I met a Ugandan lady recently at an event. She very black, slim, gorgeous bubble butt and tiny tits, what I could see. She was dressed, but there beneath her bit fussy top were slight suggestions of bra less nipples. She was a lovely mover on the dance floor. I told her that and she giggled that she had no competition as she was the only black woman in the room.
The subject of her using the word black led into chat how that term is preferable than the term coloured, saying I am white, she is black.
We chatted many subjects even Idi Amin, as we drank our beers. He hands were alive gesturing all the time and I loved that dramatic change of skin pigmentation between the backs of her hands and her palms.
She had a great sense of humour too and I am an inveterate leg puller. When I mentioned that she was only 24, one of my jokes, she screeched with delighted mirth and confided she was 61. Her teeth were big, white and gappy. We laughed a lot, with her understanding my quips.
Not a pretty woman by any means but an interesting lively face made me engage her in a conversation - and that I had the opportunity to chat to her, without suspicion, interruption and be close to a true black woman, which I'd never experienced before. She was also very tactile, touching me with those sinewy black heavily bejeweled hands a lot. Standing so close I was discreetly studying her chest all the time, searching for better indications of those elusive nipples.
Her fingers were decorated with a lot of rings, all gold and I told her how much I admired them, which gave me the unplanned chance to finger them and therefor her hand, while she told me the stones, were emeralds, sapphires and diamonds. They looked spectacular and I said so, reverting back to her skin tones. Her palms were a smoky pink, hue.
She added that of course the soles of her feet were the same and she leaned closer, grasped my wrist in confidence and told me that the inside of her lady parts were the same colour too, bursting into fits of laughter.
How I wished I could be intimate with her.
Her skin colour and her age then my advanced years rolled to the subject of ageing and she suggested that black people don't show their age like whites, which then led me back to her 61 years and how whilst making a joke earlier I had no idea she carried those years.
It was such an open conversation, when her second husband, a lovely white chap joined us, I was very disappointed. I hope I meet her again at another event, quite likely.