[Editor's note: We're toying with a new multi-author series about our experiences at the movie theater. We'll let Beau kick it off from the West Coast with Magic Mike.]
I blame Channing Tatum’s ass.
The date had been going along fine. He wasn’t terribly cute, but he was attractive. That’s a very important distinction. We both shared a similar affinity for film, both were heavily involved in productions in and outside of college. (He adored Soderbergh, I’m a Bergman and Ashby kind of guy. Come to think of it, I wonder what they thought of each other. Ashby being an addiction-ridden humanist hippie, Bergman being the son of a preacher man who’d engaged in more onscreen love affairs than Warren Beatty.) We’d already argued about Jeff Nichols’ Take Shelter, laughed heartily at the Pitch Perfect trailer, my reservations slowly subsiding, trying to remind myself to be open to the experience. (The Schizo Gay Cupid on dates is so frustrating.)
And then, the goddamn film started...