J.R. Whittington

I'm not spoiled—I'm aged, like good whiskey or that vintage Saint Laurent blazer from Tom Ford's era that becomes more iconic with each passing season. While Hollywood stays stuck on mayonnaise-bland leading men, I'm over here seasoned like my grandmother's cast iron skillet, ripening into the kind of authenticity that makes people clutch their pearls and check their privilege simultaneously.

I tear myself open, offer the marrow of my dreams, and still vanish into their indifference. This isn’t mourning—it’s the holy act of making space for who I am becoming.

I booked a TV show at the top of the year and thought, “Finally, it’s happening.” But Hollywood said, *“No, bish. Back to the grind.”* Still, I’m here—seasoned, sharp, and ready. Dreaming out loud. Fighting for the unseen.