July 7th, 2012 Posted 10:29 am
On the opening weekend of the testosterone-fueled male stripper movie, Magic Mike, I went with friends to see Channing Tatum’s abs. We bought our tickets early online because the buzz was that the showing we wanted to attend was already selling out. Um, okay.
I’m 42. I’ve spent a number of years at romance conventions with shirtless cover models, which is the equivalent of stripper movie inoculations. Also, I’m in love with a man who still makes my heat trip over in my chest (and we all know the only thing better than true love is a nice MLT … mutton, lettuce, and tomato sandwich). So … I was a little WTF about all the screaming, clamoring women waiting in a long, long line to see Magic Mike, a movie about men ripping off their clothes. Most men will rip off their clothes if you only ask. Some will, even if you don’t. And they’ll thrown in the bonus of ripping off your clothes. Sans dollar bills, too! As one of my friends stated, “If single men were smart, they’d be waiting outside of the theater.” You know, to catch hold of those hot and bothered women who’d just seen Magic Mike.
The place was packed. Random screams would emit as more and more ladies entered the theater. I admit, I let out a whoop now and again, too. What? I like Channing Tatum, ever since I saw him dance in Step Up. Don’t judge me. Here’s the thing. Women have sex drives. Heterosexual females like pretty men in the same way heterosexual men like pretty women. Women fantasize about sex. Women like sex. Women want sex.
My theory is this … going to a stripper show or feeling up the muscles of a cover model or waiting in line to see Magic Mike is about sexual freedom (and Channing Tatum’s abs). It’s about being able to enjoy the fantasy of hot, young men making you feel wanted, desirable, and sexually alluring. Why the hell do you think erotica for women is so popular? Women are sexual creatures. Sometimes, it’s just about the orgasm. (I know this concept is difficult to grasp for those who think we are all romantic, emotional, Hallmark-card women.) Sometimes, it’s about connecting with a human being, especially the human being you’ve chosen as your bond-mate. The one. Maybe for now. Maybe forever.
However, I think Magic Mike and erotica novels and women getting hot and bothered by almost naked men gyrating to bad music is very, very simple. A man is paying attention. That’s it. He’s not staring at the television. He’s not thinking about work. He’s not playing Draw Something on his iPhone. He’s not plopping down onto the bed you just spent fifteen minutes making so he can while away the afternoon with CNN.
Magic Mike boogies his way to your chair and gives you a lap dance, and you’re inches away from his thong and his muscles. His eyes are on you, and he’s making you feel good, making you feel wanted, making you feel like a sexual creature worthy of attention. You’re not a housewife anymore. No one is asking you about dinner. You’re not doing laundry or dishes. You’re not worried about grocery shopping. You’re not ignoring your own needs to fulfill those of your family. Magic Mike asks nothing of you. He just gives you pure decadent sex-me-up-ness.
And that’s why Magic Mike is so magic. And also because of this: