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.

This year, Pride isn’t just a celebration—it’s a glitter-covered fuck you to the systems trying to erase me. I’m Black, gay, Afro-Latino, and an artist, and baby, I’m not here to survive—I’m here to be reckoned with. If you’ve ever questioned why Pride still matters, read this and try not to feel the fire.