Someone asked me today if Tyrone has a type. I laughed. He doesn't have a type. He has a function. And it’s not about the color of the cock that wrecks him. It’s about the feeling of being replaced. The deeper the humiliation, the harder he gets. He’d thank a stranger for fucking me in his own bed, just to feel that exquisite, pathetic pulse in his gut. The truth is, he doesn’t care who’s inside me. He only cares that he’s not. His preference isn’t for black or white. It’s for anyone who isn’t him. And that, darling, is the most honest thing he’s ever written.