Alan Adrian

Alan Adrian's vivid portrait of adult filmmaking and the wonderful Robin Sane.

 

In Love With Robin Sane (A Letter to a Friend)

by John A. Mozzer a.k.a. Alan "Spike" Adrian

 

Sunday, November 9, 1980

Dear Tom,

Robin Sane loves me. I love Robin Sane. And yet today is an empty day.

I am writing this letter to you instead of being with her, after a mad dash from New York to D.C. late last night.

This started because of my rebellion against being in the D.C. region, where I have to be because of my regular job. I like New York better than D.C., but that is beside the point. You missed the point when you asked, "D.C. isn't as bad as you expected, is it?" over the telephone. D.C. is fun, and plenty of time will remain to live in New York later.

The point is, I also run a part-time business—the business of acting in porn films. I'm totally convinced the business wouldn't work if the New York producers who hire me knew that I'm in D.C. It's the psychology behind it. They will not call a D.C. number when they are casting.

Marc Stevens reinforced my conviction when he told me that Richard Milner, the managing editor of Stag magazine (part of the Swank group), was preparing to produce his first X-rated feature-length film. The film would star Marc as himself. Marc suggested that I call Richard because there would probably be room for me in the film, perhaps in the "party scene".

Marc promised to recommend me. Then he said, "Oh, that's right. You're living in D.C. now. You wouldn't want to come all the way up here just to do this film."

Yes, I would! True, I am stuck working here in the D.C. region most of the time, as a sales support rep for Information International, Inc. (Triple-I), a company that manufactures and markets computer-based documentation systems. So how do I convince porn producers that I'll go to great lengths, driving five hours and spending money on gas and tolls, in order to keep myself active and remembered in a business that is fantasy-fulfilling for me? Early in the game, I signed a lease for the Brooklyn apartment that I told you about and installed a telephone. I felt it was beneficial to have a New York number to give to Richard Milner, when speaking to him from Triple-I's D.C. regional office in McLean, Virginia.

But Milner wanted to see me for casting first!

So, being nuts enough, I left work early on Friday, October 10, drove to New York, and met Richard in the Swank magazine offices at 888 Seventh Avenue around 5 p.m. He described the script and said yes, he'll use me. One and a half weeks later, Richard did not suspect that his call to my Brooklyn number was forwarded, and that he was speaking to me in the household where I am living in D.C. He described my scenes. On Sunday, the 26th, at the Orleans Theatre on 47th & Broadway, we'd be filming a scene taking place inside the theater, with lots of people in the audience, and a flasher who comes down to the front of the screen. Eventually, rampant sexual activity ensues among everybody in the audience. I would play one of the audience members who becomes aroused. We'd have to wrap up at 11:30 that morning because then the theater would open to the public. Next, on Monday, the 27th, we'd be filming at La Trapeze, a New York disco/swing club at 17 East 27th Street, starting at 5 p.m. The party scene would take place at La Trapeze, where I'd be a sexually active extra.

Soon, the busy, long weekend I had scheduled for myself was before me. I planned to call in sick Monday morning, and stay in New York through Monday night. Then after completing the scene at La Trapeze, I'd drive to D.C. in the dark early hours of Tuesday morning for an appointment at the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland. Triple-I sales rep Randy J. and I were scheduled to give a slide presentation to members of a department of the agency interested in purchasing one of the company's products.

I drove to New York on Saturday, taking a different route than usual. Instead of the direct and heavily tolled Route 95, I went up to Harrisburg and then across to New York. One of my D.C. housemates had suggested that route. I was sorry. The trip took far too much longer than usual, and I developed a headache and nausea. I stopped at a Pennsylvanian restaurant thinking perhaps food would help me feel better as in past experience. Instead, I vomited after pulling into a gas station in New Jersey. Arriving at my Brooklyn apartment, I vomited again on the street.

Inside my apartment, I turned off the call forwarding. Production manager Linda Stein called, reminding me to appear at the Orleans Theatre the next day at 7 a.m., and to reset the clock because of the end of daylight savings time. It's common practice for producers to have someone call all of the talent the night before filming, and they usually get nervous if they can't reach someone. So my call forwarding system worked splendidly this time around. The turn of events might have been disastrous if I was still on the road when Linda called, and if a confused housemate answered the call in D.C.

On Sunday, I felt much better. I worked with Samantha Fox in the theater scene. The script had been rewritten because one of the main actresses failed to show for a previous scene. Samantha continuously gave me a blowjob from a position which was uncomfortable for her. Poor Samantha struggled very diligently, doing her job to keep me hard, so that I could come. I never came, and the day wasn't very fulfilling for me. Now mind you, I don't mean I felt unfulfilled just because I didn't come. I mean that I felt unfulfilled because I didn't do my job ($150's worth) of providing a cum shot. On the other hand, the crew never got around to asking me for a cum shot. So I didn't need to be upset with myself. We were rushed, and by 11:45 that morning, as we were leaving and the crew carried out equipment, members of the public were entering to sit down and watch an X-rated flick.

On Monday, I showed up at the Triple-I office in New York, unauthorized, instead of calling in sick. Teddy, my counterpart in the New York office, was absent. I didn't do much other than answer a few messages given to me over the phone by the secretary in McLean. And Randy J. called to say that our meeting at the National Security Agency was postponed until Wednesday morning, which I later discovered to be extremely fortunate for me.

At La Trapeze that evening I got into my costume immediately, though I knew full well it'd be a while before any filming would take place. I had my contact lenses on, which I don't usually wear. I put on New Wave clothing, including tight pants with pink and black stripes, and Devo-like dark glasses. My hair was slicked back with V05. This was a new image for the John A. Mozzer you knew when we grew up in Pennsylvania, and even for myself today as porn actor Alan Adrian.

The film production was progressing very slowly. Richard and the scriptwriters were working intensely at a table in the dance hall, still rewriting the script. Marc Stevens showed up. Although this film was about him, he wasn't actually scheduled to appear in very much of it.

Ron ("Ron Jeremy") Hyatt was interviewed by an editorial person, probably for Stag magazine. S&M publisher/photographer Leslie, claiming that he was doing this for fun, said he wasn't having much fun, and persistently tried to find someone with Quaaludes. Everyone dug into the buffet. Samantha and I agreed that the buffet wasn't the right kind of food to have before sex or working on a film. Several nice actresses were prancing around.

All of them liked my costume. One actress in particular, named Sharon, who saw me get into the pants, seemed particularly attracted to me. I was attracted to her, and sat down next to her on a sofa, away from the production activity in the dance hall, as she chatted with a couple. She relaxed her head on my shoulder for an instant. But shortly, the subject of her husband entered the conversion that I was overhearing, a downer for me.

Then I saw Robin Sane.

She is darling, I thought. Her hair was brown and blond, frosted blond in waves, cut short on one side and long, down to her shoulder, on the other side. She wore a single diamond-shaped earring, on the side with her short hair. Had I seen her before? "What's your name?" I asked, peering my head from inside the make-up room, as she stood in the doorway. When she answered, I knew that I had seen her before. We had worked on the same film early this year, for another party scene. I remembered her telling me that she was more into tuning pianos for a living than making porn films. She had given me her card—"Robin Sane, piano technician—tuning—repairs".

"You tune pianos, don't you?" I asked. Perhaps she was impressed that I remembered. She didn't remember me. I described the film. Finally, she recalled one particular guy, me, in a fig leaf at the party scene for that film. She was responsive, gentle and soft with her words when she spoke to me. I didn't know it at the time—she told me later—but something clicked right at that moment. I was something special to her. The chemistry was right. And I was so glad to have found her, so glad to have spoken to her. I knew I was feeling more than a sense of victory over having successfully picked up a girl. I felt affectionate towards her.

Finally, filming got underway, in the dance hall. Robin was in a scene where her job was simply to gyrate in the nude on top of a large speaker, in the background of action taking place on the dance floor. Another naked girl gyrated on a speaker on the other side of the dance floor. Afterwards, Robin and I were together again, relaxing off the set on a sofa. She kept telling everybody that she wanted to fuck in this film. But there was a catch. She wasn't being paid enough. While Richard insisted she stick around and wait and see, he did not firmly commit to paying her more.

Then Robin said to me, "I'm going to go and get dressed." I saw her disappear into a private room. She was inside the room for a long time. I imagined she was fucking someone. I didn't know who, but Marc Stevens was among the missing. The door to that room was shut for a long time. In time, I almost forgot about Robin Sane. Now she was just another woman, getting my hopes up too high, in a highly competitive environment for males.

I should not have felt that way. Once she reappeared, we were together most of the time. I was convinced something special was happening between us. Soon, we were holding each other on the dance floor, trying to dance without music for the sake of a film scene. She told me that she was doing live sex shows, and asked me whether I'd do live sex shows with her. She needed to start working again after being in San Francisco for a while, and she needed a new partner. She mentioned three theaters in the Times Square area where she worked. She explained that the job would be every day of the week, every other week or so.

I told her yes, certainly I will be her live sex show partner. I'd been fantasizing about an opportunity to do live sex shows. Meanwhile, silently, I calculated how much it would cost in dollars and stress to fly back and forth between D.C. and New York on that schedule. I didn't admit to myself or to Robin how impractical that would be. At least, I admitted to Robin that I could only work at night. She explained working during the day was preferable because the chances of getting busted were not as great. But working at night was okay too. We decided that I'd audition with her at one of the theaters, as required by her boss, the following day.

"I can't see your eyes beneath those glasses," she said. I took them off, and we gazed into each other's eyes. I told her that she gave me her card when we previously met. "Did you call me?" she asked. No, I hadn't. Probably, I assumed she had a boyfriend and wasn't really interested in hearing from me. We settled in a sexual playroom in the back, where cushions covered the entire floor. As we kissed and squeezed each other, she asked me what my name is for the third or fourth time. "Alan Adrian," I told her. She also asked me what my sign is for the third or fourth time. "Aries", I said. I was learning more about her. She claimed to be suffering from memory loss because of a period being strung out from barbiturates earlier this year. Other people came in the playroom. Roy Stewart, male porn actor whom I met on Sunday’s set, reached for Robin from another cushion, trying to get her attention. But she stuck with me. Soon, Roy disappeared.

"Let's fuck," Robin said.

We undressed and soon Robin was on her back and I was on top, screwing her. My initial thoughts were to compare this sexual experience with other recent sexual encounters. I thought about actress Lisa Tucker, at first feeling no sex could ever be as good as it had been with her. I remembered banging Eleanor Valentine at The Playground (a swing club in D.C. that she co-manages) for two hours straight and wanting to do the same for Robin. Soon, I was completely immersed into Robin, and boy was it hot. Our sex was a real turn-on for me, as I violently fucked her and held her head with my hands, while she raised her legs into the air, still wearing boots, pressing her dainty hands against my chest. I forced myself to remain motionless every once in a while, desperately resisting the temptation to come.

Robin made sounds of ecstasy. Other people came in and out of the room to check out the hot scene we were creating. That was fine with us. Actually, the whole situation was an indication of the poor planning of this film production. More action was happening off the set than on the set. Much of the talent was getting impatient and doing off the set what Richard was paying them to do on film.

Robin masturbated. I've learned she usually needs to masturbate to achieve orgasm, no matter who the man is. And I doubt that she succeeded in coming that night. I succeeded in not coming. I felt it was my duty not to come. After all, I was still on the job. I'd be expected to come on film later that night. Sure, I could've decided, oh, fuck it, let myself come. But my porn career was at stake.

Robin stopped our fucking after about twenty minutes, apologizing. She explained she was getting raw because she hadn't been fucking during the time she was in San Francisco. I didn't mind that we stopped. She decided to go out to the set to talk with Richard. At first I said I'd wait for her to come back. Then I decided to go out with her. She got dressed first. I remained naked, seeing no reason not to continue living out my exhibitionist fantasies. We leaped into the activity of people working on the film in the dance hall. Robin spoke to Richard, as I held her from behind. Richard still failed to commit to paying her more if she'd stick around and do a sex scene on film.

Later, in the dressing room, I finally admitted to Robin that I'd love to do sex shows with her, but I had a problem. I was living and working in D.C. during most of the week. She was disappointed when I explained my situation to her. Our plans to audition were not realistic either. I had to be honest with myself and Robin, rather than make promises that I couldn't keep. Such promises would've been bad for her, and her boss would've been pissed.

I gave Robin my real name and telephone numbers on the back of one of her cards. Would she like to meet me for lunch later that day? (Now it was past midnight, and I planned on appearing at Triple-I's New York office again.) Yes, she responded. I suggested she get the number of Triple-I's New York office through the phone company's information service, because I didn't have the number at hand. Then she left around 2 a.m., while I stayed because I still had work to do. Linda Stein gave her a $50.00 check plus cab fare.

We said sweet things to each other before she went out the door. "Get home safely," I said.

*       *       *

After Robin left the film set, I turned my attention to Sharon. Earlier in the evening, Sharon seemed interested in me, at least in chatting with me. She had completed a scene for the film as the slave of dominatrix Veri Knotty. But she told me she's not normally a submissive. She was new in the porn film business, having done only magazine layouts before now. I offered to help her get more porn work because she asked me to do so.

Finally, the film crew moved equipment into the sexual playroom with all the cushions, where Robin and I had fucked, preparing to shoot an orgy scene. By this time, Sharon wanted to leave. I talked her into staying to work with me in the upcoming scene. "If you don't stay and work with me," I said, using a little psychology, "then I won't be able to work because not enough girls are around."

She decided to stay. "See, I made you feel guilty," I admitted. "She's dynamite," said Ron Hyatt, upon learning I'd be working with her.

The orgy scene was a bad scene. Sharon and I were in the background of the major action. Fine. But I had to share Sharon with three other background guys. How ridiculous. This film production was so poorly planned, Sharon and I managed to do some good fucking, but never when the camera was running.

Why so many guys and so few girls in this orgy scene? The four of us guys were forced into having a "share and share alike" perspective. Words we exchanged included, "Come on, now. We're all professional porn actors" and "I'm in this film too, you know." So how did the four of us make it with one girl at the same time, for the camera? One guy sucked and played with one tit. One guy sucked and played with the other tit. Sharon sucked one guy's cock. One guy ate her pussy. We alternated these positions every once in a while. Everybody was uncomfortable.

"I give up," I said, frustrated. "I can't compete with three guys." Fortunately, the sound wasn't rolling when I said that.

6:30 a.m. arrived, and Richard Milner was still not finished. Now, he was filming a scene by the indoor pool. Samantha Fox posed for stills, looking fresh, like it was our start time. But I had had it. On top of this, rumor spread that Richard was going to ask everyone to stop by his office later that week to get paid, instead of paying people upon wrapping. Considering production manager Linda Stein was out cold, looking as if she could never be awakened or write checks legibly, the rumor was believable.

I went home, to my Brooklyn apartment.

Obviously, it was fortunate that my appointment at the National Security Agency, to do the slide presentation with Triple-I sales rep Randy J., had been postponed. I never could have made it back to the D.C. area that Tuesday morning. And the only reason I forced myself to get up around 10 a.m., after two and a half hours of sleep on the wood floor, was to make it to the New York office to see Robin at lunchtime.

In the office, I couldn't resist revealing my life in the porn business to my straight business colleagues. I described the prior night, and my porn career in general, to my counterpart Teddy and the lead New York sales rep. I decided, fuck it, why make myself paranoid by trying to cover up my "extra curricular activities"? Usually, business associates were intrigued. Teddy and the New York rep were no exception. Turns out, Teddy is a porn fan.

I want Teddy's job. I mean, we have the same job, but I want the company to relocate me from D.C. to the New York office. That would make it easier to juggle doing porn work with my Triple-I career, because porn film production occurs in New York, not in the D.C. region. I'd also like being relocated to Triple-I's headquarters in Culver City, California, where our boss is located, because a lot of porn production occurs in the Los Angeles region. But our boss relocating me to California is less likely than him relocating me to New York.

Lucky for me, Teddy made no secret of the fact that he hates his job and that he plans to leave Triple-I. He said he'll be overjoyed to hand his job over to me — though, of course, it'll still be up to our boss, who won't promise me anything. I wonder why Teddy hasn't been fired considering his attitude. Our boss is strangely relaxed about it. Anyway, I realized that I should not get overly hopeful about being relocated anytime soon, because Teddy explained he has yet to line up another job for himself.

I felt very frustrated about not being able to be Robin's live sex show partner. A dream was going down the drain because of my stupid practical career. Robin called me in the office. She was surprised that I had made it to the office. She told me that she wouldn't be able to meet for lunch. It was almost noon and she had just gotten up. "Do you want to meet at five o'clock instead," I asked. Okay, she answered.

"I don't understand your situation," she said. "Why are you living in D.C.?" She seemed to be really disappointed that I couldn't do live sex shows with her. The previous night, actress Barbara Daniels, a live sex show veteran, said that Robin must have very strong feelings about me to ask me to be her live sex show partner. I am torn between feeling a need to maintain a practical career related to my Bachelor of Science degree in graphic arts, and fulfilling fantasies by working in porn. I am very interested in gaining experience with Triple-I's product line for the sake of a long-term career, and I had no control over the only opening for me being in the D.C. region.

Later that day, I spoke to Richard Milner over the telephone. Turns out, Linda Stein woke up about twenty minutes after I left, and wrote checks to everyone except me. She was no longer available, so I'd have to make arrangements later to pick up my check. Also, Richard needed for me to sign a release, so he needed me as much as I needed him.

I spoke with Robin again late that afternoon. She couldn’t make it at five, either. From the office, I walked to Times Square to attend a promotional party and private screening for the premiere of Co-Ed Fever, an X-rated feature-length film, which Marc Stevens had invited me to. The crowd outside the adult theater where the movie was premiering was bigger than I expected. I regretted being in a three-piece suit, with a briefcase in hand. However, plenty of other men, socializing at the entrance, were wearing suits, appearing to be theater managers or owners, or mobsters, or whatever the case might be. Theater personnel opened up a path through the mass of people, making way for porn stars, clad in tuxedos or glitter, to exit limousines, stroll across the sidewalk, smile for flashing strobe lights and video cameras, and disappear into the theater. Unpretentiously, Roy Stewart and a gal sifted through the crowd, quickly entering the theater. Ron Hyatt proudly walked through with a girl, acting like the professional actor that he is.

I felt left out, being among the audience instead of the stars. Marc Stevens showed up, and I caught his attention, signaling for him to admit me as planned. I didn't know that Ron Hyatt had put me on the guest list. One of the owner-types in a business suit, at the door, nodded that it was okay for me to enter.

Soon, I was inside a room on the lower level of the theater. Smoke filled the air, drinks and snacks were being served. Some faces looked familiar to me. Other faces looked unfamiliar. Vanessa Del Rio kissed me, and asked whether I'd seen The Pink Ladies, which we worked on together. Samantha Fox asked, "Did you just come from work?" and seemed sympathetic when I complained about not being able to find a place to stash my briefcase.

Jamie Gillis acknowledged my presence with a complimentary facial expression from the other side of a bunch of people between us. Carter Stevens said hello to me. Richard Milner explained that no, he was not satisfied with the film and, yes, he'll be doing another movie.

A fat fellow — gay, I think — and I started a conversion. He had nothing to do with porn. He was a professional critic and a mystery story fan. "That looks like Gloria Leonard," I said. "Do you think it is her?"

"I don't know who Gloria Leonard is," said the fat fellow. "Hello, Gloria!" he shouted.

Gloria poked her head into the air, above a crowd, and said, "Hi!" She looked in our general direction, not sure where the voice had come from.

Someone announced that the screening was ready to start. Upstairs in the theater, Co-Ed Fever, starring Jamie Gillis and Samantha Fox, flashed onto the screen. I sat down and started enjoying the film. However, before the film was over, I realized I'd better get going, back to D.C. I took the subway to my Brooklyn apartment, raced my Toyota out of Brooklyn, through Staten Island, and into New Jersey. I felt high, from drinking at the party and from lack of sleep. Driving through the Harbor Tunnel in Baltimore was a real trip. The sound was hypnotic.

I arrived in D.C. around 2 or 3 a.m., in time to catch three or four hours sleep, and make the appointment at the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland. Afterwards, I went to the office in McLean. It was quiet. Michelle M., the sexy secretary/receptionist, said I hadn't missed much. I couldn't resist telling her about my porn career and experiences of the past few days. She seemed interested in hearing about it. Turns out, she and her boyfriend are frequent X-rated filmgoers.

I continued to feel frustrated that I couldn't be Robin's live sex show partner because I don't live in New York. That evening, back in the house on Military Road in northwest D.C., where I live during most of the week, I picked up the phone to call Robin.

"Before you get on the phone..." said Marla, one of my housemates.

Marla, and the landlord Charlie who resides in the basement, told me to get out by December 1st. For one thing, they were troubled by a classified ad that I was running in Washingtonian magazine, seeking work as a male stripper. ("Male stripper Spike will 'take it' off for your audience.")

"We received about forty calls while you were away," said Marla. "We don't need that kind of thing."

I explained the sudden rash of telephone calls would be a temporary thing. But that didn't satisfy any of my housemates. "I don't want to be exposed to your sideline business," said Joe, another housemate and aspiring lawyer. "I'm concerned about my bar."

The next day, Thursday, October 30, I stayed home on Military Road, feeling sick, probably from not getting enough rest. Now it was three days after the wild time with Robin on the film set. I called her. "This is John," I said.

At first, she didn't know who I was. Then she said, "Somehow, I know you as Alan Adrian." We had a delightful conversation. She was still seeking a live sex show partner. "Do you know David Morris?" she inquired, seeking a good reference. But I believe she really wanted to work with me, not David Morris or anybody else.

"Do you want to spend a mellow day together this weekend?" I asked. Yes, she did. We decided on Sunday. "Just a mellow, quiet time together," I continued. "I like you and I want to spend more time with you."

"I'm so glad," she said.

I drove to Brooklyn that Saturday, November 1, moving some of my stuff from Military Road to my Brooklyn apartment. I had decided, with or without a Triple-I relocation, I was not going to remain in D.C. indefinitely. No sooner did I finish moving stuff from the car into the apartment, and sit down to rest, than did Robin call. Her plans for that evening had fallen through, so we didn't need to wait until Sunday to get together.

"We should get together tonight," I said.

"I was going to suggest that," she said. "But I'm kind of shy."

When I arrived at apartment 4A at 237 East 10th Street, Robin and I immediately fell into each other's arms. I was overwhelmed with affection towards her, and happy she seemed to be very fond of me. We spent the entire weekend together. We kissed. We hugged. We fucked. We ate out together. We rode around in my car. The entire weekend was pleasant and romantic.

Robin's drug addiction was no secret. Usually, I can handle friends being addicted to drugs. So as she continuously popped Quaaludes into her mouth, I took it in stride. But something odd, perhaps related to the drugs, started to happen over the weekend. I couldn't understand this strange phenomenon.

Repeatedly, she expressed a fear of losing me. She was afraid her behavior would drive me away. She had a low opinion of herself and she doubted I'd want to be with her again beyond that weekend. I wasn't used to this, because I thought I was usually the shy one, not the women I spent time with. I was not successful at convincing her everything was okay.

Monday evening, returning to her apartment after another stint in the New York office, Robin intensely kissed me as soon as she opened her door. I mean, her kiss was very, very intense. A young guy was around the corner, inside her apartment, and I thought maybe she did not want me to conclude that I had any competition. She introduced me to the young guy, Sam. He had been out of work for a long time. Now he finally found work, doing live sex shows with Robin. I was glad to see that Robin finally found a compatible live sex show partner.

Back in D.C., I consulted a female friend. "Am I in love?" I asked, describing my symptoms. "It sounds as if you are in love," she confirmed. Hence, Robin Sane and I were in love. Subsequently, Robin and I mutually acknowledged being in love on the telephone.

I never stay in D.C. over the weekend. On Friday, November 7, back in New York before the end of the business day, I picked up my check from Richard Milner. That evening, I finally thought I understood what Robin had been trying to tell me. She was really strung-out, undergoing emotional turmoil, and she didn't want to subject me to it. She ate her Quaaludes. She constantly expressed feelings of guilt. She let me know that she engages in self-abuse, showing me a series of deep scratches along her arm that she created with a razor blade. Simple decisions caused her a great deal of anguish.

The band Ultravox was in town. Robin explained that she needed to see Chris Cross, one of the band members, late that night. Chris was accustomed to seeing her whenever he was in New York, once a year or so. And he owed money to Robin, which she needed to pick up from him.

According to Robin, Chris was going to place "Robin Sane plus one guest" on the guest list to the Ultravox concert that night. The "plus one guest" was to accommodate me. However, at the ticket booth at the club entrance, we were told only Robin was on the guest list, and not "plus one guest". Robin seemed angry about Chris neglecting to include me on the guest list, but I said it was okay.

"Give me the keys to your apartment," I suggested, "and go see Chris Cross yourself." I didn't mind the turn of events. I was soundly sleeping in Robin's bed when she returned from the Ultravox concert early Saturday morning. Unfortunately, Robin seeing Chris and getting her money (after a long wait) did not cure her. Apparently, Chris Cross's presence in town had little or nothing to do with her emotional state.

Through Saturday, Robin continued to be in a state of anguish. I remained calm and she commended me for being calm. Actually, I felt there was nothing I could do but remain calm. I did not feel free to complain, because that would only make her feel all the more guilty or insecure. No room for my own insecurities existed, but the situation was getting to me.

Then she told me that she had to be by herself for a while. I went out to eat by myself, and attended to my Toyota parked on the street in the Village. Things were the same when I returned. Then she told me that she needed to be totally by herself. She asked me to leave.

I said okay, I'll go, but not in a hurry. I didn't feel she didn't want me. I really felt she just didn't want to continue putting me through her problems. I cried. She saw my tears as we kissed each other goodbye, and as we gestured goodbyes while I walked out of her sight into the elevator.

I'm not going to attempt figuring out what is wrong with her. The drugs must have something to do with it. Her parents, both with cancer in the Bay Area, have something to do with it. But I’ll leave the psychoanalyzing to her professional drug therapist.

Staying in New York for the rest of the weekend did not appeal to me. As I explained when I started this letter, I drove back to D.C. last night.

So long,
John

 

In Love With Robin Sane was originally published in two parts, in Batteries Not Included, Volume XIV, Issue #10, October 2007, and Volume XIV, Issue #11, November 2007. The film sets described in the story were for the production of Centerfold Fever. The story is based on a letter to a friend, dated November 9, 1980.