I Had Sex With an Octopus

So. I’m sitting in a bar working on my second Absolut on the rocks with a twist, when I hear someone slide onto the empty stool to my right. I don’t look, as I’m not in the mood for company. A quiet drink. That’s all I want.

I stare into my glass for a few seconds. Then, “DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.” What the hell is that? Did I spill?

I look down and my gaze is drawn to the puddle of water under the stool next to me.

“Hey. Sorry about that. Kind of a vocational hazard, ya know?”

I look at the bartender. He shrugs. No help there.

Still, I keep my gaze straight ahead. “I’m a married woman,” I say.

The new arrival responds, “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m not looking for company.”

“Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. Give me another.”

Finally, I turn and take a good look at my bar mate. He…It…has octopus written all over him. Two beady eyes, a bulbous head, body like a sack and eight arms.

“Wow,” I say. “You’re an octopus.”

“What can I tell ya,?” It said. “Guilty.”

Just then, the bartender ambles over. “What can I get you, buddy?”

“I’ll have eight Jack and cokes on the rocks.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Casting around for something to say — I mean, I’ve never talked to an octopus, I finally blurt out, “So, what’s it like being, uh, you?”

His octopus beak thingy stretches into what could be perceived as a grin.

“You know…it’s wet. Very, very wet.”

I bark out a laugh. Its bulging eyes bore into me and I feel my face flush.

What ‘s going on, I wonder? I have a husband. I’m not looking for some “strange.” Yet, oddly, a jolt of electricity thrums through my body and straight to my groin.

I try to compose myself. “So what do you do?” I ask It.

“Well, mainly, I squirt out a shitload of ink.”

“Ink?!”

“Yeah. To deter predators,” It explained. “Something’s always up my ass.”

The bartender brought Its drinks.

“Damn,” I said. “That’s a lot of Jack and Coke.”

It attached each of its tentacles to a glass.

“I’m sorry, but I have to watch this,” I said.

“Knock yourself out,” It replied. “In case you’re wondering, there’s a mouth at the center of each of my tentacles.”

Another jolt of electricity lit me up.

Again, he wrinkled his beak at me. “I can really suck.”

Indeed, loud, sucking sounds ensued as he worked on his cocktails.

I’m not certain, but I think I heard a small belch, after.

With his big bulb of a head, It indicated the door.

“What do you think? Wanna blow this pop stand?”

Suddenly shy, I fidgeted with the toothpick stabbed through my blue cheese-stuffed olive.

“Uh…,” I stammered. “You know, I’m not even sure if you’re a male or female octopus.”

It held out one of its arms.

“See this? It’s a modified third right arm called a hectocotylus. It has a sperm groove running down it and a modified tip.”

Ohhhhhhhh.

I traced the groove with my index finger, shivers running down my spine.

“So I can refer to you as a ‘he,’ then?”

The octopus flapped its arms.

“Baby,” he said. “You have no idea.”

He slithered off his stool and fell to the floor with a wet PLOP.

“Let’s go,” he said. And, arms spiraling, he crawled to the door. What else could I do, but follow?

“Hey, wait,” said the bartender. He held out our tab. “Who’s paying this?”

I snatched my wallet from my bag, while the octopus waited at the door.

Shit. Just my luck. Cheap fucker.

When we got outside, my squishy buddy stood upright on two of his arms and walked!

I hurried alongside. “I didn’t know you could do this!” I said.

He waved away my comment and replied, rather curtly, I thought: “Most people don’t.”

The octopus came to an abrupt stop about two blocks from the bar. I looked up and saw a neon sign: “The Stop ‘N Fu*k Motel.”

“Classy,” I said. “Not to mention, you’re assuming quite a lot, don’t you think?”

The octopus held the door open. “You coming, or what?”

I breezed by him with the brilliant rejoinder, “I guess we’ll see.” But my bravado quickly evaporated as I thought about my husband. Never having cheated on him, I was suddenly unsure of myself and my motives. I swallowed hard.

As I followed the Octopus through the dingy lobby, I had a change of heart as I caught sight of his “extra third arm.” It made me horny as hell.

I thought, it’s not actually cheating if you bump uglies with something that isn’t human, is it?

Ten seconds. That’s about how long it took to talk myself into fucking an octopus. The elevator stopped on the third floor and we got off.

A few more seconds and we were in his room. Dimly lit. Standard, motel-issue furniture. Queen size bed with a polyester comforter.

The octopus loped over to the bed and hurled the comforter to the floor. “This is nasty,” he said. “Polyester fucks with my skin.”

I set my bag on the dresser. All business now. “Do you have a name?”

He moved a little closer. “I do. Ted.”

I stifled a laugh. “Ted? Ted the octopus?”

Ted moved closer, still.

“Yeah,” he said. “Got a problem with that, sister?”

Before I could answer, Ted ripped my shirt off. Luckily, I was wearing one of my nicer bras.

“Mmmmm. Nice,” Ted said. Then — “You wanna see something?”

Before I could answer, Ted changed color! He went from green to blue to pink to brown and back again.

“Wow,” I breathed. “How do you do that?”

Ted shrugged an octopus shrug. “It comes natural. I can change color to mimic my surroundings.”

Suddenly, he wrapped each of his arms around my waist and threw me on the bed. He yanked my jeans off and used his beak to tear at my underwear. He was hungry, and I was excited — my breathing elevated.

Ted made snuffling noises as he burrowed between my parted legs. “Mmmph. Pffshh. Huhhh.”

I moaned. “What? Are you trying to say something?”

Ted burrowed deeper. “Mmmmmmmphhhhh.”

I didn’t care if I understood him, or not. “Fuck it. Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. Ted probed my pousee with his beak, while he caressed my breasts, his arms pinwheeling around me. He was literally, all over me.

How can I describe everything that followed? I can’t, because I literally passed out in a flood of ecstasy.

When I awoke, Ted was gone. I looked down at my naked body. It was wet all over. Wet and a little slimy.

A week later, my husband and I were dining out at a popular “surf ‘n turf” joint. As we perused the menu, my mind started to wander. I thought about Ted, and wondered how he was.

“Babe. BABE!” My husband was staring at me.

I felt the stirrings of guilt. “What? I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

“Obviously,” he said. “So, what do you feel like? For an appetizer?”

I looked down at the menu again, then snapped it shut.

“I’ll have the grilled octopus. I have a taste for it.”

My husband nodded. “Sounds good. We’ll get a double order.”

As our server approached the table, my husband said, “You know what I read? After an octopus mates, it dies. How messed up is that? Fucking, followed by death?”

I choked on my Absolut. “Changed my mind. I’ll have the clams.”

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.