Chocolate Lyrics

It had been the perfect Friday afternoon,

the job was almost done.

The house we were decorating was owned by a little old

man,

forever in the same three piece suit he'd probabbly had

since he was demobbed.

He seemed to be forever on his way to the post office,

carrying brown paper ansd string wrapped parcels under

his arm.

He'd bring us out china cups of camp coffee and plates

of custard cream biscuits.

The house had belonged to his parents who had both

passed away within weeks of each other, a few years

back.

They were the only people he had ever lived with, this

was the only house he had ever lived in.

I wondered what would happen to the house when he's

gone.



It was a short walk to my bedsit, once a similar house

to the old man's, now broken into lots of single room

accomodation.

It also once had a great garden like his, now occupied

by one-storey modern block building, containing the

dentist and chiropodist.



In my room was an electric cooker, which I only used in

winter to keep warm,

next to that was a sink with a glass shelf above it, on

which was a toothbrush and carton of marlboro's.

There was a table with a chair in one corner, a single

bed in the other, and about four sq ft in the middle.

There was a wooden drawer under the bed with most of my

clothes in, the rest was over the back of the chair.

I had a record player on a table and boxes of records

underneath.

The bathroom for the first and the second floor was

opposite my room,

it had a meter for the water which took two 50pence

pieces, you'd have to wait half an hour for the water

to heat up, and keep an eye on the door in case some

sod pinched your bath.

There was one toilet upstairs and one outside, but no

one used the outside one anymore, so it was where the

local prostitutes would take their clients for a

quickie.

I'd spend as little time as I could in my room, my skin

was still warm and soft from the bath as I walked into

town.



So I was sat on my usual bar stool in my usual pub by

6.30, the usual twelve or so regulars in at this time

of the evening, nice and relaxed before the post 8.00

crush, we'd crowd around the tiny bar then pool tables,

the house rule for fool was winner stays on, you'd

chalk your name on the balckboard, and wait your turn.

The challenger would pay for the game, so if you were

good, you 'd play all night.Tonight I was great.

She walked into the pool room just as I potted the

black, the next name on the list, bent down to the slot

on the table and put coins in.

I was used to seeing her surrounded by burgundy flocked

wallpaper and red velvet upholstery in the sunday night

pub around the corner; she looked different stood here

in the pool room, she looked good, she was looking at

me.

I ended the game as quickly as I could, without losing

badly and stood near her.

"Would you like a drink?", she asked. "I get them. What

do you want?" I replied. "The same as you're having",

she said.

The great thing about being a regular when the bars

turned deep is it only takes a raised eyebrow and a

couple of nods, and two bottles of Holster Pils had

been passed over people's heads to you. We did the pool

room dance for a while, moving to" excuse me"'s bending

around elbows and pool cues until we decided to move on

It was too early to go to the club, so we went around

the corner to the Sunday night pub. It was still quite

busy on a Friday night, full of couples and students.

It had a reputation as a gay bar, probably why the

students came in, to feel safe.

She was my dream, we drank pernod and blacks, talked

about John Barry, Ford Cortinas (she preferred the Mark

3), what was best: gel or Brylcream? I preferred the

Brylcream.

She even agreed On Her Majesty's Secret Service was the

best Bond film, if you accept it as a whole and not

just get hung up about George Lazenby.

She smoked Silkcuts, she didn't mind Marlboros, but we

both had a fondness for Old Port cigars

We moved down to the club. Upstairs for a couple of

onion bhajis went down to the quiet bar, near the dance

floors.

We decided to leave early, you wouldn't want to be

there in the end, when the lights came on. You'd never

sit down in here again. In a depressing shuffle we

pushed to the door, now it was good to get up and out,

while it was still a black hole, warm, and smokey, full

of possibilities...



She lived by the river, the other side of town, queue

for taxis was hell as usual, next to the late night

chippy, the worst chips you could buy, but at this time

of night, full. Outside fights and throwing up. We

jumped in the taxi, nothing mattered but us.

Back at hers, a bedsit in a house similar to mine,

she'd done something, painted three walls, put up some

old fifties star wall paper, a big Bowie poster and

some nice curtains, it would be easy for me to change

my woodchip magnolia bedsit standard. Afterall, it was

my job. She had a few lamps here and there were some

candles. She made us proper hot chocolate, not the

instant shit you get from the machine. She had

Fox'sbiscuits and a small bottle of Cointreau, too. The

end of a perfect day. The taste of chocolate,

cigarette, and orange liqueur made it even seem better.

I undid her tartan miniskirt, pulled off her black wool

tights, my lips moved up her legs... What the fuck? I

had a large hard dick poking me in the eye. "Shit!

you're a chap!" I felt like jumping through the window,

screaming, I couldn't move...

She... he...still looked the same... I had a pain in my

head, I wanted to do something, say something...

He was holding me, sobbing... "you must have known, how

could you not tell?" And "I love you, I can be your

woman..." His eyes were still beautiful, deep brown,

his lips still chocolatey and orangey.

"Shit!" I said, "I was never a breast man, anyway..."