Cursed by a height barely scraping five foot five, J. R. is a culture connoisseur. He’s a sucker for overcast skies and the smell of books, particularly good old-fashioned horror and gothic thrillers, à la Rice or Michael Cox. He enjoys a lot of things from movies about castrati to smoking cigarettes on the roof of his house, to classy sweaters and wayward glances, to successful sex hair and hobo chic. He’s an old soul with a little bit of a potty-mouth and a friends with benefits relationship with Red Bull and Microsoft Word that goes hand-in-hand with his love for Vivaldi and alternative rock in equal parts.
J. R. has been penning stories of the M/M or bisexual persuasion for years. He’s known to sometimes spontaneously burst into song, go off on twenty-minute tangents, and quote Sherlock Holmes (usually assuming the Robert Downey Jr. interpretation).
He currently lives near Pike’s Peak with his family and his one and only better half, but Seattle is his hometown and he finds himself inexplicably thinking about the West Coast every day.