I love a good Law & Order marathon. Especially SVU. I mean, nothing gets me going quite like watching Stabler and Benson throw some crazed New York City rapists in jail. Plus, Iced T is always good for at least one “That’s messed up” per episode and for some reason that just cracks me up every single time. Watch out -- the next paragraph contains spoilers!
Recently a 2011 episode called “Bang” aired during a marathon on USA Network guest starring every 90s gal’s favorite sexy uncle, John Stamos. In it, he plays a total creep who has some kind of insatiable need within him to get ladies pregnant which is definitely sexual abuse.
Like any quality bad guy, he plays cat and mouse for most of the episode but really damns himself when he’s caught punching holes into a condom.
I’ve seen this one probably a dozen times before but my most recent viewing felt more personal -- it reminded me of *Brice, a guy I dated who was this creep -- in the flesh!
I met him online and our first date was to a Dunkin Donuts around the corner from his apartment. That was probably my first tip that I was dating the wrong guy but I was looking for a distraction and he fit the bill -- tall, lanky, fairly alpha in nature. He bought me an iced coffee and talked at me for an hour before he had to run to class. He was super busy, after all, and I took it as a good sign that he was able to carve out an hour of his day for me.
The chemistry wasn’t quite there, exactly, but that could be built with time. The the conversation took a strange turn; he brought up his younger brother who had recently knocked up his girlfriend.
“His life, man. It’s ruined, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It depends. My best friend had a baby right out of high school. Her life isn’t ruined but it wasn’t an easy road for her. It’s what you make of it.”
Brice grinned at me with his whole face, a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
After our date, he disappeared and it was two weeks before I heard from him again. I just so happened to be down the block from his apartment when he texted me so, of course, he immediately invited me over, and being curious about this fella, I happily obliged.
We were under his sheets within 15 minutes. I don’t know what came over me at the time -- we were siting on his couch talking about hydroponic mint and tomato plants when I realized he was an absolute bore. But he was into me and he was really cute and it had been a while since somebody made my eyes roll into the back of my head, so I said what the hell?
I crawled into his lap and kissed his face and he took it from there. For hours. That first play sesh he was attentive and exciting yet I was a little concerned because all three times we took it to Pound Town the condom broke -- that had never happened to me before in my life and now I’d experienced it three times with the same guy in the same encounter.
I asked him to help me pay for Plan B and to his credit, he did. I chalked it all up as a super-strange fluke and forgot it.
For the first few months our relationship proceeded like most casual situations seem to go; we got to know each other over movies and take-out in his living room after I got out of work or over home-cooked meals and decent sex but rarely did we leave his apartment. I didn’t bring him around to meet my friends or family or even mention his existence.
Then he got a promotion at work and had less and less time to spend with me. Still, a girl’s got needs, so I kept him around. In the heat of the moment one night we decided to forgo condoms and never used them again -- not really my wisest move but, hey, we all make our choices in life.
It was around this time that things started to get really weird with him. Whenever I’d text him to see if he wanted to have a good ol’ fashioned roll in the hay, he would ask me if I was ovulating.
At first I thought this was some kind of pregnancy avoidance tactic, but since I suffer pretty heavily from polycystic ovarian syndrome and don’t menstruate without a little hormonal help, I was never really aware of when, if ever, I was ovulating to begin with.
We’d fool around -- the quality of the trysts rapidly deteriorating with each encounter -- and then two weeks later he’d text me to see if I’d bled yet. No matter how many times I tried to explain to him that I didn’t even get my period, he didn’t seem to remember.
As a course of treatment for my PCOS, my doctor put me on three months of birth control pills in preparation for an IUD. This way, even if I never got a period, I could still feel confident with my sex life knowing that I wasn’t going to end up on an episode of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant. When I told Brice, he was horrified.
“What? Why didn’t you tell me before you did that?”
“Um, I thought you’d be thrilled. Now we don’t have to worry...?”
That night, right in the middle of some of the hottest action he’d served up in months, he growled into my ear, “I’m really angry at you for getting on birth control.”
“What?” I breathed, still in the moment.
“I want to get you pregnant,” he moaned, not missing a beat.
The hell?! I was pretty wrapped up in the heat of it all and -- since it’d been a good minute since I’d enjoyed sex with him this much -- decided to just roll with it. “Yeah, babe? Do it! Get me pregnant! We can get married and everything!”
It had been some of the most fun he and I had together in the entire year we were sleeping with each other -- then a few days later he came over for the last time.
He didn’t waste a minute with the weirdness: “I want to get you pregnant.”
“Yeah?” I snapped. This time we were still warming up and I was losing my lady boner at the thought of raising a gaggle of rugrats. “And what? Marry me?”
“Yeah.” he said.
“What?!” I stared at him. “I don’t really want a kid!”
“So you were lying the other night?”
“I already tried it before with another girl but I...” he trailed off and hiccuped.
“Are you drunk?”
He grinned at me with his whole face, a smile that stretched from ear to ear, and I was reminded of that strange story he told me on our first date.
“Hey, do you have a brother?” I asked.
“No--” he said with another hiccup. “-- that was me.”
I haven’t seen the loon since.
On How I Met Your Mother, protagonist Ted Mosby once described the last person most people ever date -- the person who is so awful, so wretched of a time that they make us want to stop being utter idiots and start getting serious.
For me, Brice is that guy (or at the very least I hope so). The lessons I’ll take from my time with him has shaken me to my foundation in many different ways but none more important than the way it made me realize I am no longer fit to date boys.
It’s Real Men Only from here on out, gang. And this time I’ve even got an IUD.