Stella

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

Donald Pleasant had never had any doubts about Stella. To him, she was the most beautiful, sexiest woman alive. They'd been dating for three years when they'd gone to Glitz Gurlz Bar and Grille, a lesbian lounge that Stella, more out of curiosity than for any other motive, had long wanted o visit. Donald and Stella had been intimate so many times in those three years that each knew every inch of the other's body—all the hot spots, all the erogenous zones. They played each other as a musician plays an instrument, helping one another reach the pinnacle of ecstasy each and every time they made love, which, if anything, had become more, not less frequent, over the years. Despite their intimate knowledge of one another, they were as much in love as ever; in their case, familiarity most definitely had not bred contempt.

Had the drunken patron in Glitz Gurlz Bar and Grille known the high esteem in which the devoted couple held one another, she might never have done what she did. Of course, had she been sober, she might not have done so, either. Some people just can't hold their liquor and, drunk, they might take it upon themselves to do anything, regardless of how cruel, crude, or crass.

This woman called herself La-la-la-Lola, or just Lola for short, and, as a lesbian, she fancied herself a connoisseur of feminine pulchritude. She had quite a discriminating eye (she thought) for the ladies, her own so-so looks notwithstanding, and, naturally, she was interested in Stella from the moment that she walked into the dingy dive. The attentiveness with which she regarded Stella reminded Donald of the manner in which the Hungarian voice coach had regarded Eliza Doolittle at the embassy ball she'd attended in the company of Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering. Lola seemed as intent upon exposing Stella, so to speak, as some kind of fraud as the Hungarian had been intent upon exposing Eliza, the presumed duchess, as a charlatan.

Lola watched Stella's every move, taking careful note of how she rotated her wrists, how she drank, how she pursed her lips, how she winked or rolled her eyes, how she powdered her nose or cheek, how she crossed and uncrossed her legs, how she crossed or uncrossed her arms, how she inspected her fingernails, how she breathed. When Donald asked Stella to dance, Lola watched how Stella followed her boyfriend's lead and how she held his hand.

"I think you have a not-so-secret admirer," Donald whispered to Stella as they moved about the dance floor, as graceful as figure skaters performing a ballet on ice.

Stella blushed. "I don't think she's admiring me. I think she's studying me, as if I were a rat in a maze."

"Don't be silly. Why would she do that?"

"I think she's suspicious of me."

"Suspicious of you? In what way?"

Stella raised an eyebrow. "You know."

"What?" Donald laughed aloud at his girlfriend's misgiving. "That's preposterous!"

Stella didn't seem all that reassured. "Do you think so?"

He chuckled. "Of course. It's absurd. Believe me, you have no reason to worry."

"None?"

"Not in the least."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Stella thought about Donald's reassurances. He was right, of course. It was preposterous of her to suppose that this drunken lesbian would discern the truth about her. Stella and Donald had gone out countless times during the three years they'd been together, and no one had ever supposed that Stella was anything other than what she purported to be—a beautiful, sexy woman, intelligent, charming, and sophisticated, such as most women envied and all men admired. She giggled. "I guess I was being a little silly."

"That's okay," Donald said. "Any woman as gorgeous and sexy as you can be as silly as she wants."

The music ended, and Donald and Stella, walking hand in hand, returned to their table. Stella whispered to Donald, "She's watching me again—studying me. It gives me the creeps."

"Want me to say something to her? Tell her to keep her eyes off my girlfriend?"

Stella considered Donald's offer. "No," she decided. "Let her look."

"She can look," Donald agreed, "but she'd better not touch!"

Stella laughed.

After Donald had seated Stella, he took his own seat, across from her. In the dimly lit lounge, Stella somehow seemed more ravishing than usual. He studied her, but not the way Lola did. Whereas the lesbian examined Stella with a critical eye, as if she were measuring and evaluating and judging her, Donald regarded her with admiration, appreciation, and love. Stella was beautiful—every bit as lovely as any model or actress, and lovelier than most. She had long, curly, dark tresses that fell below her sculpted shoulder blades, perfectly symmetrical features—wide, dark eyes, with thick, luxuriant lashes, a slender, pert nose, and full, sensuous lips, soft and pink as rosebuds. She had a long, slender neck, and full, high, round breasts that were soft yet firm and sleek as silk. Her stomach wasn't merely flat; it was concave, and her hips were as girlishly slim as her legs were long and smooth. Her back was delicate, and her buttocks were sleek, firm, round—and dimpled! She was a goddess among women. No wonder Lola the Lesbian couldn't keep her eyes off her, Donald thought. Well, Lola could look, but she'd better keep her hands to herself. Stella was his woman, and he sure as hell wasn't about to share her with anyone else, especially a damned dyke.

Across the room, Lola rose, teetering. A drink in hand, she staggered across the lounge, bumping and grazing tables as she made her way toward Donald and Stella, earning angry glances from the female couples whose chairs she jostled. She reached Donald's and Stella's table and stood, swaying like a palm tree in a heavy breeze. The clear liquor sloshed about in her long-stemmed glass.

Donald scowled, to indicate that Lola was not welcome.

Stella, always the lady, offered their visitor a smile—albeit a faint smile—and asked, "Can we help you?"

"Maybe you can," Lola said. Her speech was slurred. "I'm curious about something."

"What's that?" Donald inquired, his tone decidedly unfriendly.

Lola pitched sideways, her eyes widening. Donald hoped she might fall on her drunken ass, but Lola managed to right herself. Unfortunately, in the process, she also spilled her drink in Stella's lap. "Oh, dear!" Lola cried, mock horror on her face. "Let me mop up my mess, before it stains your beautiful dress!" She pulled a wadded handkerchief from her purse and started dabbing at the spreading wet patch in Stella's lap.

"That's quite all right," Stella said, scowling. "I can manage."

"No, no!" Lola insisted. "I spilled it; the least I can do is clean up the mess I've made."

"No," Stella insisted, her tone adamant, "stop!"

Lola's eyes widened, and her mouth gaped. "You're a man!" she cried. "Just as I thought, you have male genitals—a penis and testicles!"

Heads turned toward Donald and Stella—and Lola.

"You're mistaken," Donald stated firmly.

"There's no mistaking what I felt!" Lola cried. "This lady is no lady! She's a he—a man!"

"You're drunk," Donald declared, anger harshening his voice. "Drunk and mistaken."

"No, you're the one who's mistaken," Lola retorted, "if you think he's a she!"

"Leave us alone," Donald ordered.

Lola dabbed at Stella's crotch with the handkerchief. "A man!" she shrieked.

Donald stood. Roughly, he grabbed Lola's forearm and shoved it away from Stella's lap. "Keep your filthy, drunken hand off my girlfriend!" he warned.

Stella stood, too. "Let's go," she pleaded.

"I have a good mind to belt this bitch," Donald declared.

"Let's just go, Donald, please," Stella implored.

Donald gazed at Lola for a long moment. The drunken woman staggered away from him, returning to her own table. The women at the tables turned back to their own conversations. It was obvious that they were unconcerned with Lola's drunken accusations.

Stella slipped her hand over Donald's forearm. "I've seen all I want to see of this place," she announced. "Take me home, please."

He kissed her cheek. "All right. I'd rather be home with you, in bed, than here or anywhere else, anyway."

They made their way toward the exit, passing Lola's table on their way. She was slumped in her chair, her drink spilled on the table before her. Her hair, like her makeup, was a terrible mess, and her dress was wrinkled and stained. Donald would have felt sorry for her, had she not insulted Stella. Recalling the drunken woman's rude, crude behavior toward his girlfriend, however, all Donald felt toward Lola was white-hot anger. He looked down at the half-conscious woman. "Brazen lesbo bitch!" he said.

  

  

  

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