National Video and Chill
My friends and I rent movies from the foreign language section of the video store. We need to watch something for French class. Our French isn’t good enough to understand the descriptions on the back of the “Queen Margot” VHS box and foreign films are Not Rated so how were we supposed to know this film was going to have some graphic sex scenes? Definitely not appropriate for a school night. My best friend says Vincent Perez is hot. My other friend squirms, her cheeks red and embarrassed. She says we shouldn’t be watching this pornography, and we throw cheese balls at her. I guess she’s never stumbled across the “Joy of Sex” under her parents’ bed. Now, that’s pornographic.
Pay-Per View and Chill
My parents have an illegal cable box and I’m excited that the pay-per-view channel is airing the U2 Zoo TV concert from Sydney Australia so I can mention it to the guy I like in English class. Real casual like, I say I’m having some friends over. So now he’s sitting on this lumpy brown hand-me-down couch next to me. Except the box keeps acting up so we can only see a strip of Bono in his fly glasses and his MacPhisto costume in the middle of the screen, with wavy lines across the top and the bottom of the TV display. Someone says we should see if “Showgirls” is on one of the premium channels. The guy I like pipes up “We can still hear the music fine” and I squeeze a little closer to him on the couch.
Strawberry Hill and Chill
I drink an entire bottle of Boone’s Strawberry Hill when Tom dares me to do it. We’re watching “Interview with a Vampire.” My roommate falls asleep and everyone else leaves as the credits roll. Tom lifts my wrist to his mouth and I’m not sure what he’s trying to do, but I think I like it. In the morning the cute German exchange student sees me in the hallway and asks who gave me all the hickeys on my wrist. I look down and see them for the first time, purple and red splotches all over my skin. Next time we make out, I tell Tom no hickeys in places anyone else can see them, and we date for eight months.
Pirated DVD and Chill
Darren invites me up to his apartment on our second date. “We can watch a movie or something.” He slips a binder of pirated DVDs out from under his futon, titles written in Sharpie. “What do you want to watch?” I tell him he can choose and he slips in something I haven’t seen before. “Mr. Brooks” with Kevin Costner. Darren moves to my side of the futon and kisses me for the first time. It becomes an inside joke that his big game move was putting on a serial killer movie to set the mood. I never watch the end of it.
Netflix and Chill
When Darren gets home from work, I don’t tell him I’m ovulating. I put on “Peaky Blinders” and sexy lingerie. The rest takes care of itself, and now we have a four-month-old who keeps us up all night and I hold my phone at arm’s length while I breastfeed, binging every episode of “Gossip Girl” with the volume on low.
Chili and Chill
The Evite in my inbox says “You’re Invited to Chili and Chill.” From Gary in accounting who loves to host parties at his house. When our administrative assistant walks by my office she asks if I’m going. I nod no. My kid has a thing. “But I did laugh out loud when I saw the invite. Chili and Chill? Like Netflix and Chill. Cleary Gary doesn’t get what that means.” The assistant looks at me with a blank stare. “You know, Netflix and chill.” Now I’m stuck in HR with someone explaining to me how “chill” sometimes just means hanging out with coworkers and enjoying a meal. But we all know it really means fucking on a couch while pretending to watch Netflix.
