Work Text:
For some fucking reason I am in Brazil.
~*~
Normally I would not use profanity in this situation. I lived in Brazil for a year when I was dead and it is very nice culture and I can speak whatever language I am speaking to this bartender brilliantly. Also I know the reason I am here and it is not a fucking reason. It was for a case. But that’s all over now and I am still here. I’ll still be here tomorrow too. Our flight out is not until Monday so John and I will still be here tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. Not that anyone cares. There are lots of Sundays.
~*~
I was just surfing on the internets and someone says that Sunday’s child is loving, good, and gay. I don’t know how that person knew that I was going to be gay but here I am. All gay for John. Oh yeah, I was born on a Sunday. It’s not important. It’s just that it’s Sunday tomorrow and I thought I’d bring it up.
~*~
John has come up with a brilliant idea to kill time until our flight leaves tomorrow. We are going on a high speed boat ride in the harbor. Then we are going out to my favorite fancy restaurant in the old town. It’s a really sweet place and John looks really nice in candlelight. So that should be fun. It will be so good.
~*~
We are on the boat. I’m totally not going to crap my pants. As long as I don’t fall off the boat, or drown, or get wet, my pants will be so clean.
~*~
So a couple of things happened. One is that that boat went really fast and then stopped on a dime and my suit got all wet. Also they did these donuts in the water and the boat tilted at an alarming angle and I thought I was going to fall into the Atlantic. I didn’t though so I was totally fine. John had a really good time because that guy is a slutty, slutty whore for danger.
~*~
Don’t read John’s blog.
~*~
Let me clarify. When I say Don’t Read John’s Blog I don’t mean that four thousand of you should rush over there within ninety minutes and read the bejesus out of that thing. For the record I did not “scream like a little tiny kitten that has gotten wet” and I most certainly did not grab onto John’s hand and “beg most piteously for it to be over”. Also I did not kiss the ground when we got back to land.
~*~
I am just slightly damp and sitting in my favorite restaurant. This place is not as romantic as I remember it. Perhaps it is because this time my genitals feel like that are about to sprout some sort of Amazonian, Brazilian moss and possibly fungus.
I don’t mean to judge. If genital moss is your thing then that is more power to you. And if I was going to have genital moss then the exotic Brazilian variety is the type that would probably be sought after. I hear Brazilian waxes are all the rage. Perhaps I should try one of those.
The food here is still pretty good though and I have just shoved my hand down John’s trousers and he is not growing any plant life or fungus or anything so I’m probably okay.
~*~
To be clear, today, Sunday, is my birthday and John has not mentioned it yet but he did say I could set the agenda for today until we have to go to the airport so we are going to go get me a Brazilian wax and then we are going to the zoo. I thought I should plan something momentous for such an important birthday even if no one else remembers it.
~*~
Seriously, DO NOT READ JOHN’S BLOG.
~!@#~
Brazilian waxes. Not really. Not. Not. Not a birthday thing.
~*~
I’m limping around the fucking Brazilian zoo in the scrotum-sucking humid rain forest. All these fucking monkeys are naked. John keeps checking his blog on his phone and giggling at the responses to the video he posted of my Brazilian wax.
Fucking, fuck! Giraffe! Put away your tongue and your penis!
~*~
I was totally fucking, fuck-faced distracted because I got searched at airport security and they took my special shampoo away. I can’t do my signature hair ruffle if I have to worry about dandruff! Some of us need medication to make that happen!
What happens is: there is this fungus, (no, not an Amazonian, Brazilian, rain-forest, sexy fungus,) just this regular British fungus that attacks some of us and makes us have dandruff. It’s so scientific and cool. I have a secret formula to take care of it but the airline people took it from me.
Anyhoo, I was so distracted I didn’t notice that we were not on a direct flight to London. John knows how I feel about indirect flights. It was not until we were airborne that I noticed we were not bound for my beloved city. No, we were headed for Boston. For Americans for, in the words of the local vernacular, Massholes.
That was the last straw.
“John,” I began.
“It’s your birthday,” he said. “An important birthday because it is one that falls on the weekday that you were born on, and for some Sherlockian reason that is important, and it was so horrible. Birthdays are always horrible. I’m so sorry.” He leaned in so close to my ear to whisper this next part. “You build things up so much for this one day, love. It’s one day of the year. But you’re special every day.”
~*~
We got off the plane in Boston and got into a rental car and drove to Bar Harbor. Except that was a little too far for John’s libido so we had to stop in a nondescript hotel in somewhere New Hampshire and spend a night calming that shit down.
~*~
So here I am. I am standing at the top of a mountain overlooking the sea and John is hiding somewhere behind me in the bushes with his face smeared with blueberries. He loves those damn things. It is a new year and I have learned some new things.
1. Birthdays don’t matter. It’s one day. What matters is how special you are on every other day of the year.
2. It doesn’t matter how special you are. What matters is that you’ve hitched your star to someone who can make you even more amazing than you actually are.
3. What really, really matters is none of that. What matters is that I am special because John thinks I’m special.
4. Just stop asking me for advice and have your own birthday and your own revelations.
Happy Birthday when it’s your one day and all that.
Xoxoxxxxx
Sherlock