This is the text "...on the wire", by a groupie, m

September_Cohen · Post by **September_Cohen** » Tue Aug 19, 2003 7:34 am

….ON A WIRE

Leonard Cohen is my man. I own every record by him. I have at least tried to learn
to play all his songs on my guitar. It is 1979 and Leonard Cohen is out of style,
killed by punk-rock. I try to fit in with my friends, to dress more punk-rock
than romantic hippie dresses, but it doesn’t come naturally to me. Even though
it should, because I am always angry. Anger is my life force. Deprived of its
logic and its livid energy I question my survival.

That’s why I listen to Leonard Cohen only at home, secretly and I don’t
talk about it. I don’t wanna share him with anybody anyway. I know of course,
that a singer worth his money is supposed to make you feel like that he sings
only for you alone, but still…

My husband is the only other person who is allowed to share my love for him.
Last time we kicked dope for two days, he listened to "You Know Who I Am"
and "Bird on a wire" so many times that it got him to cry. Not that
you need any songs to make you cry when you go through Heroin withdrawal, but
he is a tough guy who needs a lot of help to cry.

But tonight Leonard Cohen will be performing at the ‘Koncert Haus’ and
my husband is out of town on some bizarre project with the alcoholic sculptor,
he’s been working with on and off for some time. Of course I’m broke
but I show up anyway in the hope that somebody will get me in on account that
I’m cute and dressed like a true seventies groupie.

I wear a tattered lilac slipdress from the flea market and a purple furcoat, falling
apart at the seams. On my feet are purple vintage boots, laced up in the front
on high stiletto heels. I have dyed them purple myself. My hair is long and henna
red, cut straight with long thick bangs that hang over my eyes. I look like Cleopatra
in rags. This look always works for me and makes me feel mysterious.

In front of the ‘Konzert Haus’, where I show up without a ticket, a
crowd has formed. To my relief I recognize a group of people I have met before
at the academy. I work there as a painter model, since I myself havent found the
courage yet to show up for the yearly entrance tests. This way I’m getting
paid just to stand around at the academy of applied arts without having to find
out about my own talent.

One of the group knows somebody who knows somebody who knows the drummer in Cohen’s
band and the two of us run off to find this somebody and I cant believe my luck,
but we do. He is an older, very handsome man and it turns out that he manages
the band’s show here in Vienna. He is dressed in a suit, just like Leonard
Cohen and I introduce myself. His name is Daniel and our conversation ends with
him offering me a ticket and an invitation to join him later, after the show backstage.
This really seems to be my lucky day, but then again, I have never had to pay
to get into a show so far. It certainly helps to be 20 years old and to be a painter
model.

I float through the show in my plushy seat in one of the front rows. The only
thing that’s not perfect, is all the other people in the same room. Like
I said, I don’t like to share Leonard Cohen.

Backstage after the show, I stand by myself, while my new friend Daniel talks
to a group of woman in evening dresses and there in the middle of the small crowd
is Leonard himself. He is holding a drink in one hand. His other hand dances over
the exposed skin of one of the older women. I experience a wave of jealousy so
immense that it makes my eyes sting. But the tour-manager has caught sight of
me and waves for me to come over. On shaky legs I swim through the crowd and then
I’m there in front of my fantasy, holding out my hand to receive a much needed
drink. I say ‘Hi!", because that’s all I can say right now. I hardly
speak English. The only English I know comes from trying to understand Leonard
Cohen’s songs and from one summer in England.

And even if I would speak his language, I wouldn’t want to waste my words
with banal bits, like "I really liked your show", or "How do you
like Vienna?", but obviously, I would like to be able to say something, that
makes me sound more interesting than a nervous school girl. But I delay to worry
about that because Leonard looks at me, smiling. He asks Daniel something, while
he keeps his eyes and his smile on me.

"Leonard wants to know where you’re from" Daniel translates for
me and I turn to Leonard. I’m not sure if I even understand this question.
But Leonard laughs and Daniel explains that he thinks that I don’t look Austrian.
"What do I look like from?" I ask both of them.
"He thinks you could be from Russia or from Mongolia or even an Eskimo"
"OK. My mother is an Eskimo and my dad is an indian chief. But don’t
tell anybody. My parents don’t know that I know that I’m adopted"
I say, while I fish for my cigarettes. Leonard lights my cigarette with a match
from his breast pocket and drops the matches into my bag. He grabs two glasses
of wine from a uniformed waiter and toasts with me. He takes my fur-coat and drapes
it over his arm. He leans against the wall, watching me. There is some response
between us, I feel it each time I meet his sad looking eyes. I respect the power
of songs, the vibrations, all the things one cannot see. Occasionally those things
are more powerfull than all the rest – you either bow to them, let them in,
or their force will break you. It is hot and noisy in here.

"Do you want to take a walk?" he asks into my eyes.
"Yes, outside!" I smile back.
He takes my arm and outside the cold winter air hits my flushed face. He helps
me into my furcoat and I have no idea where to go from here. My couriosity is
roused by not knowing the outcome of this. I have suffered for this – more
than once – yet my impulse remains, has even strenghtened over time.
My idol, this old man decked out in a suit and with sharp lines in his face, this
Leonard Cohen kisses me right outside the ‘Konzert-Haus’ and I have
to stand on my toes to reach him. His hands grab for my hair and I place myself
entirely into his hands, pretending not to know it, pretending to think that I
am in charge. I have learned enough about seductions over the years to know this:
real desire, the kind that gnaws and lasts is nearly always mutual. We exchange
another tangled kiss, a kiss that opens a series of doors to a series of rooms,
so that stopping is difficult and torturous. He reaches down into my dress and
holds my breasts. It gets way too cold to keep standing outside, even loved and
desired like this.

"I wish I knew where my hotel is" he looks at me and laughs "Opera
hotel or something sounding like this…?"
"Oh!’ Hotel bei der Oper’! I know, it is not far, we can walk!"
I know a lot more English than I thought.

We walk through the ‘Stadtpark’, where a thin layer of ice has formed
on the little lake. His arm over my shoulder and both my hands under his shirt,
we are slowly making our way to the hotel.

When we get to his suite, I drop my coat to the floor and Leonard calls room service
for more wine. On the windowsill stands a little plant, a citrustree that fills
the air with sweetness, much sweeter than the little lemons growing on it. He
lays down on the velvet sofa, arms at his side, staring at my face. I lay down
beside him, not touching.
"No, stand there and take your cloths off!" he points to the french
door that leads into his bedroom. He lights cigaretts for him and me and I unbutton
all the tiny little buttons on my slipdress. I make it last forever. Then I unclasp
my bra and roll down my panties. Thankgod I wasn’t too scared of the cold
to not wear stockings. I would hate to have to step out of some ugly pantyhose
in front of Leonard Cohen. I want him to see what I would like to be: a beautifull
young girl from Vienna, naked but for purple stockings and boots, smoking.
"Yes!..Now come over here and stand in front of me!"
I love standing naked in front of a so much older fully clothed man. He is still
in his suit and tie and this feels so delicously nasty and ‘verboten’. Most of the
time I cant even tell if I even like all the sex I’m having. Ever since I have found
out that my husband is gay, I’ve fucked my way around Vienna. There are a lot of cool
bands and artists that I run into when I go out at night and I never, ever return
home by myself. But I hardly ever feel even turned on and I’ve never had an orgasm
with anybody but myself. I connect with the people I fuck on some other level, but
sex is just the vehicle. I just do it because I don’t know how to do anything else
to not feel lonely. And I kind of enjoy the kissing and touching, its just when it
comes to fucking, that’s when I turn off. It hurts. My pussy hurts and I want it
to be over. Fast. That’s why I always pretend to have great orgasms, because I want
it to be over.

Now when this man looks up at me with all the lust and desire in his eyes, I feel
kind of turned on. He reaches up, harshly and pulls my face down on his shoulder.
He strokes my back while he keeps on smoking. I lift my face from his shoulder
and kiss him. First lightly, a feathery lip-brushing baby kiss, then a kiss of
deeper inquiry. Than as if a drawer has fallen open in him, dislodging its contents,
he suddenly kisses me back, pushing his tongue deep inside my mouth. He runs his
hands down my back until he grabs my ass. A bucket of desire empties over my head,
covering my eyes. I reach down grabbing him through his pants but he takes my hand,
lacing our fingers together. "Not yet!" he says. He places me so that he lays behind me,
kissing my neck until I cant stand it and press my
ass against him. His laugh fills my ear with warm breath. He pinches my nipples
until the block in my body, a block that had been solid ever since the rape, melts
suddenly away. When he reaches down between my legs I find it almost unbearably
sensual. I shut my eyes and let the wetness and my greed for more dance through
me. Blood rushes to my face and makes it ache. In an empty universe, everyone
must choose a few coordinates and I choose to lay next to Leonard Cohen. He breathes
my smell "Chocolate?" he asks. "Perfume" I say "from Vienna".

I feel the matress trembling beneath me. I’d been afraid all along of wanting
it more than I’m used to, but he doesn’t know that.
"I love it" he says and takes my hand, wich is hot and shakes in his.
He rolls me over to face him and he holds me. He holds me for a long time. I sense
that he can feel my strength, the pounding heart inside my small frame and at
that moment he recognises me at last: the innocent. I know in my skin that he
feels an impulse to protect me, to shield me from some overwhelming danger. But
there is only himself.

This time when I reach for his fly, he helps me to undress him. He dims the light
even more and when he is totally naked, he spreads the cover over us. He makes
me get on top of him and I ride him, slowly and trying to feel some more of what
I got a taste of before, when we just kissed and he wouldn’t let me have
more than that. I feel a little bit. It doesn’t hurt! I fake that I’m coming,
because I have no idea how not to fake it. I almost really feel that I
could maybe come, if I would keep going slowly like that, with him kissing my
neck and holding my breasts. For now that possibility makes me giddy with joy
and satisfaction. For now that’s as good as it can be.

We lie naked in bed and drink some more wine. We try to talk, but every attempt
ends with us laughing and giggling because of the language. We fuck some more,
drink some more, fall asleep, have sex again, fall asleep and next time I wake
up, I climb out of bed, silently so not to wake him and get dressed. I don’t
mean to sneak out, but I don’t want to be there for breakfast. Fully dressed,
I tiptoe over to the bed and kiss him lightly on the cheek. He hugs me, half asleep
and murmurs:"Thanks for the sweetest Vienniese pastry I ever had. Thankyou!"

At least that’s what I hear him say.

lizzytysh · Post by **lizzytysh** » Fri Aug 22, 2003 5:31 am

I can't believe I almost missed this, September. Where did you get it? Was this a real night in the life of Leonard, or a young woman's fantasy and fiction? Erotic.

Midnight · Post by **Midnight** » Fri Aug 22, 2003 8:42 am

Of all the stupid things I have read on this forum, this "On a Wire" has to be the stupidest. Erotic? It's about as erotic as a bowl of spinach.

lizzytysh · Post by **lizzytysh** » Fri Aug 22, 2003 4:32 pm

Seduction occurs in many fashions, not all of it with wine and roses, candlelight and chauffeurs. To me, this was erotic. Not every single detail, and I would change a few of the words, yet overall. Particularly since I could imagine it actually happening. It also happens to be the first detailed "account" I've read of someone, allegedly with Leonard in this type of situation. I could see him being attracted for the night to someone from Vienna with this description. I also love raw spinach

.

Linda · Post by **Linda** » Sat Aug 23, 2003 2:45 am

Lizzytysh, this could have been written by hundreds of women about hundreds of men at any given time and place, although it most likely is an accurate account of a night with LC, that could be written by many women, it was probably written by someone with a vivid imagination. I felt sadness for both of them, at first my question was, has he ever made love to anyone or has it all been nothing but sex. In the song, In My Secret Life he answers that question in the first verses. I saw you this morning, you were moving so fast, I miss you so much, and we're still making love in My Secret Life. In my opinion making love and sex cannot be compared, one is easily forgotten the other not.

Makes me wonder who the you is in that song. The mother of his children perhaps?

September_Cohen · Post by **September_Cohen** » Sat Aug 23, 2003 3:00 am

I'm not sur about it. I always felt that Cohen has only been in love with Marianne....And probably he still is. Everytime that I heard a new love song of Cohen, I cannot dissociated Marianne from it. She's been THE Lover of Cohen's heart, I personnaly think. She's never been forgotten. My opinion

lightning · Post by **lightning** » Sat Aug 23, 2003 6:13 am

I believe she is an honest woman if she admits to faking orgasm. If she were just writing porno and boasting of conquest she would not admit it. Athough we enjoy reading it many would feel it was indiscreet and a betrayal of intimacy to get that graphic. From the description of sex provided it did not seems as if the partner, however seductive, knew or cared that the orgasm was fake, nor did he do very much to make it genuine.

Midnight · Post by **Midnight** » Sat Aug 23, 2003 6:51 am

Good Grief. It's all BOSH. The writer is just tripping. Very hackneyed formula. "Painter's model"...my eye! All those little buttons on the slip-dress. Alcoholic sculptors, heroin withdrawal, gay husband, rape...plus she never has to purchase a concert ticket because she's so babelicious.

The only thing I found remotely interesting was all that smoking. I mean, does the man never stop. I couldn't help but think of Now Voyager when Leonard lit the two cigarettes right before the "main event."

P.S. How does one walk with both hands under someones shirt. I don't get it.

P.S.S. Leonard was what, about 45 or 46 in 1979? Yeah , that's a real old man.

Tchocolatl · Post by **Tchocolatl** » Sat Aug 23, 2003 3:41 pm

I feel this text is artistically inspired by Cohen in general . Like a painting. Theme : Beautiful Loser (without the "s" for the originality maybe). This story appears to me more american than anything else in the spirit. But, you know, one can imagine anything.

P.S. : I can walk with both hands under someones shirt. Very easy. I'm not sure I would be able to do it walking with purple (or whatever colour) boots with high stiletto heels - kind of Cirque du Soleil's trick. Well the image is there.

lightning · Post by **lightning** » Sat Aug 23, 2003 5:07 pm

This is being treated like fiction rather than actual human experience. <p> Nelson Algren said of Simone de Beauvoir who wrote of their sexual relations: "She was worse than a prostitute. At least a prostitute leaves the bedroom door closed. She not only left it open she invited the whole world to look in." So also for "groupie".

evelyn · Post by **evelyn** » Sat Aug 23, 2003 9:39 pm

I don't believe this was written by a woman.
It reminds me of something from a soft- core porn mens magazine.

The description of her hair, her outfit, ect. is by someone fantasizing over a Victoria's Secret catalogue.

Why would she go out looking for sex if it she didn't enjoy it?

There is nothing wrong with erotic ficton if that's what you're into but why take a cheap shot?

There is an non-emotionally intimate tone that I find also prevades My LIfe With Leonard.

I read these fictions because I am curious. But having read them, I can't help but regard them as such.

I feel sorry for Anne Diamond (or is it Anne McLean?) for feeling that she has to resort to outrageous accusations to get the attention she craves.

evelyn

mamalex · Post by **mamalex** » Sun Aug 24, 2003 2:14 am

evelyn; i agree it reads as if it were written by a man. erotic? snooze! very disappointing to someone who would like to know the real dirt on lc's personals.

Tchocolatl · Post by **Tchocolatl** » Sun Aug 24, 2003 3:29 am

Evelyn, I'm tempted to tell you not to feed the throll then.

Lightning, prostitutes are paid to do anything men ask them to do, and if they want them to close the door they do. I do not think it is great to say that slavery is better than liberty for a woman, even if I agree that free speech can be misused sometimes.

Regarding the subject of LC's real (sex) life, reality is always above any fiction in any field, but I would not dare to investigate, as I feel private life is sacred.

lizzytysh · Post by **lizzytysh** » Sun Aug 24, 2003 5:29 am

45 or 46 would be real old to a 20-year-old [even though I can't find where she says "20" now].

catherine · Post by **catherine** » Tue Dec 30, 2003 10:55 pm

but why is he or she using all those german expressions when the story´s supposed to be playing in vienna? and the style is clumsy.