Page 16 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

I love the sensation of Dean wrapped in my tentacles. Not only because I can taste him and smell him, but because he’s warm and exactly the right size.

I feel so safe with him in this moment. It’s an experience I don’t often have with people outside my family. Of course, this is completely different than anything I’ve done with my family.

“Did you know there are some male cephalopods who try to mate with other males?” I ask.

“Homosexuality in the animal kingdom is not as rare as people think,” Dean says.

“True. But with this particular squid, it’s because they throw their sperm at any other squid that comes close, just to be safe.”

Dean laughs. I like the sound of it as much as I like the flavor of his skin. It’s a little overwhelming how much I like him.

We sit there for a long time, Dean silent and coiled up in my tentacles. Often people try to fill the silence with senseless chatter when I’m with them, but Dean doesn’t. He doesn’t rush me out of his apartment either. By the time I glance over at the clock above his oven, it’s been a full hour.

“I should go,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“Okay.”

I slowly unwind my tentacles. When he gets off my lap, my bare legs feel cold in his absence. I never thought sex would be an emotional thing. I figured people were overly dramatic about it, just like they’re dramatic about everything else. But now I understand why people sometimes spend the night after sex.

“Do you want to use the bathroom? Feel free to get cleaned up if you want to,” Dean tells me, pointing down the hall.

I stand up and grab my clothes off the floor before shuffling down the hall. It’s horribly awkward. When I get in the bathroom, it takes far too long to scrub our cum off my body. I use the sink instead of the shower because that seems like it is more polite. When I finally put on my clothes and walk back into the living room, Dean is already clothed.

I wonder if I’ll ever get to see him naked again or if this was a one-time thing.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Thankyou. I’ll see you at work in the morning.”

“Yeah.” I want to lean in to kiss him, but I don’t know if he’d want that, so I just walk toward the door and get my coat. Dean follows me and hovers next to the front door, clearly expecting me to leave.

What if I told him I didn’t want to?

I bundle up anyway and open the door. “Bye.”

Dean leans in and kisses my cheek. “Goodbye. Text me when you get home.”

It feels different than the other kisses we shared today. It isn’t sexual, but sweet. I smile as I walk out of his building and into the cold night. I walk for an entire block before I realize I’m going the wrong direction and hail a cab. I smile the whole way to my building. I even end up smiling at the clerk manning the front desk of the lobby. He turns around to see if I’m looking at anyone behind him because he’s so surprised.

I text DeanI’m homeright there in the lobby. It’s nice that he cares.

Once I get to the elevator, I pause before selecting a floor. My family owns this entire building, and many of them live here. Most nights I visit my parents for a few minutes before turning in, but most nights I get home a lot earlier.

Instead, I select the ninth floor where my cousin Lisa lives. She’s only a year older than me, so we spent our childhoods running across the hall to play with each other. She always understood me better than any of the humans at school.

The elevator opens to a hallway with a door on each side. Lisa lives across the hall from her brother, Michael. He’s ten years older and usually traveling for work. I stand outside Lisa’s door and pull out my phone. When I open the chat window with Lisa, it’s mostly a series of the same two words, sent by both of us over and over again.

I’m here.

I send them and wait. In less than thirty seconds, the doorknob twists and the door swings open. Lisa stands in the doorway wearing a fluffy pink robe, matching slippers, and a gooey plastic shell covering her whole face except her mouth and eyes.

“Do you want a face mask?” she asks.

“Yes, please.”

I follow her into her spacious apartment with floor to ceiling windows and the assortment of cozy furniture she insisted on buying for herself, rather than paying an interior decorator to do it for her. It’s a wild array of colors and styles, totaling up to ten sofas and five armchairs, not including the table and chairs. I sit on the sofa by the window where she’s set another book on chess strategies.

Lisa is one of the best players in the world.

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