Mick Hartley: A Sexually Highly Charged Black Woman

This is strange:

Michael Foot, the former Labour leader, had a secret mistress in the early 1970s during his marriage to Jill Craigie, the film maker.
The left-wing politician’s official biography, to be published next month, describes the mistress, who was a “sexually highly charged black woman”.

An odd phrase, that - a sexually highly charged black woman. What can they mean?

As it happens I've been given a brief preview from the relevant section of the soon-to-be-published biography:

Michael had been working tirelessly on his speech to the forthcoming Labour Conference when the door bell rang. It was a balmy late spring evening: the windows were open, allowing in the fresh smells from Hampstead Heath. Jill was out at her poetry evening, so Michael had to make his way down to open the door. He knew who it would be: someone from the Brixton Labour Party. He was anxious to hear the views of the immigrant community, and was looking forward to getting some fresh new ideas from a local party activist.
He opened the door. She stood there, a sultry smile playing about her full lips.

"Howyadoin?" Her voice was husky, her skin a deep burnished brown. She brushed past him into the hall and slid out of her leopardskin coat, to reveal a red slit skirt which could barely contain her dark muscular thighs. Michael followed her up the stairs, unable to keep his eyes from her large buttocks as they moved from side to side, the skirt riding high. She exuded a musky animal smell.

"Would you like a tea?" Michael said, aware that his voice sounded forced, feeble.

"No t'anks - I'll just have a lickle smoke." From her handbag she produced a long cigarette, twisted at the end. She lit it, and took a long drag, inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs.

"So", Michael began,"I was hoping you'd be able to..."

"Cool!" She'd seen the record collection, and headed over, kneeling down to take a closer look. Michael was once again aware of her physical presence. Her dusky sensuality filled the room. At last she let out a little cry, pulled out a record, and proceeded to put it on the turntable. Michael thought it was from the Brahms section of the collection, and was awaiting the welcoming chords from the beginning of the Third Symphony, but instead the room filled suddenly with a loud crudely rhythmic sound which he was unable to recognise. Surely this wasn't one of Jill's records.

The woman started to move, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as the rhythm built up. She danced towards him, a lascivious grin on her face. Her dress was now up on her hips, her body was moving to the beat, backwards, forwards, to the left, to the right. She raised her arms, and shook her torso, her large breasts barely contained by her dress. Michael felt curiously aroused. The sweet smell of her cigarette filled the room; the beat was relentless, compelling.

"Hey honkie - relax!" She grinned at him and pulled him towards her. He was unable to resist. A primitive animal urge within him, denied for too long, was asserting itself at last.

The room dissolved. They were no longer in Hampstead. They were in a jungle clearing, back at the dawn of humanity. The tom-toms beat their relentless rhythm, their sweat-drenched bodies....

Well, that's all I got, I'm afraid. Personally I can't wait to read the whole thing.....especially, you know, the bits about the 1983 election campaign and his CND connection.