There’s a half-naked man gyrating on top of me as hundreds of women scream in pleasure and dollar bills fall from the sky. I’m at a Disneyland for horny women. I’m at a mecca for bachelorette parties and divorce parties. I’m obviously at Magic Mike Live.
There are some pleasures that I secretly love, with a deep, guilty desire. These require me to put my moral compass briefly on hold—when I dance to “Blurred Lines,” when I listen to Michael Jackson—but while you may assume I have to pause my feminist feelings to properly indulge in my love of Magic Mike, you’d be wrong.
