J.R. Whittington

I know you are, but what am I? A grown man weeping in his living room at 2 AM, that's what I am. Ha-ha! But this ain't no laughing matter, not really.

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.