The committing of a hidden life event to the written word. I used to wonder if my reluctance was driven by shame, or simply my incredulity at what took place all those years ago. Now, I think that it is those things mostly, but also a hell of a lot more. Over the last few years, particularly in the recent crosswinds of our racial and cultural political climate, this life event bubbled to the surface of my memory, never quite boiling over.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There's only one patch of skin on a white man's body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man's skin. The first time I caressed black skin, it felt like a luxury I shouldn't be able to afford. I craved it more strongly than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo Blahnik shoes.

In their efforts to keep the black family functioning, black women have taken charge. See the predicament. They both have a problem yielding to the other.

In a Bedfordshire nightclub, white couples queue to have sex with black men. Meanwhile, black women are routinely snubbed on dating sites. Why do racial stereotypes persist when it comes to sex?