The Time I Became a Victim of Netflix and Chill.
The scariest story a woman will ever read.
At this point I wouldn’t know his voice if I heard it; we text more than we speak. My emoji’s cry electronic tears for me as I make light humor out of my frustration. I sit, stiff faced, staring at my phone screen, wondering what other reaction I should exaggerate while concealing my feelings of being slighted. I casually inquired about how his day was — but all I really wanted to know was why he hadn’t called, or asked me out, after sampling my premium pussy package.
My phone blinked with a message, he responded, “Good.”
And that’s when it dawned on me, I had gotten Netflix and Chilled, a new-age phenomenon that is attacking the singles community at daily increasing levels.
Let’s start from the beginning.
It’s been two weeks, one day, and a few hours since I was backing my ass up like I was in a Juvenile music video on the couch of a man I had met on the fly. He had baited me with the promise of good conversation for the goal of relationship building, I had been had. Suckered! Finagled!
When I met him I was certain that God was excitedly ignoring my requests. The man was reasonably attractive, but basic beyond measure, not even a smidgen close to what I was looking for. He approached me with the predictable rigmarole; he complimented my face and physique, then proceeded to question the legitimacy of my singularity. He offered to take me out sometime — never did and of course I never brought it up, because I wasn’t interested in dating him in the first place.
Until one faithful day my phone was dry and I was bored which is the perfect recipe for screwing your life up. I had enough time to convince myself that I was being too much of a choosy-Susie and should open up to the stragglers.
I sent a text to the ‘one-word-response’ man asking what he was up to for the evening, he replied with vigor. There was no hesitation, his message packed more interest than a bank loan. He apologized for his lack of pursuance since obtaining my number; blamed it on work, family, and other pressing matters that he would love to discuss further over a movie and wine.
I agreed to join him.
Upon entering his home he hugged me, gingerly, at first. The man had such a “come-hither” smell that I couldn’t help but to cling to him, he took that as a signal to ramp up his hug to high levels of tightness. I knew right then that if I ever let him inside of me I would hesitate letting him back out. He seemed to squeeze all of my reservations about him right out of my bones, blending my curves into his strong warm places, my body broke into every side-to-side motion he swayed me in. Grasping tightly to his back bones, I absentmindedly let out a low moan. My breathy release broke his trance; his smirk showed that he understood the small breath leaving my lips was my white flag waving, he stopped and broke into conversation while casually grabbing my hand to lead the way around his home.
I complied with what is expected of the first time home visit and flooded his ego with adulation by commenting on his home decor and the dorky pictures of him as a child that hung on the white walls. I admired the photos of his family — his mother’s beauty, I championed his father’s stature, and hailed him for being family oriented and having a clean living space. Listening to his familial stories and observing the values he seemed to have were enough to have me creaming in my panties and damn near throwing the yoni at him by the bulk, by the time we made it to the dreadful couch I was as good as fucked.
Stay with me here, its about to get real.
I tried to talk myself through the challenge of keeping my panties padlocked.
He kissed me softly on the neck, I jerked away out of shock rather than rejection; his lips had broken my concentration. I needed to think clearly, hastily I pushed him away from me. He stared blankly at me for a few moments before heading to pour me a glass of wine.
I watched him glide around the kitchen, with each movement he peeled off the layers of dislike that I initially had clothed him with. Despite my resistance, he remained a warm gentlemanly host. Did I peg him wrong? Was this something? Could we grow to be something? No, no, no, it’s too soon to think this is something. I always do that. I looked at him above my glass rim as I shoved alcohol down my gullet.
I tried to deeply inhale myself back into sanity but every breath was wrapped in Cabernet Sauvignon and his cologne. I kept crossing and uncrossing my legs, fiddling with my clothes’ hemming’s while debating on going home.
We glanced at each other flirtatiously, talked lightly, laughed heavily, and continued to indulge in spirits. I did my best not to let the Cabernet lead me, but my fermented friend dropped me right into the lap of intoxication allowing the host to steer the ride for the remainder of the night.
“What do you like to watch?” He asked.
“It depends on what mood I’m in.” I said.
“I been wanting to watch…. (blah, blah, and more blah)…for a long time…”
He proceeded to select a film on Netflix.
I flipped my legs laggardly onto the couch and laid back to rest my drunken bones.
I could hear voices in the background; a film was playing, yet all I could really comprehend was intensity — I felt his hands on my inner thighs and switched my hips inward in attempt to show resistance, that only fueled him for a deeper dig — his firm hands pried at my defenses. Without a lapse in motion he was on top of me, his hardened frame crushed me into the couch seats.
His eyes were lit by the movie screen; I could see flickers of anticipation on his face. He kissed me gently, begetting hard croons from my softly licked lips. Any inhibition was now distorted by the romantic ambiance I was thrown into.
He nearly kissed me sober. I enjoy foreplay but his snail like movement was slowing down the hot-and-heavy momentum, I looked on the bright side — at least my perceived sanctity was still in tact, there was a chance that I was not going to be a booty call, I was hopeful. I turned my head away from his and hit him with the good ole fashioned: “I don’t think I’m ready to go there yet, I want to take it slow.”
Ha! He had taken too long, I win! No pussy giveaways tonight sucka’! At least that’s what I thought in the moment.
He paused, mentally processing my decline, and as if nothing happened, then he began suckling my neck between words, “no pressure… I want you to do whatever feels comfortable… I would love to have you now… but I can wait.”
Subtly I turned away for reason of not wanting to be a buzz kill, I was eager to keep the tension alive. Caught between expectation and titillation, I quickly realized that there is no balance in sex, you’re either having it or you’re not. He took my lazy “no’s” as a sign to continue. In one swift motion he removed both of our bottoms, I almost gave him a shove, but when his fingers slid over my clit I collapsed into the crevices of the couch cushions.
I was in the sunken place.
His fingers refreshed my memory on why sex was great. I was reminded why decades of singers and rappers have dedicated their careers to describing this moment, it was then that I lost my strength to say no.
I arched my back as he drove his fingers into the depths of my walls, I watched as he swiftly removed himself from his briefs which was like watching a dozen clowns get out of a MINI Cooper — he was huge. I was terrified that he was going to tear up my vagina with all of that package. He would have to be my man after this because who would I be able to be intimate with after him? Who will fit? I’ll have to upgrade my tampons to jumbo size and only sleep with Quarter-Backers after I let him run through me.
I wanted to back out, but I was in too deep. It was the equivalent of someone splashing water on you while you’re chilling pool side — once you get wet you might as well get in. I gave in: I let him cannon ball and back stroke my pussy. But of course he spoiled it; he roughly, with no concern plunged through me at high speed, I quickly pruned and each move he made became painful, ignoring the discomfort he continued to plummet. My breath caught in my throat.
Grunts. I just wanted it to end.
“I just want you to cum for me daddy.” I ushered.
I tried to sexy it up as much as possible; the faster he came, the faster this would be over. His sweat dripped into my eyes, I moaned out of vaginal discomfort. He flipped me over and entered from the back, climbing the rough terrain. I threw it back to represent my experience. I threw it back for insurance that he would call me again, and lastly I threw it back so that he could bust and this nightmare would be over.
He pulled out quickly and released himself on my ass. My bones cracked as I re-framed myself and walked to the bathroom. I grabbed toilet paper and wiped him off of my backside. He called to me, asking if I was okay. How could I answer that? What could I say? “Nah, bruh your sex is trash, but I hope you still call me because I kind of like you and we can get through this since I already gave you the pussy.” Instead I said, “I’m straight.”
When I came out of the bathroom he was sitting straight backed at one end of the couch. There was silence, coated with intensity, but not the sort from earlier, this intensity begged for someone to speak and explain things. We didn’t cuddle. We didn’t watch a movie even. I motioned for my clothing hoping that he would force them out my hands and tell me to stay, but instead he quietly watched me dress. Once my last garment was on he was walking me toward the door dragging through his goodbyes in a lazy fashion. He hugged me quickly and I could’ve sworn the motherfucker even gave me a quick pat on the back.
Now here I am two weeks later with no more than a few words of correspondence from him. I had gotten played by a guy that I wasn’t even initially interested in which stung that much worse.
I am officially a victim of Netflix and Chill.
Pass this story on to your loved ones, its a heart-wrenching disease attacking the unsuspecting lovers out there.