Stella-Stella by Starlight

Some half a year before this greatest stain on my life, I got to know Stella-Stella by Starlight. It wasn’t so much getting to know her—walking down the street once, I approached her and invited her to a nearby cafe because she intrigued me greatly. We sat there a rather long time, then we drank afterwards some horrible sweet warm vermouth, and at the end, as it worked out, Stella-Stella by Starlight found herself at my house. 

I had to have made a colossal impression on her, which was after all what I usually tried to do. The poor girls were subject to horribly stupid, uninteresting and average oafs, so when along came a young person with a good hair cut, sure of himself, socially adept, dressed only in American threads, to this also tall, athletic and handsome, moreover representing something other than the obligatory culture, and with some cash, then they lost their minds. 

This was how it was with Stella-Stella by Starlight. By eye she seemed extremely thin, but this was not a matter of fat, but of build. Wildly, how do you say, skinny boned, she did not however belong to the filigree category, because she was very tall for a woman. 

She had beautiful, thin, but relatively large, hands and feet, an interesting, long, sensual face with a small straight nose and a long neck. Her bleach blonde hair she wore very short. Her body did not look like an emaciated one, it was impossible to find on it any sign of bone. 

Her butt cheeks were beautifully round, which was a power, because as my marvelous trainer and friend the major Czesław Ostankowicz always said: “There’s nothing worse about a woman than a flat ass!” 

Her breasts had rosy nipples, which stood as evidence that she was in fact an authentic blonde, but were not the biggest. Stella-Stella by Starlight did not have to use a bra. She did not dress too shabbily, in fact everything that she put on herself looked revelational. 

Today a girl like Stella-Stella by Starlight could’ve been a world-class super model, but unfortunately no one appreciated such beauties then. When once I took her to some larger party, everyone raced to ask maliciously about where I had found such a Miss Concentration Camp. 

She was very secretive and so truthfully I didn’t really know anything about her. We met up fairly rarely, once a week or even once every two weeks. She set it up that way, and it was even suitable for me, because I simultaneously led some other romantic affairs. 

Always a day in advance she informed me that she could see me. We arranged an hour and met either at a certain café which was relatively close to me or, which Stella-Stella by Starlight preferred, I took a taxi to pick her up at this horrible park square where she always waited. 

She would jump excitedly into the auto and immediately we would return to my house. She amused herself differently, sometimes three hours, sometimes five, sometimes all night. Once we amused ourselves through three days and three nights, and several times through two. She was very intelligent and time with her passed very warmly. 

If measuring and classifying feminine sexuality for example on a scale of one to ten, Stella-Stella by Starlight was a dime. 

Sometimes for all this from Leo I bought her some fashionable superimport, but from the category of accessories, which she was capable of appreciating and which always gave her great joy. 

Once, when everything was arranged for the park square and I was in the taxi, Stella-Stella by Starlight did not come. 

For some time I waited, after which I got a few steps away from the automobile, to take a better look around. She wasn’t anywhere to be found, but some friendly looking guy approached me.

 He politely apologized and asked me if perhaps I were not waiting for Stasia. 

“I’m not waiting for any Stasia,” I answered. 

“And for this thin, tall, light blonde with short hair?” 

“Yeah, I’m waiting,” I confirmed for him, naively believing that maybe something had happened and that he had some message from Stella-Stella by Starlight. 

A message indeed he had—from him. 

Not giving me any chance and working fully with the element of surprise, in a split second on my chin he released a series of very quick, very precise, and very strong punches. 

This time I was not helped even by the great knowledge imparted by Plebanczyk, who often repeated that you always had to be prepared for the most unexpected attack. 

Even despite my relative tolerance to punches I was momentarily knocked out, and in the time I laid on the floor, this friendly looking guy managed to bruise my eye and bust my nose with his knee. 

As the numerous onlookers later said, when I had finally covered myself with my legs, he still jumped to kick me in the torso. 

At last he was pulled away by my cab driver and a few reveling drunkards from the nearby bench. 

In the same taxi I returned begrudgingly home, trying very hard not to be seen by anyone in this state. 

Nothing was especially wrong with me, many times I had gotten into some irresponsible fights and had in this area my fair share of experiences. 

Covering my eye with a priceless piece of ice, taken from a unique pre-war post-German refrigerator I had come to own, I sat for two hours in my bathtub and felt as if everything were quickly returning to normal. 

In the evening came rushing the poor Stasia—Stella-Stella by Starlight—crying. I had never seen her crying before. She was apologizing to me terribly. 

She admitted that she did not tell me she had a husband because she was afraid that I would not want to have anything to do with her, that she loved me very much and wanted to get divorced for me. 

Our romance lasted some time, and I tried some way to meet this guy who was systematically avoiding me, and take revenge for this horrible disgrace. 

And the park square, where I believed many people still remembered me, I always avoided at a distance like some den of disease.