Dear Mr. White,
It is with an uneasy mixture of consternation and lust that we received, via Instagram, your latest thirst trap. We see that you have finally assumed the mantle of Calvin Klein Underwear Boy, and while we love this for you, we are compelled to say that you’ve done enough. You may have, in fact, done too much.
We appreciate the work that’s gone into creating your perfect six- (eight? Five-thousand?!?)-pack abs. Your shoulders look hewn from the same Carrara marble that Carmy’s ancestors used to build temples. That pelvic line is a perfect road map to [REDACTED]. But, sir, this level of hotness has scrambled our GPS, and we are frankly terrified to explore your highways and side streets, even within the cozy confines of our private fantasy life.