Always tip.

There's a #MagicMikeXXL ticket with your name on it. Grab yours at @Fandango NOW!
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The thing about movies is that they're a manufactured cathartic experience contained within a 90 minute time frame. That's what they're supposed to be, I know, but they usually make me feel bored. At the end of Magic Mike: XXL I felt like I'd just done a triathlon! The friend who accompanied me admitted she had similar symptoms: we were dizzy, disoriented, our hearts were beating erratically. We'd really been through something.

It was this same friend that I saw the first Magic Mike in theaters with, and it was her bachelorette party that had me organizing a trip to a New York strip club featuring male entertainers. Hunkomania! Yes, it's called that.

It's not badass or uncommon to go with a party of bachelorettes to watch a bunch of men gyrate on stage. But I think about that evening a lot, because I basically lost my damn mind. I spent hundreds of dollars on torsos and watered down gin and tonics. I followed a male stripper down the street yelling profanities. Luckily, he was pretty chill about it, because he definitely could have complained to the police. I'm sorry, David, wherever you are.

Movies about strip clubs and actual strip clubs are a lot alike, because both are about fantasy. Fantasies are intoxicating, and though the gin and tonics had SOMETHING to do with it, I definitely did things that night under the influence of lust that I would never do just from drugs and alcohol. I licked a stranger's chest. I paid for the bride-to-be to get slapped in the face with a d*ck through the thin nylon of a faux-loincloth.