Magic Mike and the Case of the Sexually-Dissatisfied Soccer Mom

I did something. Something I'm not particularly proud of.

No, I didn't finally follow through with my Marco Rubio/Mitt Romney roleplay fantasy.

It's worse than that. I went and saw Magic Mike.

Now I know you're probably thinking, "Yeah, you and every other red-blooded female. What's the big deal?"

And to that I would say, "Valid point, reader. But how about you keep reading anyway."

I pride myself on not being a fan of romantic comedies. I'd rather chew off my own arm than read 50 Shades of Grey. And Twilight, well, let's just not talk about Twilight. But there was something about the premise of watching a bunch of oiled-up men shake their junk at a camera for two hours that made me eager to jump on a bandwagon.

So I jumped.

My friends and I pushed ourselves into the sold-out theater, managing to acquire seats that were exactly three rows from the screen. This was partly to ensure that we would feel like the werewolf from True Blood was teabagging us. And partly because we lost track of time while we were trying to get hammered before seeing this ridiculous movie.

A low hum buzzed through the packed room. (I'm almost certain it was from nervous excitement, not because anyone had snuck in a pocket rocket.) It seemed everyone was eager for the lights to dim and the action to start. I can only assume this is what an organized orgy would feel like. A room full of people all waiting for something to happen, but trying to play it cool.

"Oh man, I can't wait for this silly ol' movie to start. I'm just going put 

my phone on vibrate and place it directly between my legs."

"That sounds like a great idea. By the way, if I ask you to call me your

 dirty little whore at any time during the movie, just overlook it."

After what seemed like a really awkward eternity, the movie began. And it was just as horrible as anyone could imagine.

Two hours of loose plot about a stripper/furniture designer. A broke kid who starts doing a lot of ecstasy. And Matthew McConaughey doing exactly what he would be doing in real life, if the whole acting thing hadn't panned out.

It was a mess. 

A hot mess. 

One that made me want to make a baby with the first man I saw after leaving the theater.

Holy mother of God, does Channing Tatum have no bones?

And I would literally quit my life and lay around naked, smoking marijuana, and playing the bongos with Matthew McConaughey if he just said the word.

When the movie ended and I exited the theater, I was left with a lot of unanswered questions.

Why was there no full-frontal in that movie? Where is the nearest male strip club? Would they do full-frontal? Why is that woman not wearing any pants? Did someone really bring their 4-year-old daughter to see Magic Mike?

None of my questions were answered, of course. 

However, I can say without a doubt, that paying money to see men--albeit gorgeous, genetically-gifted men--dry hump a stage is shameful.

But it could definitely be worse, I could be masturbating to 50 Shades of Grey.