Glenderful's Shit List: Melvin Gregg

Gather ‘round the porcelain throne, you filthy little manifestors—it's time for another divine download straight from the Universe's asshole.

The Universe doesn't scream. It whispers. It slides a craving so deep into your brain stem that by the time you notice, you're already feral, drooling, begging for it. That's how it got me with Melvin Gregg. One quiet little throb in my temples... and way lower... and suddenly this Glenderful is wide open, flushed pink, and starving for every ounce of this man's shit.

I'm talking ravenous. I'm hangry, babes. Hungry for Melvin to stride in, drop trou, and unload like the generous cocoa king he is—watching me take it all, no gag reflex, no shame, just pure gratitude while he smirks and calls me his dirty little Glenderful.

I was watching Peacock's The Paper—that chaotic, fluorescent-lit Office spinoff the critics tried to murder in the cradle (fuck ‘em sideways, it's comfort TV crack)—and there he was: Detrick Moore, 6'2" of earnest, crisp-shirted, people-pleasing ad-sales daddy holding that dying Midwestern newspaper together with nothing but a jawline that could circumcise you and shoulders built for pinning or being pinned, dealer's choice.

The man is restraint porn on legs. Under those newsroom lights his skin doesn't glow—it taunts, it reflects, it dares you to touch. Every tailored button screams "I'm the good guy... but rip me open and find out how bad I can be." The camera devours him in slow, thirsty pans because it has no choice. We have no choice. That quiet strength, that burnished cocoa perfection, that way he fills a frame without ever begging for it—Jesus Christ, he's already squatting over the Glenderful, ready.

Then I made the fatal error: I googled him. And the Universe laughed.

Melvin Gregg, born September 22, 1988, in Portsmouth, Virginia—the only brother in a house of six sisters, which explains why he knows exactly how to handle chaos with a smile. Studied marketing, blew up on Vine like a goddamn legend (top 100, millions of followers, the blueprint), then said "fuck that" and pivoted to legit acting without ever looking desperate. Breakout in American Vandal (DeMarcus was robbery), killed it as Manboy in Snowfall, flexed for Soderbergh in High Flying Bird—and now he's the beating heart of The Paper, renewed for Season 2 before it even dropped because of course it was.

No scandals. No mess. Just a tall, grateful, mom-thanking, fitness-obsessed king who talks about craft like he actually gives a shit. Disgusting. Perfect. The kind of generous shitter who won't make you beg—he'll just give it to you, thick and relentless, then lean back and watch you swallow every bit while calling you his greedy little Glenderful toilet.

In this game there are two kinds of men: the ones who tease and the ones who deliver. Melvin? He delivers. No games. No pretense. Just "open wide, baby—here comes the dump." And I'll be right here, mouth agape, thanking him for the privilege.

So with zero chill, full thirst, and practically vibrating with need—welcome to the official Shit List™, Melvin Gregg.

Come feed your toilet, daddy. I'm flushed, filthy, and famished.

White rabbit, white rabbit—manifest that shit accordingly. 🚽💩✨