The truth is, I am insecure about my Blackness — which is painful and embarrassing to admit. As a Black writer who writes about issues of race and culture, I can’t help but feel a certain sense of hypocrisy when it comes to my dating habits.As a dark-skinned Black man, I have faced both overt and subtle instances of racism from white gay men. The ways in which I have been objectified and fetishised by them has often made me feel that I’m only good enough for sex and not for a relationship. I’ve received messages that said, "I love BBC ," or "I never been with a Black guy before," or, on the opposite end of the "no Blacks" spectrum, I've seen white men who are "not into white guys, sorry."When I'm dating a white man, I occasionally feel like I need to confront the issue of race head-on and acknowledge the difference in life experiences between me and my partner. It can be frustrating, but also deeply enriching, to teach someone about my cultural upbringing. But the older I get, the more I find myself wanting a partner who can relate to me without needing to be taught. I’ve become increasingly drawn to the concept of Black love, which celebrates Black couples and affirms Black pride within relationships, and I eventually want to experience this.There are also times when I feel like my white partners are trying to overcompensate for their whiteness. They start social justice conversations, bringing up racism and homophobia almost as if they're trying to prove how down they are. It makes me wonder why they’re interested in me. Are they using me as an experimental phase? Does it give them a sense of moral superiority around other white people, as if they are more progressive? Does it make them feel less guilty about gentrifying the neighbourhood?My understanding of relationships is developing, as is my knowledge of race, but I’m still unpacking how my sexuality really relates to my Blackness. As I continue on this road to self-discovery and acceptance, I often think about my gay uncles who died, and I wish they could have been a part of this journey.Now that I’m aware of my pattern, I’ve had to confront my own personal feelings of anti-Blackness and internalised racism, which has made it difficult for me to love other Black men and love myself. These feelings of self-loathing have not only affected my ability to develop intimate relationships with other Black men, but also friendships. My insecurities about my identity are hard to talk about and even harder to write about, and it’s increasingly exhausting to engage in this dialogue with Black men who don’t get it or white men who don’t understand it, either.At the end of the day, I’m not ashamed to have dated white men, and I’ll continue to do so. Who I do or do not date isn’t going to solve racism, but if I really am as woke as I say am, I have to unpack how my Blackness and queerness influence the way I see myself and potential partners. I want to be able to wait patiently for the partner I both desire and deserve, and to welcome him in whatever form he comes. But I know it’s not that simple. Maybe I’ll have to be single a little longer until I have a better understanding of myself — and I’m starting to realise that that’s okay, too.