Where's the Beef?

I didn't go into a stripper movie expecting much. In fact, I was pretty clear that I wasn't interested in the "talky bits." I wanted hot, naked men dancing for my amusement without the hassle of a two-drink minimum and a handful of dollar bills that I am supposed to stick into dirty, sweaty, spangled thongs. I wanted a movie made for women - sweet romance with a hot lead, swoon-worthy secondary characters for comic relief, and at least one really good sex scene.

Sadly, I got nuttin'.

What I got instead was a movie made by men, who, as usual, proved they have no idea what women really want.

I was in a theater full of women ready and waiting for a good time. The initial buzz was happy, giggly, and silly. The first ass shot got a round of applause. The first dance number got some woo-hoos, and there was one "Hey-yah" from the crowd that was not only well-timed, but well-earned. But slowly, as the movie went on, all the life got sucked out of the crowd. The woman two seats to my right spent the first 20 minutes on the edge of her chair, head in her hands, staring at the screen as if she were trying to figure out a way to climb into it. Inch by inch the end of the movie found her slumped into her seat, unable to even muster a smile.

SPOILERS. You want to lose your cherry? Then proceed. But if you want a virgin movie experience, stop reading now.

Yes, it was a stripper movie, but couldn't it have been good as well? Would a full-frontal would have been so hard? (Snerk) There were tits aplenty (as usual), but not one dick shot. I love Joe Manganiello and Matt Bomer. When one has a character is named Big Dick Richie and the other is named Ken, well, I want to see the big dick and I want to know if Ken is anatomically correct. I don't want to see a prosthetic dangling in shadow. I want a full on, Boogie Nights shot and I want it now! Plus, they barely had any lines! I am usually the first to point out that hot men need not speak, but in this case, a little dialogue would have gone a long way. Or, a plot, really. A plot would have been nice. Romance? Romance would have been lovely. Instead, we got a lousy actress (who I am sure was not hired because her father is a studio head), terrible chemistry between her and the lead actor, uncomfortable sexual chemistry between her and the guy who plays her brother, and, of course, she had to be bitchy, condescending, and belittling. She wasn't charming, or intelligent, or funny. She also must have been absolutely hated by the hair and makeup team because while the men all sported flowing locks and perfect tans, I don't even think she wore lipstick.

So, why do I think the movie was made by men who had no idea what women actually like? Let me give you an example. A pretty young thing spends her 21st birthday at the stripper bar, partying with two of the hottest men she has probably ever seen, but she ends the night with a blow job. Men, let me let you in on a little secret. I can count, on one hand, the number of women I know who enjoy giving head. When women are drunk and horny, they want to get laid. LAID. Not swallow.

Here's another example: while the movie starts off auspiciously with a shot of Channing Tatum's ass, we are immediately treated to a scene where he puts his clothes on but the woman keeps hers off. Why does a theater full of women need to see tits? We all have a pair. We can see them every day. We are not impressed. Show me a schlong.

However, the last scene of the movie was by far the most egregious example of men being from Mars and women being from Venus. Finally, our hero and heroine are getting together. While I am not Channing Tatum's biggest fan (a) because judging by his inability to speak clearly, he probably has cow tongue and would be the worst kisser ever and (b) because he has a stupid name - even I will admit that he oozes charm. He's moving in for the kill and finally, we are going to get the honest-to-God sex scene we've been waiting for this entire movie. The crowd is rustling, anxious, waiting for this final release. What do we get? End credits. Are you fucking kidding me? The entire audience let out its breath in one unhappy whoosh. It was like a kid knocking on the bedroom door when it is locked. Reading 50 Shades supposedly gave women blue balls? Well, that last scene in Magic Mike kicked them in the balls.

They couldn't even get the casting right. The secondary character, the Kid, was so soulless, so dead-eyed that he practically had the word "skeevy" tattooed on his forehead. No one was rooting for him. While most of the strippers were easy on the eyes, one of them mysteriously looked like Mickey Rourke. Who wants to see him naked? Matthew McConaughey, a man who spent a considerable time on my list, is now such ancient history that I must have written his name with a quill. You could have used his skin for one of his infamous bongos, it looked so leathery. The plot, such as it was, managed to biff even minor points. One character is thrilled to have earned $230 in one night. My cousin earns FOUR TIMES that much in a single shift bartending. After six years of stripping (and working three day jobs), the hero of the tale has only managed to save $13 grand. Apparently, stripping really doesn't pay that well. Though, perhaps the rent on his beachfront, two-floor house, filled with real wood and lots of light, is setting him back a bit.

So, to the friend who was unable to attend because the movie was sold out -I promise that I will go see a movie with you, but it won't be this one. I'll buy the tickets and the popcorn, but I will not sit through this movie again. I should have just stuck with the trailer - a little flesh, a little music, and a lot left to the imagination.