Around 1979, Jim and I were staying at a hotel in New Zealand when Muhammad Ali walked in. He was just so beautiful. It might have been near the end of his boxing career, but as he came through the lobby, everyone stared at this figure of power, authority and grace. My evening went badly. I`d got into a row with Jim at the hotel bar and stormed off. Feeling a bit tipsy, I staggered into what I wrongly thought was my suite. That`s funny - the door`s open, I thought. Inside was Ali, surrounded by an entourage of stunning girls. `Come on in, honey,` Ali said to me. I wasn`t going to argue with a world champion. I sat next to him and he started chatting me up. Not thinking what I was saying, I said: `Gosh, your hands are so big.` I think he got the implication. After a while, Jim came to find me and walked into the room. Ali said: `Who`s that?` I had to be honest. `That`s my husband.` Ali answered: `What you doing with that white honkey?` I guess it`s every man`s worst dilemma. What do you do when a world heavyweight champion is flirting with your wife and insulting you? Jim is pale, ginger and skinny. It wouldn`t have been much of a match. Jim left. I did the decent thing, made my excuses to Ali and went after my husband. Ali expected me to stay. I wish I had. Our commune was full of exotic men, dressed in flamboyant clothes. But they were pretty much all heterosexual.