Pinkie Pie and the Birthdate


                                            >You've never told anyone in Equestria when your birthday is.

                                            >And you consider their lack of knowledge to be a good thing, even though there are some that'd really like to know.

                                            >You want to know what the worst thing about having Pinkie Pie as a rapist is, besides the rape?

                                            >She never leaves you alone.

                                            >Ever.

                                            >From morning to night, you can't get rid of her.

                                            >The only time she leaves is when you kick her out so you can go to sleep.

                                            >But even then, she's always in your bed with you when you wake up in the morning.

                                            >Always, no matter what you do.

                                            >You can lock all that can be locked.

                                            >You can block every entrance.

                                            >You can check every small, dark or out-of-the-way spot in the house and find nothing hiding there.

                                            >And yet, you always wake up in the morning with her body close to yours and her arms wrapped round your neck in embrace.

                                            >It is not the sun you have ever seen first upon waking.

                                            >Instead your eyes wake close to the intense soul-blue circles of her eyes, staring at you above a bright ignoble smile.

                                            >It happens every morning.

                                            >It sounds peaceful, but it's not.

                                            >Her body heat makes you sweat all over and you always wake up sticky in your pajamas.

                                            >She's a terrible blanket-hog on cold nights, always getting them wrapped all round her body somehow.

                                            >That snout of hers, when she snores, must've come from a pig with the way it snockers and snashes during deep sleep.

                                            >She has terrible morning breath, with a dusty rusty abandoned kitchen oven kind of smell to it.

                                            >And when you awake, unless you've got your guard up, she'll try to stick her morning-tasting horsey tongue in your mouth.

                                            >She’s touched the back of your throat with it before, making you vomit all over her and the bed.

                                            >Still, she does this every morning.

                                            >Humming delightedly, she gives your neck a squeeze as you wake up.

                                            >“Good morning,” she says.

                                            >For a short instant her eyes look down at your lips.

                                            >You turn your head quickly so that, when she leans in, she ends up kissing your earlobe.

                                            >Right in your ear, her windy nose exhales noisily.

                                            >You lift your arms and, pushing them between her chest and yours, shove her until she rolls off of the bed, wrapping all the blankets round her and taking them with her to the floor.

                                            >You sit up and dangle your legs off the edge of the bed as you stretch your arms.

                                            Morning, you say to the shifting pile of blankets behind you.

                                            >“Did you sleep well?” asks the pile.

                                            Why you asking?

                                            >You look suspiciously over your shoulder at the pile.

                                            What’d you do?

                                            >Near the top, popping out of a tight hole made in the blankets, a pink head is sticking out of them and is staring at you with shimmering eyes.

                                            >“Who, me?” she says innocently.

                                            >You shake your head.

                                            No, Pinkie, not you. I'm asking the other girl who always sleeps with me.

                                            >“Other girl?” she says, surprised. “Does this other girl rub your penis through your pajamas until you cum like I do?”

                                            >Pinkie, feeling quite superior, waits for your response as you look down and see a dry, crusty spot on the front of your pajamas.

                                            Dammit, Pinkie!

                                            >“I didn't think so,” she says proudly. “That's because she doesn't love you as much as ol' Pinkie Pie does.”

                                            >As you head to the bathroom to change, Pinkie twists herself in the pile until, as though it was spring-loaded, she pops out of it, flies into the air and arcs gracefully over the bed.

                                            >She lands on her hooves and then, after bowing, begins making the bed.

                                            >After a while, when you're brushing your teeth in your underwear, she comes in and, using her pink toothbrush and bubblegum-flavored toothpaste that she keeps in your cabinet, joins you.

                                            >“So to continue yesterday's talk,” she says, her mouth garbled with pink foam.

                                            Yeah? you say, equally incomprehensibly.

                                            >“I just want to know”—she rinses her mouth, gargles and then spits.

                                            >She turns to you and smiles big with her bubbly pearly whites.

                                            >“Why won't you tell me when your birthday is?”

                                            First of all—

                                            >“What'd you say?”

                                            >You rinse and spit, and now both of you are cleaning your brushes under running water.

                                            First of all, we don't really talk to one another. You just kind of follow me around and ask me endless questions.

                                            >Pinkie shrugs.

                                            >“You usually tell me to leave you alone a couple of times. Doesn't that count for something?”

                                            No.

                                            >“Well, why not? I have to take what I can get, you know.”

                                            >You ignore her and, putting away your brush, walk to the dresser with her at your heel.

                                            I'm not going to tell you when my birthday is because I don't want you to throw me a party.

                                            >“Don't want me to throw you a party!” she repeats in shock. “But I throw great parties.”

                                            >You slip on a white shirt and start buttoning it.

                                            Credit where it's due, you do throw great parties. But for me, I don't think so.

                                            >Buttons halfway up, you turn to her and point.

                                            You'd find some way to make my party about sex, or about our so-called love.

                                            >Pinkie, scrunching in face of your pointed finger, begins sputtering and scoffing indignantly.

                                            >“Totally not true,” she says, without looking at you. “I wouldn't try to do that to you.”

                                            >A period of silence follows.

                                            >The two of you stare at each other, her expectantly and you blankly.

                                            Pinkie . . .

                                            >“What?” she says defensively. “I wouldn't. I swear.”

                                            Do you remember when your birthday was coming up, and I wasn’t sure what kind of gift I should get a rapist like you, so I asked Twilight if she knew what you wanted?

                                            >Pinkie folds her ears and looks uneasily away.

                                            And she told me that she overheard you say that what you wanted most from me—

                                            >“Cherry cupcake!” she interrupts. “I wanted a cherry cup—”

                                            A cherry-stained wedding dress. That's what you said you wanted me to give you.

                                            >Pinkie, groaning loudly and stamping her hoof, says:

                                            >“Okay, fine, maybe I would try to throw you a sexy birthday party.”

                                            I knew it, you say as you button your collar.

                                            >You walk to the dresser and, pulling a pair of pants out, start putting them on.

                                            So you can forget about me telling you when my birthday is. The last thing I need is for you to throw me a party.

                                            >As you button your pants and then sit on the edge of your bed to put on your shoes and socks, Pinkie, with a serious expression, is silently thinking to herself.

                                            >This makes you feel a bit wary, as a moment of silence with her can usually have deadly consequences later on.

                                            >After a while her face brightens up and, grinning mischievously, she comes to your knee and looks up at you just as you finish tying your shoe.

                                            >Her grin and eyes leading you, you ask slowly:

                                            What is it?

                                            >“If you don’t tell me when your birthday is then I’m just going to keep asking you until you can’t stand it anymore.”

                                            >She giggles silently into her hoof and watches you from the corner of her eye as you toughly swallow this down.

                                            >Finally, trying to sound sure but instead seeming weak, you look at her sternly and say:

                                            You’re bluffing.

                                            >She sees right through you and shakes her head slowly.

                                            >“Nope, I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna go all the way with you until you tell me when your birthday is.”

                                            >She licks her lips and shakes her front hoof up and down suggestively as she says this.

                                            >“You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

                                            >You glare at her.

                                            I’ll never tell.

                                            >“You will,” she says. “I’m sure of it.”

                                            No, I won’t. Pinkie, doing this will just be a big waste of your time.

                                            >“Then I guess time’s a wasting and I better get started, huh?” she says brightly.

                                            >Pinkie opens her mouth wide and takes in a deep breath as all of your feeling falls darkly into your stomach.

                                            >“So,” she says, stretching the word out for over a minute, “when’s your birthday?”

                                            >She points at you. You look away.

                                            >“When’s your birthday?”

                                            >You try to ignore her.

                                            >“When’s your birthday?”

                                            I don’t know.

                                            >“Come on. Yeah, you do.”

                                            >She jumps on the bed and, leaning on your shoulder, whispers in your ear:

                                            >“When’s your birthday?”

                                            >When you ignore her, she starts shaking you by your shoulders.

                                            >“When’s, your, birthday?” she asks in rhythm with her shakes.

                                            >You get up and move to the door, but Pinkie jumps off of the bed and follows you.

                                            >“You can ignore me, for now,” she says, “but you can’t ignore the fact that you do have a birthday just waiting to be discovered!”

                                            >You try to close the door on her but she sticks her hoof in the frame.

                                            >“When’s your birthday?” she asks, peeking out at you from the crack.

                                            >You start rushing down the stairs, hands over your ears, while Pinkie slides down the railing and beats you to the bottom.

                                            >“You know I’m gonna win,” she says, looking up at you and pointing. “Just tell me when your birthday is.”

                                            >You walk past her, but she follows you and starts scoffing in a dramatic fashion.

                                            >“You think you can ignore this party pony?” she says, scoffing louder. “You’re in for a big surprise, buddy.”

                                            >As the two of you pass by your front door, you stop and turn around to meet Pinkie.

                                            >With a defiant stare locked on her, you take your hands off of your ears.

                                            >Seeing this, Pinkie hums confidently and raises an eyebrow towards you.

                                            >“Ready to give in?”

                                            >With precise timing a thud comes from the middle of the door.

                                            >You open the door and see the newspaper colt, trotting away but looking over his shoulder at you.

                                            >“Hi there,” he says to you.

                                            Hello, Carrier Toss, you call to him.

                                            >You wave, pick up the paper, and then, putting it under your shoulder, turn to Pinkie with a devious smile on your face.

                                            >Her confident smile withers as her eyes go from you to the open door.

                                            Ready to go out?

                                            >“Wait,” she says, holding her hooves up in surrender, “tell me your birthday first.”

                                            Nope.

                                            >Grabbing Pinkie by the tail and the scruff of her neck, you toss her outside.

                                            Paper in, Pinkie out!

                                            >You slam the door shut and, pressing your ear to the door to listen, wait a while.

                                            >“Hi, Pinkie Pie.”

                                            >“Hiya, Carrier Toss.”

                                            >Satisfied, you ease back and wipe your hands as though you had just gotten rid of something dusty.

                                            >You go to the kitchen.

                                            >As you sit down and start pouring yourself some cereal, you sigh in relief and think back proudly at your quick thinking earlier.

                                            >Good thing you threw her out, too.

                                            >You didn’t think you could take a whole day of her asking you—

                                            >“When’s your birthday!”

                                            >You scream at the sudden voice and send flying cereal scattering up into the air.

                                            >Pinkie, who has somehow gotten herself sat comfortably on your lap, smiles up at you and leans in for a surprise kiss as cereal goes clitter-clatter onto the floor like hail hitting a tin roof in a winter storm.

                                            >You stop her lips with your hand and then push her off to the side and onto the floor.

                                            How’d you get back in?

                                            >“I always get back in,” she says simply as she lightly brushes herself off.

                                            >She looks your way and stares at you for a while, a menacing smile on her face.

                                            >You stare back.

                                            >“You’re just waiting for me to say it again, aren’t you?”

                                            >She smiles, brighter and wider, as you lean over the table and hold your head in your hands.

                                            >The rest of the day goes predictably.

                                            >Pinkie follows you to work, comes by on your lunch break, and then follows you home, all the time asking you:

                                            >“When’s your birthday?”

                                            >You’d kick her out at bedtime, only to wake up with her hugging you every time, and, of course, asking you:

                                            >“When’s your birthday?”

                                            >The days passed by like this for a bit.

                                            >It got easier to ignore her over time, as though your brain had decreased the volume with which it took in her question.

                                            >But Pinkie’s behavior was starting to affect you in strange ways.

                                            >You never got any good sleep anymore.

                                            >At night the rhythm of Pinkie’s voice continually reverberated in your mind’s ear and plagued you to wake at times from nightmares coming into you from the delirious dark.

                                            >And when you’d wake up, who would you find wrapped round your sweaty neck but her.

                                            >Eventually, you learned that Pinkie had started saying it in her sleep, too.

                                            >You’d hear her, in between snores, whispering in your ear:

                                            >“When’s . . . your . . . birthday . . .?”

                                            >It got to a point where, whenever she was away, you were always anticipating her, and her voice.

                                            >Even when you were at work and you knew for sure that she wasn’t around, you could find no peace.

                                            >Just when you might’ve begun to relax, the sound of approaching hooves or the suddenness of a question from one of your coworkers would bring on a panic attack in you.

                                            No! I don’t know! Leave me alone! you’d shout without looking, before closing your ears.

                                            >Then, when you’d leave for your break or to go home for the day, you’d always hear it before you’d see her:

                                            >“When’s your birthday?”

                                            >You were a twitchy, ticking time bomb that was ready to explode by the end of the work week.

                                            >And as the weekend approached, you dreaded having what you knew would be two full and uninterrupted days of Pinkie asking you:

                                            >“When’s your birthday?”

                                            >Then, when the weekend finally came, you woke up from restless sleep and there she was in bed with you.

                                            >“Hey,” she said, leaning close and resting her cheek on yours, “how’d you sleep?”

                                            Terribly, you moan. I had more nightmares because of you.

                                            >“My poor little lover boy,” she says sweetly. “I’m sorry I’m making you feel bad. Do you think maybe I should stop, just for today?”

                                            >You tremble with quickened excitement.

                                            You really mean it?

                                            >“Just kidding,” she says, pulling back and showing you her smile. “So when’s your birthday?”

                                            >You feel your eye twitch involuntarily.

                                            >Then you scream, push her off of the bed and, jumping off of it yourself, stomp ragingly around your room.

                                            Fuck! Fuck! Fuck, fucking, fuck you to hell, Pinkie Pie! Fuck!

                                            >From the pile on the floor, a warm head with a sympathetic smile pops out of the top of the blankets and watches you do this.

                                            >“Come on,” she says, “all you have to do to end all this is tell me when your birthday is.”

                                            >You turn severely to her as she wriggles out of the pile and then lies on top of it, her front hooves pressing into her cheeks as she leans on her elbows.

                                            Oh my God. Fine, I’ll tell you.

                                            >“You mean it?”

                                            Yes. For God’s sake, I mean it. I’ll tell you. Just don’t ever ask me that question again, okay?

                                            >“What question?”

                                            Pinkie!

                                            >“Okay,” she says quickly. “I promise.”

                                            >You regard her tiredly, anger smoldering in your chest as she smiles and, stars in her eyes, nods encouragingly your way.

                                            >Sighing, you say:

                                            All right, Pinkie, my birthday is on June tenth.

                                            >She gasps.

                                            >“June tenth!”

                                            Yeah, June tenth.

                                            >“Gosh,” she says. “When’s that, though?”

                                            What?

                                            >You look to Pinkie, who has an utterly confused expression.

                                            Pinkie, my birthday is June tenth.

                                            >“I know,” she says, getting up and looking firmly at you. “But when’s that?”

                                            It’s on June.

                                            >Pinkie blinks.

                                            The month of June, dummy.

                                            >“There is no June.”

                                            >You stare at her completely blank face.

                                            What did you just say?

                                            >“There’s no month called June here in Equestria.”

                                            What the . . . What the fuck do you mean by that?

                                            >“I’ll show you,” she says, looking round the room. “Where’s your calendar?”

                                            I don’t have one.

                                            >“What? You don’t have a calendar? How do you plan anything with your friends without one?”

                                            I don’t. You take up all my time with your bullshit.

                                            >“Oh . . .”

                                            I don’t believe you. There has to be a June.

                                            >“I’ll show you.”

                                            >The two of you leave your house and you follow Pinkie into a store.

                                            >She finds a metal rack full of calendars all neatly stacked upright, and you take one in your hands and look it over.

                                            There’s no fucking June on this calendar.

                                            >“Nope.”

                                            >You turn the calendar over in your hands in shock.

                                            >The Equestrian calendar has on average twenty-six days in a month, but only seven months in a year—and none of them are named June.

                                            What the fuck!

                                            >“Um, excuse me,” says a store clerk, approaching you, “but can I help you find something?”

                                            Yeah. Fucking June!

                                            >As you keep freaking out, the store clerk worriedly looks to Pinkie.

                                            >“He lost his month,” Pinkie calmly explains.

                                            >“Well I’ll be up front whenever you’re ready to check out,” the clerk says, leaving quickly.

                                            >You stare weakly at the calendar for a while before putting it back with limp arms.

                                            I can’t believe it.

                                            >“Are you okay?” Pinkie asks.

                                            No, I’m not okay. I just lost my birthday.

                                            >Pinkie, folding her ears, gestures feebly to the calendars.

                                            >“Are you sure you couldn’t find it on the calendar if you tried?”

                                            No, Pinkie, that’s not the point. My birthday is gone. It’s just . . . it’s just gone. I used to celebrate it when I was little. I looked forward all year to seeing my friends and getting cards in the mail. I got all kinds of gifts that I had fun playing with over all those years.

                                            >You nod to the rack of calendars.

                                            And now it’s all gone. I can’t ever celebrate it like that again.

                                            >Pinkie silently takes your dangly hand in her hoof and presses it gently to her soft cheek.

                                            >“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you weren’t going to have a birthday. I wouldn’t have asked so much if . . .”

                                            Yeah, I know.

                                            >You pull your hand away from Pinkie.

                                            Let’s just go.

                                            >Pinkie looks back one last time at the calendars before you both walk back to your house.

                                            >As you open the door and go in, you’re surprised when Pinkie doesn’t try to follow you.

                                            >You look past the door.

                                            You not coming in?

                                            >“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not today.”

                                            Thanks.

                                            >“I’ll see you later, okay?”

                                            >You purse your lips.

                                            Yeah . . . thanks a lot, you say as you close the door.

                                            >You spend the rest of the day sulking, sitting in the shade and remembering things.

                                            >You recall how birthday cake tastes when you eat it with plastic utensils, and how it feels when you finally break the piñata in half with a wooden bat and the candy falls down to the floor.

                                            >The memories are too far away to recall fully, and you only can experience fleeting snippets of the happiness you had felt in them.

                                            >When night comes you skulk up to bed and hope to dream about them, remember them in full.

                                            >That morning you wake up, and the first thing you see, same as always, are Pinkie’s soul-blue eyes.

                                            You never leave me alone, do you.

                                            >“Hey there, sleepyhead,” she says softly. “How do you feel today?”

                                            >You realize that you aren’t sweating, that your pants don’t feel crusty and that you don’t feel stressed out.

                                            >But you sigh heavily.

                                            I didn’t dream last night like I usually do.

                                            >“Too bad,” Pinkie says sympathetically. “Maybe you just didn’t need to.”

                                            >You shrug her off and get up to prepare for the day.

                                            >Pinkie follows you as usual, but she’s quiet.

                                            >Not only that, but she keeps looking at you from the corner of her eye, keeps turning over her shoulder towards you when she thinks you can’t see her.

                                            >As the two of you step downstairs, you ask her:

                                            All right, why are you acting so strangely?

                                            >“Who, me?” she says innocently.

                                            No, the other girl that always comes uninvited into my house.

                                            >Pinkie, folding her ears and glaring at the space in front of her, says:

                                            >“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”

                                            Uh, sure thing.

                                            >She forces a smile onto her face and, wrapping her tail around your leg, starts pulling you along faster as she picks up her pace.

                                            >Just then, as you enter the kitchen, your ears prick up and your senses attune to your surroundings.

                                            >You feel the presence of others.

                                            >Multiple voices shout at you: “Surprise!”

                                            >You spin around and see, lining the walls, Pinkie’s friends.

                                            >They approach you and lightheartedly begin pushing you towards the living room.

                                            >You’re shocked when you see the living room.

                                            >It has been decorated for a party.

                                            >On top of your dining table, there is a large white cake with a single blue balloon-shaped candle.

                                            >Around that cake there are seven multicolored presents, one from each of them: Twilight, Applejack, Fluttershy, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, Spike, and Pinkie Pie.

                                            >Bright streamers hang from the ceiling, all of them leading the eye to the banner hanging in the middle of the room that has a happy birthday wished to you on it, written in glitter paint.

                                            >The seven friends, all wearing party hats now, collect in front of you and look hopefully at your surprised reaction.

                                            >“I had to put it together quickly” Pinkie says, a bit self-consciously. “Well, what do you think?”

                                            >You make a sweeping gesture round the room.

                                            This is all for me?

                                            >“Yeah,” Twilight says. “When Pinkie told us that you lost your birthday, well, we thought that maybe we could just give you a new birthday.”

                                            >“So we got this awesome party ready for you while you were sleeping,” Rainbow Dash says.

                                            >“Good thing for us that you sleep like a log,” Spike says, coming up and nudging your leg with his elbow.

                                            How’d you all get in?

                                            >They all turn away awkwardly.

                                            >“Pinkie Pie let us in herself,” Rarity says. “I know it’s rather rude, but we would have ruined the surprise if we had asked for your permission first.”

                                            Yeah, I figured that she let you in. But how did you get in? That’s what I want to know.

                                            >Pinkie regards them all worriedly as they all look deep within themselves and flinch at what they see.

                                            >With her ears turned down, Fluttershy says:

                                            >“Um, I think it’s better if you don’t know.”

                                            >“Yeah, it ain’t a pretty story,” Applejack says.

                                            >You shrug and, looking again at the party set up for you, begin to smile.

                                            All this is really for me?

                                            >“Sure is!” Pinkie says as she wraps her forearm around your waist for a hug.

                                            >You look down at her and rub her mane affectionately.

                                            Thanks, Pinkie. I was feeling like having a birthday soon.

                                            >“Well then let’s party!”

                                            >As if on cue, the needle to your record player goes down, and everyone starts dancing to the music.

                                            >You step forward to join them.

                                            >Later on, after the party was over, you and Pinkie say goodbye to everyone (including Carrier Toss, who got to come in and join when he delivered the paper) as they leave.

                                            >The two of you sit side by side on the floor amongst the torn streamers and scraps of ripped wrapping paper.

                                            >You both smell the decimated cake on the table behind you as though it was the one sure sense that signified every good party that had ever ended.

                                            >You stare fondly at Pinkie’s gift to you for a bit—a calendar with today’s date marked on it—before putting it to the side.

                                            >“I’ll bet that other girl of yours can’t throw a party like that!” Pinkie says proudly.

                                            Pinkie, I don’t actually sleep with another girl. I was just kidding around when I said that.

                                            >“. . . I knew that.”

                                            >Pinkie, thinking that you were not looking at her, was licking some frosting that was stuck in the frog of her hoof.

                                            Pinkie, I have to ask you one thing.

                                            >“What’s that?” she says, quickly hiding her hoof behind her back.

                                            How hard was it for you, to have to keep this from being a sexy party?

                                            >She doesn’t answer.

                                            >You turn to her, only to see that she’s holding an unopened present in front of your face.

                                            What’s this?

                                            >You place your hands on the sides of it, only to feel her hooves press down on them.

                                            >Then she quickly pops her head out of the top of the gift and, pulling you forward, brings you in for a long, deep, frosting-flavored tongue kiss.

                                            >You push her away and begin spitting as she lets herself fall down onto her back in bliss, the present still wrapped around her head.

                                            >“It was so hard,” she groans happily. “I’m so happy that things are going to be back to normal after this.”

                                            >You turn back to her to glare, only to notice that some of the frosting in her hoof got on your hand.

                                            >Seeing she’s still lying down, you turn away from her and begin licking it off your hand.

                                            >It’s so good.

                                            >“Wish you’d lick me like that,” you hear her giggle from the floor.

                                            >You stop and, sighing, wipe the frosting off with your finger before smearing it onto a stray piece of wrapping paper.

                                            >“So,” she says, “next time your birthday comes around, can I throw you a sexy party?”

                                            >Fucking Pinkie Pie.