Im a 29 year old, white male, and as the topic title suggests, i LOVE black women. For as long as i can remember i have always been attracted to black girls. I always loved the chocolate coloured skin, the caramel coloured skin. Almost pefect, flawless skin. It would, and does, drive me crazy. In my mid to late teens when all my mates would go on about giving one to Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera, i would be wanting to shag Christina Milian or Scary Spice, whatever her name is. I never dated a black girl until i was 25. Before that i was always worried about what other people might think, because whether you like it or not, there is always politics attached to interracial dating. Almost, but not quite, taboo. Ive seen it with my mates, if we have been in the pub, and a white girl walks by with a black boyfriend. All the abuse starts, the usual. White slag, whore, traitor et cetera.. . . and if the black bloke reacted it would get even worse, he'd be lucky to walk away with just a punch. . . . Unfortunately a race divide does exist, not only in the UK, but in all Western and non Western society. Looking back i feel almost ashamed for bowing to social pressure. I have always had a '**** you' attitude, less so now im a bit older, but it was certainly prevalent in my youth. If i didn't like your attitude or i felt that in some way you offended me then i would not be backward in coming forward when it came to violence, inevitably ending with a conviction for battery, which made me focus and change. Having said that, the spark is there, just don't bring the matches. But for some reason, i never had the courage to date a black girl, i was worried what others might think, the stigma attached to it. It was all a bother i did not want, despite my urges and inclinations. All that changed one night in a pub after work in central London. I saw the most attractive girl i had ever laid my eyes on. Beautiful face, a stunning figure, just like Beyonce with curves exactly where you want them, caramel skin colour. For me she was absolute perfection. I knew i had to have her. Self praise is no advertisement but im a good looking lad, ive got the charm and confidence and if that fails then ive got the top tax band job, car, house and lifestyle to match. Im the blond haired, blue eyed Englishman in a pin stripe suit and a diamond watch. Id buy you £200 bottles of champagne and stick it on the company card without so much as a second thought. That was me, thats how i saw myself. Cocky, yes, but justified. I managed to woo her. I wasn't sure whether it was the charm, the Boss suit or the BMW M3 parked outside. I was informed much later, by her, that she gave me her number just to shut me up and make me go away. Either way, it was a result. That '****' as she called it, didn't do it for her. She couldn't give a toss about fancy suits, flash cars, wedges of cash, good looks or image. We began seeing eachother, mid week staying at her flat as we both worked in London, and at weekends we would usually spend time at my house in a village i lived in west of London. The best time of my life? You bet, it was great. I had this ebony Goddess, complete with Beyonce body and looks that would bring any man to his knees, and best of all was the fact that she was mine. She later confessed to having a thing for white men with blond hair and blue eyes. Id won the lottery! Aside from her killer looks and body, she was smart as hell. She attended a good University here in England, she was ambitious, she was witty, she was fun, she was caring, she was loving, she was perfect. In the bedroom she was a whore, a fiend, kinky as anything. By day she was this classy, intelligent lady. Without going into too much detail we once spent an entire weekend in her bed with me, as she called it, 'servicing her'. She was demanding and im convinced that inside she was a little dominatrix. She certainly liked my face wedged in her derriere, which i might add was a fantastic place to have your face, and she had an array of fancy dress. She loved role playing, quite often with her in charge with me as her 'white boy' and her as the 'black queen', as she quite often called herself when we were in the bedroom. Jesus, those were the days. She was one tough girl, mentally and physically, certainly her thighs were anyway. Ever wondered if a girl with thighs like Beyonce could strangle a man she is pissed off with? Well, she could, as i found out. Good times though, there are worse places to find yourself being crushed. And im a big lad, im 6ft5 and 19 stone, thats 266lbs ( due to years in the gym and playing back row for my local Rugby team) and i couldn't pull those legs apart. Those thighs were like an anaconda, just make sure you do your job properly when going down on her! She was fiercely independent, and had a fiery temper, but she was well balanced. Certainly a far cry from all that 'ghetto' crap you see on MTV. The same crap that is mainstream in the UK. To me that just demeans black women, even if some live up to an image protrayed by media, MTV etc etc. Another subject, a different day. She was a classy, intelligent, powerful, confident black 24 year old woman. Anyway. As stated earlier, she was very ambitious and that was the downfall of our relationship. She was offered a job with very good wages in a city 300 miles away. I would never stand in the way of anybody and their career. So i didn't. And by pure coincidence i was offered fantastic wages to work in Frankfurt for a year. So that was that. 2 years with her and i loved every single minute. Im back in London right now and she is in Manchester. That is the way it is. We have a bit of contact, but nothing more than the odd message on facebook. It's a little sad, but you move on and deal with it. I try not to look at her albums on facebook as i don't want to get jealous. Id never envy anybody else. I work for a well known firm in Square Mile in London. About a year ago we were recruiting, and that is usually done by Human Resources, much like in the US id imagine. For whatever reason i wanted a more hands on approach so i offered to interview people myself. They were, afterall, going to be working for me. I took time out to interview all manner of applicants. Generally young, generally male, and graduates all, including Oxford, as graduates from there want to end up in Hedge Funds and that type of investment, so going through us was a very good start and looked top notch on your CV. After 3 days id have enough, but saw one last applicant. An applicant who's CV was pretty poor at best. It read well, grammar was perfect, but totally unqualified for the job. 20 years old, female blah blah blah. I persevered, being hardcore as i am, and am i glad i did? Yes. In walked Rihanna's long lost twin, right down to that cute little nose. I had a load of questions, unscripted, that i would fire off at any applicant, but she stopped me in my tracks. We were sat opposite eachother at my desk just nodding and smiling at eachother, her probably wondering what the hell is going on, and me feeling rather intimidated. I think the 'interview' lasted 45 minutes, consisting of conversation relating to anything but investment banking. I wanted to hire her there and then, but knew that there was no way i could give her a job, as my line manager would wonder what the hell was going on. I kept her details while i came up with a cunning plan. I would convince the top dog in our department that i needed a PA. Other lads on my floor had PA's, so why shouldn't i? I could charm my boss with my BMW M3 and my Boss suit. Whatever worked for me. It didn't occur to me that my boss had suits trailored made by Hugo Boss and drove a RangeRover Kahn Overfinch. The fact i didn't need, or want a PA didn't matter either. The thought of somebody running around making me coffee repulsed me. I had always done everything for myself, always had it drilled into me at a young age to be proactive. To go and get what you want because it won't come to you, including coffee from an irritating vending machine. And the fact that the PA's working where i worked were dowdy and miserable didn't help matters. But this was different. This was Rihanna. My boss mumbled something about integral part of teams, well oiled machines. He basically didn't give a ****. So i got straight on the phone and offered Rihanna, or Bekki as her CV called her, a job, as my PA. If you're wondering how banks are responsible for the recession then wonder no more. We all hired our very own Rihanna's, or in some cases Mrs Doubtfire, on £23k a year salaries, when infact, we didn't need PA's at all. That and trying to impress the Beyonce's of this world with £200 bottles of Bollinger that didn't impress her at all. Just goes to show the amount of money milling around Banks, but thats another story. She wanted the job and she started the following week. The fact she spent, she has now left the company, 90% of her time sat on my sofa in my office reading her magazines didn't bother me one bit, i loved it. Even when my boss saw her he just mentioned something about reading being good for morale. She would offer to do paper work, get coffee, whatetever, but i always declined. She would frown when i got my own coffee. Bless her. I never built up the courage to ask her out on a date. I was actually frightened of her, such was her beauty. Infact, the biggest regret of my life was not having a set of bollocks big enough to ask her out. I never considered any girl out of my league. All except her. I was definitely intimidated by her. Having a thing for Rihanna, as i do, made it hard. It actually felt like Rihanna was sat in my office. She even had the same hair style as Rihanna. You could put a beautiful white girl infront of me and it would barely distract me from trying to sell somebodys shares. Put a beautiful black girl infront of me and you have my full attention. Rihanna, or Bekki, would sit on my sofa reading her magazines, wearing short suit skirts, legs crossed, and i would find myself just staring at her thighs, i couldn't help it. Im pretty pleased i was never required to stand up at short notice as i would have to have tucked something away behind/under my belt, or face a rather embarrassing scenario. A rather inappropriate scenario. Id play out a routine in my head, like in films, where the boss asks his beautiful secretary to get him a file from the bottom drawer, and she bends over giving him an eyeful. Alas, i never built up the courage to even ask her to get me a file from the bottom drawer, instead id be rolling around on the floor myself, trying to pry open a drawer, while she sat looking puzzled from the sofa, cosmopolitan in hand. Unfortunately she left the company. Her salary for her age, and considering she didn't do much, were very good, but the daily travel to work was tough on her and she wanted something closer to home. Getting the tube is ****. I tried my best to encourage her to move to another department within the firm, as people would kill to work for the Bank i work for, but she wasn't interested. Aside from the fact that i was hypnotised by her hips, thighs and arse as she walked, she had a brilliant opportunity to work for a leading world Bank. But nothing worked, she wanted to leave. I gave her a fantastic reference and still rue the day i let her slip through my fingers. And that was that. Over. I personally don't know why im attracted to black women. I just am. I find them to be very exotic. And as my ex girlfriend once told me, once you taste black ***** you won't want anything else! Quite. Every now and then i think about the Beyonce i had, and the Rihanna i didn't. Im currently single and have been for a couple of years, im just waiting for the next 'black queen' to walk into my life. Im proactive, as i said, but something tells me we'll meet when i least expect it. But if there are any takers? £200 bottles of champagne await! Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read my story. I just felt the need to tell it. Not sure why.