Glenderful's Shit List: Channing Tatum

Men are like fine wines—sometimes you glance at the bottle and think "eh, pass," but then your fag palate matures, craving depth, body, that subtle oak of lived-in grit, and suddenly you're obsessed, uncorking fantasies nonstop. Which brings me to the latest uncorked obsession on my Shit List: Channing Tatum, darling, the vintage that's been quietly ripening into pure perfection.

At 45 (Taurus king—stubborn jaw, loyal abs), he's not the twinkish marble of Magic Mike anymore; no, he's evolved into a man who's refined—danced hard, fought harder, laughed till dawn—and it shows in every delicious crease. His jaw still slices, but softened by wisdom; those eyes crinkle with mischief; silver threads in the hair scream "I've lived, bitch, and I look better for it." That's aura farming at its finest—doing nothing flashy, just existing as a mature, grounded daddy who doesn't need to pose for clout because his presence alone racks up infinite points. Clock it: he's not trying; he's just being, and that's the hottest aura there is.

His body? Whew, not the gym-carved youth perfection—better. Broad shoulders that could pin you down, a chest sun-kissed and heavy with gravity, arms built to lift or cradle effortlessly. There's real weight now, a lived-in thickness that makes you want to climb him like a tree and never come down. Masculinity distilled: strong enough to be tender, confident enough to be vulnerable, unafraid to own his beauty. He can suit up corporate, jeans casual, or glitter onstage and still command the room. The lines around his eyes? The way he moves with that easy "I know who I am" swagger? That's the art form, bitches—not shouting, just commanding.

Career? Run the tape: stripper-turned-star with Step Up, Magic Mike (and XXL—choreo Nobel-worthy), range in Foxcatcher, charm in 21 Jump Street, voice sex in Lego Movie, producer vibes.

Foot size 12—need I say more?

Diet: flirted with keto and clean prep for shirt-off scenes, but off-duty he's Southern comfort all the way—Cajun, carbs, no pretending.

Bad boy past? Strip clubs, wild years, but now it's reformed daddy energy: meditates, co-parents like a pro, misbehaves just enough to keep it spicy.

Fun facts: ADHD and dyslexia king (charisma is his learning style), co-created Sparkella books for his daughter (daddy goals!), dances/fights/acts/produces/laughs at himself without losing hotness, face works bearded, clean, or glitter-dusted.

Roofman? His career inflection point, bitches. Big-hearted shaggy crime comedy based on that wild true story—Army vet roof-hopping McDonald's robber escapes, squats in Toys "R" Us, reinvents with a single mom. Tatum doesn't just star; he produces, shepherds the tone, stays tight with the real guy Jeffrey Manchester (relentless positivity DNA all over it). Critics call it his rawest, most open work—every flinch, blink, lowered head loaded with backstory. No coasting on charm; he darkens it, panics it, graces it. Goofy, sexy, devastating in the same scene. Under-sung gem reminding us he's not just a hot dancer—he's intuitive, vulnerable, magnetic lead with fingerprints on one of 2025's best.

Southern food? I worship it—the real, guttural kind. Fried okra snapping like campfires, tangy green tomatoes, fried chicken juicy to the bone with stained-glass skin. When I manifest Channing, it's an epic spread: table buckling, hot honey dripping, biscuits fluffy, pickles crunching. I want to watch him devour it, sauce trailing down his lip, messy and unapologetic—because that's how it's meant to be. Devoured. Sloppy. Honest.

And yeah, after that? I'd worship every last morsel of this man's shit—inhale it like the gluttonous faggot I am, no shame. Channing's the real-man fantasy we deserve: lived-in, emotionally open, still fun at the party. If I met him? Professional for 0.2 seconds, then straight to begging to be his personal bidet. No apologies.

Welcome to Glenderful’s Shit List, Channing Tatum—my daddy worship entry!