Glenderful's Shit List: Kevin Kreider

Let’s tongue-dive straight into the algorithm’s fever swamp, because that conniving Netflix temptress dropped me Bling Empire—an uncut, pulsing dream I never wanted to wake from. Out parades Kevin Kreider, the Asian-American Adonis who doesn’t just rip stereotypes apart—he leaves them gasping, ruined, on satin sheets. This jawline-demon, this shirtless Korean god, didn’t just climb Glenderful’s Shit List—he detonated the whole thing, slapping down the bland, noodle-white logic of what hotness looks like in the West. Your Atwater Village vanilla men could never.

Six feet of veiny, sweat-sheened heat. That’s not a thirst trap—it’s a fucking flood. If chiseled jaws were weapons, he’d have a rap sheet. His eyes—fighter pilot locks, locking in with such bruising desire you forget where you end and he begins. Body built like a secret—lean, hard, impossibly taut; every move a callout to the sterile, whitewashed fantasy that Asian men “aren’t it.” Kevin moves like he’s about to breakdance in your memory and pole-dance through your desire. Shoulders wide enough to block out your heteronormative sun, abs ribbed for your inescapable pleasure, thighs that could snap your anxiety in half. He’s not your approachable soft-boi. He’s a feral fucking fever. Crawl for it, beg for it—I’m already halfway undone.

And then, there’s the obsession. I want to lay at his feet—no, lower. Those feet: size 12, Instagram close-ups, arched and veined, dusty from the L.A. grind—a foot fetish wet-dream scented in kimchi and sweat (I'm guessin'!). I want to grovel through pungent city puddles, tongue trailing. Salty, spicy, sharp—pure fermented worship. I’d suck each toe until he moans in hangul, then ride those veiny highways straight up to the rest of his Korean perfection. My mouth’s open. The line starts behind me.

Origin story? Born in Seoul, shipped to a German-Irish clan in Philly, bullied for not being “Asian enough” or “American enough”—but he set the self-loathing fire, pissed it all out, then modeled for Men’s Health with those drenched, edible abs and Gillette campaigns where I wanted to be the razor at his jaw and the tongue against his stubble. From Bling Empire to headline act: he shows that Asian sex appeal isn’t just real, it’s royalty. Sober nine years—because discipline is hotter than any vice. He’s the model, the mogul, the king—the reason model minorities want to riot.

Bling Empire was foreplay. Now he’s co-founding Sans by Taejin—non-alcoholic elixirs for the sober and the thirsty. Pop a bottle, fantasize him pouring it on me, licking every drop. With Devon Diep, he’s producing Asian-led romance so hot it’s erotic folklore. His comic, Taejin: Legend of the Yang Metal, starring a hero with a bulge you’ll hang talismans for. Acting in Hello, Love, Again—every lingering stare and flop of hair a soft-core daydream beating off your old-school stereotypes. Engaged? Good for him. But I’ll still take the scraps, thanks—just let me feast, mouth open, while his fiancée watches. Ain't no shame in Glenderful's game!

He’s no longer “serving looks”—he’s a Molotov cocktail flung at Western impotence. His TEDx talk, “Redefining Asian Masculinity,” is a bonfire, a declaration: Asian men are here, lethal, and licking the planet clean. Vulnerability, sexual energy, cultural pride—he’s all of it, at once, full throttle. It’s a revolution. The old stereotypes are dead—Kevin Kreider fucked them to death.

He’s more than a moment: he’s a movement—a hunger, a pulse, a manifesto. His Instagram thirst traps have me bookmarking with one hand, offerings with the other. TEDx reflections? Heroic. Glow-up? Unmatched. Give me more: more vulnerability, more grind, more squirming visibility and unapologetic Asian supremacy.

So hit follow. Sip Sans. Bookmark the bulge. My king, my standard, my Shit List emperor—he’s the chaos and climax the culture needed. All I want for Christmas is a long night at his feet. Worship, bitches—he’s the king, and we're all just one of his grateful disciples.