was different from those I'm-the-hot-bassist-of-Fall out Boy Petes; he used to come out whenever I was home or with friends, with no media around. He's probably dead now, not sure I want him around anymore. The Real Pete got hurt repeatedly.
Just look at me, I'm referring to myself in the third person.
Also, look at me, I'm talking to myself.
23:12:57.
I wonder what Esmé's doing right now. I never wondered about that in the past. Funny I should think of her now. The thing is, she became somewhat attached to me over the period of the last two months. She wanted to date. She wanted to hang out. That was out of the question, of course.
Being the intelligent young woman she is she figured out that sharing intimate moments with me once in a while was as good as it gets. And she didn't wanna risk losing them.
21:36:32.
Laura, Caren and Esmé. Funny, if you think of it.
A crowded club, the techno beat's blasting across the dance floor where it envelops the dancing masses.
Next to the bar a twenty-something year old guy takes a sip from his cocktail and allows his eyes to wander over the commotion, greedily taking in the rocking bodies and flying hair of the females.
A few moments later he is joined by a woman who looks as if she could easily take part in any beauty contest and rule out most of her competition with a wink of her perfectly accentuated eyes.
Confidently she accosts him, "I like strawberry daiquiries best."
The man smirks at her and turns to the bartender to order her drink, "One strawberry daiquiry for the lady, please."
After she's received her drink she raises the glass to her lips and lets the liquid pour down her throat.
"Wow, you look like a lady but you downed that stuff like a... well, not like a lady at all."
She raises one eyebrow at him, "And you look like a smart guy but your insults sound like... well, not smart at all."
He laughs amusedly and nods his head towards the dance floor, "Shall we?"
She waves her hand dismissively in front of her face, "No, thanks. I've had enough for tonight. Do you know a place more quiet than this?"
The man flicks his bangs out of his eyes and says with a straight face, "My place is pretty quiet."
She flashes him a bright smile, "Sounds good. Let's go."
24:00:00.
That's Esmé for ya.
I really only learned her first name after the fun was over and we agreed on exchanging numbers for whenever I'd be back in town. I just assumed that she knew who I was. She pretended she didn't know from where she knew my face but I could tell that she was lying. I'm not sure that's because I was such an assiduous liar myself or because I just thought it impossible that any good-looking American female between the age of 15 to 30 could not know who I am. Was.
Esmé... Something. Something with "G", I think. It's on the tip of my tongue, really, but I just can't pinpoint it. I know she said her last name shortly before she left my apartment, after I've led her to the door. G... Ge... Ga... Not that it matters so much.
I met her about less than a year ago. I've been with her... maybe a dozen times? Give or take a few. She's actually been the only woman I've slept with more than once ever since I broke up with Caren. I'm not sure why.
Well, there's the fact that Esmé wasn't clingy. Not at first, at least. The problem with groupies is that they always want more. They're not just grateful that you spent some of your time with them, that you picked THEM out of all the girls you could have. No. They just want to see you again, they wanna have a conversation with you, get to know the "real" Pete.
I don't even fucking know the real Pete. For all I know there's no Real Pete. There's Show Pete, there's Video Shoot Pete, there's Photo Shoot Pete, there's Posing for Clandestine Industries Pete... The list never ends. And actually, they're all the same, those Petes. There used to be a Real Pete, a Pete that was different from those I'm-the-hot-bassist-of-Fall out Boy Petes; he used to come out whenever I was home or with friends, with no media around. He's probably dead now, not sure I want him around anymore. The Real Pete got hurt repeatedly.
Just look at me, I'm referring to myself in the third person.
Also, look at me, I'm talking to myself.
23:12:57.
I wonder what Esmé's doing right now. I never wondered about that in the past. Funny I should think of her now. The thing is, she became somewhat attached to me over the period of the last two months. She wanted to date. She wanted to hang out. That was out of the question, of course.
Being the intelligent young woman she is she figured out that sharing intimate moments with me once in a while was as good as it gets. And she didn't wanna risk losing them.
21:36:32.
Laura, Caren and Esmé. Funny, if you think of it.
Sign up to rate and review this story