Magic Mike XXL’s New Sexual Groove: Female Desire and Conspicuous Importance

“All we got to do is ask them what they want and when they tell you, it’s a beautiful thing, man.”

— Andre

As I walk into the theatre I notice two things: first, this is the busiest screening I’ve been to since Jurassic World, and second, the pre-show crowd murmur is a few semitones higher than I’m used to. It’s not unpleasant, but it is distinct enough that I pause to look over the audience. I’ve heard the rumours: based on some survey with undisclosed methodology and little to no oversight, ninety-six percent of this audience should be female. I’m rubbish at estimation, but that seems about right. I briefly consider sneaking into another theatre where I’m less likely to be quizzed on why I, an unaccompanied straight man, am here. I decide that it’s likely someone would see my overwhelmed deference and laugh at me the way girls laugh at boys who misunderstand any aspect of female anatomy or physiology, and so I stay—though this isn’t easy, as few seats are available beyond the first few rows. As any frequent filmgoer can tell you, being at or at least near the latitudinal centre of the screen becomes exponentially more important as you move closer to it. There is a lone empty seat, dead centre of row three, but it is flanked on either side by large groups of friends. I ask a group of about six pre- or barely-t(w)eenaged girls if—sorry, if I could just… ‘scuse, I’m just trying to sorry, sorry, sorry. I make a point not to look at them during or after this procedure, but I get the feeling they’re looking at me. What I hope is that somehow the group of girls to my left will think I’m part of the group to my right, and vice versa. The guy to my right leans over and says “you know, I’m surprised how many men are here.” His pitch is highly varied, his vocal stops are slightly affricated, and he has hyperexpressive sibilance, so I quickly run the odds on convincing the girls to my left that we’re a couple. I realize I haven’t responded yet. I retroactively listen to him. I say something about how Channing Tatum is now a respectable, masculine actor whom respectable, masculine men can appreciate ever since he put on a leotard and rolled around with other men in Foxcatcher. My fake boyfriend doesn’t remember Foxcatcher, and the joke falls flat. I stare at the seat in front of me. I say nothing. I regret coming. The movie starts. I proceed to have one of the most revelatory and downright engaging experiences of the year.

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