6. Art

Art

Sometimes, I don't understand social rules, but there is one rule I understand very well: I'm not supposed to taste things with my tentacles in public. All cephalopods know this. People will think we're weird if we dip our tentacles in our soup before we take a bite or graze the top of our pastries with our suckers.

Right now my tentacle is tasting the back of Dean Miller's neck, and I can't seem to control it. Dean Miller's flavor is slightly salty with a musk that's very distracting. I want to drag my tentacles down his body to taste him everywhere, which makes me grateful we're bundled up for the cold weather. Who knows what my tentacles would do if we were at the beach instead of the ice skating rink and Dean Miller wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Would you like your own hot chocolate, or would you like to share mine?" he asks casually, as if it's perfectly normal for a guy to taste him while he's standing in line for refreshments.

"Is it common for friends to share hot beverages?"

He smiles. "Not really."

"Then we should probably get our own, since the purpose of this outing is to teach me social skills."

The couple in front of us leaves with their hot cocoa. Dean Miller steps up to the counter and looks at me expectantly. Right. I'm supposed to order our drinks.

"Um, I'd like two cups of hot cocoa, please," I stammer.

The young man on the other side of the counter pushes a button on his cash register. "Would you like whipped cream?"

I turn to Dean Miller. "Would you like whipped cream?"

"Yes, please."

"Whipped cream on one, but not the other," I tell the cashier.

He pushes a few more buttons, and I hand my card to him. The whole interaction is over quickly. The guy slides two hot paper cups with black lids across the counter, and we're on our way.

"Very smooth. You didn't even lecture me on how bad whipped cream is for my health," Dean Miller says.

"You said I shouldn't. The hot cocoa is fun, so it wouldn't be appropriate for me to discuss the heightened risk of heart disease, diabetes, and weight gain in people who consume high-fat dairy products."

He holds up his hot cocoa and knocks it against mine. "Exactly. Cheers."

"I thought cheers was reserved for alcoholic beverages?"

"It probably is. But saying cheers is fun, so…" he waits for me to finish the sentence.

"So I should just say cheers back?" I guess.

"Exactly."

I knock my cup against his experimentally. It's uncomfortably hot against my gloves, and I don't want to carry it anymore.

"Would it be rude to throw my hot cocoa away now?" I ask. "It's burning me."

Dean Miller takes my cup in his other hand. "I'll carry it until it's cooler."

"But then it will burn you."

He shrugs. "I'll live. What do you say we watch a movie or something at my place?"

Dean Miller is inviting me to his apartment? If it were under any other circumstances, I would say yes, but he's only here with me because of a work assignment.

"I don't think you need to prepare me for social gatherings at a coworker's house," I say. "I'm not usually invited."

He considers me for a moment. "I don't think that's true. I've seen people try to invite you to things. But this wouldn't need to be a lesson. We could just spend time together for fun."

I stop myself from asking a myriad of questions, like whether he would actually have fun spending time with me, or when he saw someone inviting me somewhere. When people want to do something with me, I think I ask too many questions, and that often leads to them quitting their jobs or being very angry with me. I don't want to cause problems like that right now.

"Yes. I would like to watch a movie or something at your place," I say.

He smiles and looks me up and down. "Okay. Let's go."

People, in general, do not look at me in that fashion. It feels like the winking. If I'm not mistaken, Dean Miller is flirting with me. I wasn't sure before, but there have been multiple instances of suspiciously nice behavior, not to mention the way he continually tolerates my tentacle resting along the back of his neck.

"Dean Miller, are we… performing a mating ritual?" I ask.

He tries to hold back a laugh, but is unsuccessful. "What?"

"Human beings perform a set of rituals prior to mating. In American culture, they share a meal or beverage before initiating foreplay that sometimes leads to mating. Are we performing a mating ritual right now?"

Dean Miller bites his bottom lip and shoots me this mischievous look that is not a clear answer to my question one way or another. "Um, that is a very direct question."

"Yes. Is it inappropriate for me to ask a direct question about what we're doing?"

His eyes soften. "No, Art. It isn't. In fact, it's kind of refreshing."

That still isn't an answer. It's all so frustrating. I desperately want to understand what I'm doing here with Dean Miller so I don't mess this up the way I mess up everything, but he won't tell me what's really going on.

"What if I did want this to be a… mating ritual, for lack of a better term?" Dean Miller asks.

"Why is that not a good term?"

"It just makes us sound like animals," he says.

"Homosapiens are animals. They're a type of primate. I'm also a cephalopod, which is a type of mollusk?—"

He sets our hot cocoas down on a table near the entrance and grabs my hands. His fingers feel warmer than the hot cocoa, even with the barrier of my gloves. "Yes, I would like to perform a mating ritual with you."

It's a lot to have Dean Miller looking into my eyes and holding my hands while he says something like that. His words make my stomach fill with butterflies.

"Is that okay?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer immediately, even though I've never performed a mating ritual before.

"Good." He releases my hands and reaches for our hot cocoas, which is a relief in some ways. I've never liked direct eye contact. I miss the pressure of his hand, though. Just before he starts walking again, he holds out his elbow expectantly. Before I get a chance to react, one of my tentacles winds itself around his arm. His eyes burn into mine, and for a moment, I understand what he means by not wanting to label whatever this is as animalistic behavior. It feels too special for that.

People stare at my tentacle wrapped around his arm as we walk out into the cold, but Dean Miller doesn't seem to mind. The stares continue on the sidewalk and at the crosswalk. I feel my metachrosis response kicking in. I can't help it. I desperately hope Dean Miller doesn't notice. But then he glances over at me. I watch his face closely. I highly doubt it's polite for someone to physically disappear when they're involved in a mating ritual with someone. To make matters worse, my tentacle coils tighter around his arm.

"It's okay, Art. My apartment is just another block from here."

His voice is deep and soothing. A part of me wants to shift completely into my cephalopod form and crawl on his back so I can completely disappear. But that would be too weird, and I paid a lot of money for this coat. I can't abandon it on the side of the road like a cephalopod kid on their first day of kindergarten.

Dean Miller takes a sip of his hot cocoa. "This is really good. You should try yours. It will warm you up." He holds out my drink.

I take it from him gingerly. If we are performing a mating ritual, I'm fairly certain I need to drink a beverage. That's part of the ritual. I bring the steaming cup to my mouth and take a drink. It's hot and sinfully sweet.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"I can understand why it's addictive."

"Is that your way of admitting that it's delicious?" He doesn't look at me while he asks the question, which is a relief, since I'm actively trying to blend into my environment.

"Maybe," I say.

He smiles and turns toward a yellow brick building with a dark wooden front door. "This is me."

I wait as he pulls out his key and unlocks the deadbolt. The hallway inside has worn carpet and the paint is a little banged up, but overall it isn't bad for a human dwelling. Cephalopod shifters normally pursue careers in finance, so we don't have to live in places like this. Dean Miller walks down a hallway of doors to the last one on the right. A worn mat says, "Welcome" in black cursive letters.

Cephalopod shifters also don't have doormats that welcome strangers inside.

"I don't know what kind of movies you like," he says, unlocking yet another deadbolt. His door opens right into the small kitchen with a countertop that doubles as a table, judging by the two stools tucked into it and the lack of a kitchen table. The living room is tiny as well but has a large window leading out onto a patio.

"I rarely watch television. It has a negative impact on cognitive function," I tell him before realizing watching television is probably a "fun" activity. "But it's fine if you want to sacrifice your cognitive function to have fun."

Dean Miller lets out a breathy laugh. "If it makes you feel any better, pretending to watch a movie is a common mating ritual."

I feel my cheeks grow hot. "You mean…"

Dean Miller steps closer, until our faces are only a few inches apart. "People usually put on a movie when they want to cuddle with someone or kiss them."

"Why don't they just say so?" I ask.

"Dating is a dance, Art. Just like male birds who display their plume of feathers or penguins who give their crush a pebble. I'm hoping this dance will get me closer to you." He says that, but then he steps away and heads for the scuffed up couch in the living room, removing his coat and hat. He sits down and stares up at me expectantly. "Come sit with me."

This seems so easy for him. He's probably brought back dozens, if not hundreds, of guys to his place. That scares me a little bit. If we kiss or do something more than that, it would be special to me. I don't let people get this close. However, I'm not sure it would be special for Dean Miller. He'd be nice afterwards, because that's how he is, but I don't think he'd take it very seriously.

Maybe that's okay. If I took physical closeness less seriously, I probably wouldn't still be a virgin.

I remove my hat and unwind my scarf slowly. I take my coat off next and pause before removing my shoes. Dean Miller is still wearing his. That probably means he expects me to as well. Cephalopod shifters never wear shoes in the house. That makes me worry there are other things I'm supposed to do or not do that I'm not aware of. I walk toward his couch and sit at the edge, hoping I haven't messed up in some way.

"Thank you for coming home with me," he says.

"I didn't do it as a favor. I wanted to," I assure him.

He smiles. "Good."

My tentacles slither across the cushion between us. One of them slides across his shoulders, and another rests on his knee.

"Sorry," I say.

He places his hand on the one covering his knee, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time. "You don't need to be sorry."

Suddenly, I understand the need for a movie or something to draw attention away from how awkward this is.

"I like mysteries," I tell him. "It's enjoyable to guess who did it. I also like movies with Timothee Chalamet. I find him visually pleasing."

He does this thing between a laugh and a cough. "Okay. Can't argue there." He sets down his hot chocolate and reaches for the remote. My tentacle winds around his other hand. For the first time, I'm relieved that I can't stop them. I enjoy the taste of Dean Miller's skin, and I would never have the courage to come on to him on my own.

"We don't need to watch a movie," he says, turning back to me.

"I thought we were dancing?"

He nods. "I think we still are." He lifts his hand that's currently wrapped in my tentacle and slowly brings it to his mouth. I hold my breath as he brushes his lips against my skin. "You are so sexy."

Just like on the ice, the rest of my tentacles wrap themselves around him. The only difference is that I want them to this time. I'm not embarrassed. Not when Dean Miller looks at me like that and calls me sexy. There's no coat between us this time, just a thin layer of fabric.

"Fuck, Art. That's just…" he trails off, like he doesn't have a word for how much he likes being wrapped up in me.

My tentacles wind tighter around him, bringing him in closer. He watches them with an awe that makes all my anxiety melt away. A man has never reacted to me this way before. It makes me feel reckless. Dean Miller said this was a mating ritual, didn't he? That means we get to kiss, doesn't it?

Our knees press together. We're close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. He's the one who closes the gap. His lips are warm and wonderfully soft. He kisses me so gently, it's easy to believe that this is special to him. The kiss deepens naturally, our mouths opening together. The heat of his tongue in my mouth sends a shock of pleasure through my whole body. The intensity of it is too much. I take in a sharp breath.

He pulls away and looks into my eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Can we do that again?"

He grins at me. I can almost feel his happiness in my own body, that's how connected we are. He kisses me harder this time, spearing his tongue in my mouth with a confidence that leaves me breathless. I taste him everywhere—his mouth on mine, his salty skin under my suckers. Not just his neck, because one of my tentacles has slid up his shirt, and I can taste his bare back. He moans at the contact, and I can feel the sound of it to my core. He grabs the back of my head with his hand and devours me. I feel myself grow hard, and I wonder if he is too, but I'm not sure if that's the kind of thing I'm allowed to ask.

I want to drag my tentacles down his back with the suckers latched to his skin. That's something cephalopod shifters do to each other when they kiss. How would Dean Miller react to something like that? Should I ask? If I don't, my tentacles might do it on their own.

I pull away from him all at once, my tentacles retreating. They don't want to do something without his consent either. At least that's something we can all agree on.

Dean looks back at me in a daze. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, it's just… I want to do things I need consent for. Particularly with my suckers. They would like to mark you. They do that by dragging the rough part of their suction cups against your skin. It shouldn't hurt much?—"

"I consent," Dean says. "Enthusiastically."

"It will leave a mark," I warn him.

"That's fine."

"But aren't you worried?—"

"Art, I will tell you if you do anything I don't like. I promise. But I am absolutely certain I will like what you just described." He starts kissing me again, just as desperately as before. Only this time, his mouth moves to my cheek, then my jaw, and lower to my neck. With his mouth, he sucks on my skin, the way my suckers want to latch on to him. I allow myself to wind around him, all my tentacles sliding underneath his shirt this time.

"Fuck, yes," he hisses and sucks on my neck harder. He must be leaving a mark too, so it's probably okay for me to do the same. I let my suckers latch on to his skin, just with one tentacle at first. He moans, his voice vibrating against my neck, but he doesn't stop. I drag my suction cups down the skin of his smooth back, savoring the flavor of him, allowing my suckers to clamp onto him with a possessive grip. He cries out, biting down on my skin. The pain makes me rock hard.

He pulls off and shakes his head. "Sorry. I… wasn't prepared for… Oh my God, Art. That was… wow."

"Wow, as in good?" I ask.

"Wow, as in, I need to slow down. How about we watch a movie?"

My heart sinks. I really enjoyed that, but I guess I came on too strong. "I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize. That was hotter than hell. But unless you want me to come in my pants, I need a break."

I get the impression that asking Dean Miller to come in his pants is one of those things I shouldn't say out loud. I would love to see the way his face looks while he orgasms. Especially if I was the one who made him come.

I guess I'll have to wait.

"Okay. We can watch a movie."

This is all a dance, like Dean Miller said. A mating ritual. That must mean we'll get to the orgasms later.

He grabs the remote and turns the TV on.