Doc and the Porn Star

Chapter 1

Everyone calls my father Doc. I got my father to sit with me not long ago to go over the story about how he and Jasmine got together. I taped the sessions, transcribed the interviews, pieced them together, cleaned up the grammar (I hope), and here's the story. I elected to use my father's voice for the story, but I occasionally filled in for one of the others involved. Conversations in quotes were as he seemed to remember them or as he paraphrased them for me. Occasionally, I felt compelled to fill-in some missing dialogue, especially when he was speculating about what someone else had said when he wasn't around. I hope you like his story.

Phil (Doc's oldest son)

I'd probably gone to a supermarket over a thousand times in the past thirty-five years since I'd turned twenty, yet that day three years ago turned out to be one of the most revolutionary and life-altering days in my life -- actually, in any life I've ever known about. No one has life-altering events at the supermarket.

I'd gone again, as usual, to my nearest Publix Supermarket. It was crowded and the lines were long and not enough registers were open. I thought about how I'd often made my patients stand in similar lines sitting in my office waiting room, but those days had ended when I retired from the practice of family medicine. I had lots of reasons. The main one was that I'd lost the spark of life.

Edie had been my spark of life for just over thirty years ... and then she died. With all I knew about medicine, and with everything my colleagues at the hospital knew they couldn't save her. Autoimmune diseases are a bitch. The one she contracted was deadly. She only lasted two weeks from onset to death.

I'd been devastated. I threw myself into my work, unsuccessfully. All I could think about was my loss and how I needed to recover, to get through the Grief Cycle, and to move into acceptance and get on with my life. I kept thinking that for a year.

The friends Edie and I had tried to coax me back into the land of the living. I either worked until I literally dropped in my tracks, or hibernated in my house avoiding all pretext at social contact. I'd lost my confidence. I'd lost the love of my life. To be honest, I cried a lot.

In my hermit life, I discovered sexual relief through pornography. I wasn't even embarrassed by the practice of masturbation as I watched various videos. I developed a few favorites among the female actresses in the films, and even dreamed and fantasized about longer and more robust relationships with them. Questing for love, I imagined love affairs with a few.

And then I was in line in Publix Supermarket with a week's worth of groceries. At least, I was eating better than I had the first six months after my loss.

The young woman ahead of me had long blonde hair with contrasting streaks in it to the middle of her back as well as a grocery cart half full of carefully chosen groceries. I noted they were all nonperishable. She wore a t-shirt for some band, modest shorts, sneakers without socks, and had a sleeve of tattoos along her left arm. There were also a couple of tats on her legs.

When she turned to look behind her, at me, I was dumbstruck. The young woman was Jasmine Jane, one of my favorites on the Internet. She smiled at me.

We all act impulsively from time to time. Sometimes we blurt out words we immediately wish we could take back. Sometimes those words hurt, but other times they are expressive, and sometimes, too, they change the course of history.

I blurted out, "Jasmine, I love your work."

She looked surprised and did a double take at me. Yes, I'm middle age, but I'm not out of shape, plus after Edie died I'd lost twenty-five pounds. My bouts with booze had put some weight back on, but that had stopped. I'd even started to exercise again, although modestly.

Jasmine frowned and said in a low tone, "I suppose you're some pervert and that's your best pickup line."

I shook my head, "No. I love you. What you do is of little import to me. I've seen you be expressive ... and ... well ... " I finally decided I should shut up and that I'd embarrassed her and me. Under my breath I said, "I'm sorry."

Jasmine did a little harrumph and turned her back on me. I expected she got approached like I'd just done a dozen times a day. What she was doing in Sarasota, Florida, mystified me, but we all have to live somewhere. Her grocery cart proved she lived nearby, or she was buying stuff for a friend.

She put her groceries on the moving belt, and successfully avoided eye contact with me. I watched her every move. She was graceful yet efficient. I admired her selections of food; they were healthy for the most part. The tampons suggested feminine care. The shampoo indicated to me care for her gorgeous hair.

She was suddenly gone, having paid in cash by counting out every penny, but I did detect one last glance back at me as the clerk started to process my load of groceries on the moving belt. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I'd been a good boy and even brought my permanent bags to the store to avoid the plastic ones. I sighed and gave up on Jasmine, just grateful to have seen her once in my lifetime -- for real.

A few minutes later I pushed my cart laden with my bags out of the store into the parking lot. I opened the tailgate of my SUV and started to put the bags inside.

From six feet away a female voice demanded, "You said you love me. Tell me why? What did you mean?" The voice was on the edge of antagonistic.

I turned and there stood Jasmine with her hands on her hips and a challenging look on her face. Her large sunglasses had been pushed up in her hair so I could see her eyes -- they were narrowed into angry slits staring at me.

I spoke carefully. "Jasmine, my name is Doc Carter. I've been trained to watch people and impute things about them -- people of all ages. I've watched many, many of your videos, and in the process absorbed a lot about you that I don't think you intended to have your audience see and know about you. Of course, I could be wrong, too; depending on how good an actress you are.

"I believe you are a compassionate person struggling with some personal issues that produce stress in your life. I'm guessing that these transcend simple money issues in part because of various ways you frown or wince in some situations. I also see you as loving, but not in love. I don't believe you are in a serious relationship, but that might be an outdated opinion based on the last group of videos you were in.

"I detected a fierce independence and an in-your-race attitude some of the time, but I don't think you are normally confrontational. Maybe this situation proves me wrong." I gestured to the two of us and tried to give a friendly smile.

"I impute that you are flexible and adaptive to various situations, friendly, a good conversationalist, insist on being respected and respect others, and expect to be treated fairly and equitably, even in erotic and sexual situations."

Jasmine had been mute but carefully listening as I spoke. I finally shut up rather than keep rambling. After a short silence, she said, "And you got all that from watching me fuck guys in porn films?"

I nodded. "I have few outlets for that part of my life. Thank you for being part of it, as embarrassing as it is for me to admit that to you."

"But you said you love me. You really mean that you love my work?"

"I love you and I love your work. They're different. I had patients that loved me because I cured them or healed their child. My wife loved me because of the kind of person I was. See the difference?"

Jasmine asked with curiosity, "You used the past tense? Are you divorced?"

"No. Edie died about sixteen months ago. No one could save her."

"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry."

"Death is part of life. I'm still trying to move on, not all that successfully." My voice dropped off.

"And pornography is part of your prescription?" she teased and chuckled slightly.

"Yeah, I guess so. I have needs." I hesitated and added, "You're so much prettier in person."

"Thank you." She looked at my cart, my car, and me. "Put your groceries in the car, and then buy me a cup of coffee over there at Starbucks." There was one of the ubiquitous coffee shops about two hundred feet away. She turned and walked away heading to Starbucks. I took her offer to be a serious one.

"Gladly," I said to her back and broke into a large smile.

Three hours and four more cups of coffee later, I asked her, "Can I buy you dinner?"

Jasmine smiled, "Yes, I'd like that. You should get your groceries home. The stuff that was supposed to stay cold is probably warm by now. Could we meet someplace?"

I said with some swagger, "I'm ready to go big on you. Any restaurant and menu item." I realized how nerdy that sounded, but it was too late to back pedal.

She touched my arm, "How about Patrick's downtown in an hour. I'll meet you there. I'll wait in front. Don't keep me waiting."

We met, ate, and sat in the restaurant until the maître d' suggested that we might like to pay and move our enthralling conversation to another locale so they could close. We moved next door to a place called Mattison's and got a table as far from the live band as possible so we could keep talking and hear each other.

We kept talking and asking questions of the other about their life, careers -- such as they'd been, and our current situation. Around eleven o'clock, the band cranked up a hot dance number and Jasmine couldn't resist; she grabbed my hand and pulled me up and onto the dance floor. I hadn't danced so energetically for years, and made a note to do more of it on my own dime for the exercise value. At least I had been exercising, and that got me through that dance number and two more fast ones.

The fourth dance number was at the other extreme, a slow and romantic number. Jasmine melted into my arms, nestled her head into my shoulders, and started to sway in time to the slow beat of the music. I was quite taken with her by that point so just went along with the whole scene. I fell more in love with her when I held her that close.

At midnight when the restaurant-bar closed down I doubt there was any corner of either of our lives that we hadn't touched on. We'd explored many in depth.

Jasmine confessed that her 'real' name was Jasmine Hanson and not Jasmine Jane, but that she answered to both because her 'new' name had been used so frequently over the past five years. She was twenty-four.

More interesting to me was that she liked working in the adult film business. The pay was not to be dismissed, little in the way of education was required, and she was good at what she did and knew it showed well on the videos. That said she had always needed another job to supplement what she got paid for the porn.

I explained I was really Robert Carter, MD and general practitioner, retired. I told her I'd picked up the moniker 'Doc' during my residency when the nurses needed a way to separate five of us on the medical staff all with the same first name. I'd gotten good at summarizing my thirty year career into a short few paragraphs, but she pushed me by asking questions about what I'd done, for whom, and when.

She told me how her blundering film career and odd jobs landed her in porn, and then how she'd gotten 'discovered' and then churned out over a hundred films and several hundred shorts. She'd recently come to Florida from the west coast to 'shift gears' and talk to the university about a scholarship or on campus jobs to supplement her income. She'd declared she was now more serious about getting a degree and wanted a career in nursing. She'd gotten a temporary job as a waitress but hadn't started yet; I knew the place and it was a dive. I told her so. She didn't expect to hear from the university for six to eight weeks.

I talked about Edie, my late wife, trying many times to stop, but Jasmine kept the discussion on that topic going for on and off for several hours. Truthfully, it was therapeutic. I'd never talked to anybody about my reminiscences about Edie. I talked about my two sons, and how proud I was of them. They'd each gone to college, graduated, married, and had stable jobs. Both were just starting their families.

Jasmine talked about her 'West Coast Experience' and what she liked and didn't like. I wasn't surprised that she liked most of the sex and filming. I would have. Edie would have. We'd never done anything sexually crazy, but I always suspected it was due to lack of opportunity instead of lack of motivation. I told that to Jasmine, and she laughed and nodded in agreement. She added, "I had plenty of opportunity."

We reluctantly parted ways when the bar closed and the dance crowd dispersed. We stood on the sidewalk in front of the place continuing to talk, more like an extended goodbye.

I asked, "Could I take you out again? This day has been a delight because of you."

To my surprise, Jasmine smiled. She said, "Yes, absolutely, and I agree. I like you -- a lot. When?"

"Tomorrow?" I suggested.

"I can do lunch, but I start work at that club at four o'clock. Will that work?"

"Yes. What time do you want to meet?"

Jasmine looked down, "How about ten o'clock, then we can spend most of the day together before I have to leave."

The next morning I arrived at Starbucks at 9:30 a.m. and she arrived only a few minutes later. When I asked about the early arrival, she said, "I confess. I knew you'd be early, and ... well, ... I wanted to spend as much time as possible with you."

I laughed and jested, "With this old pervert?" I gestured at myself.

She smiled. "Takes one to know one, and that's a little like the pot calling the kettle black given how I've fucked my way through the past six years. In a way, I can't believe you're so tolerant of what I've done."

"I am, and I wouldn't have met you otherwise. I wouldn't have known you enough to blurt out your name or have feelings about you."

She said, "I liked your feelings about me -- based on hunches and observations you made. I was flattered and thought they were accurate. If I'd grown up in a more sanguine home, I'd be referred to as that girl next door."

I filled in; "Instead you had a crazy family life living with one unstable parent, and then got dumped on your own when you were sixteen and told to survive. You did well to finish high school when you did."

Jasmine nodded. "So many jobs require a diploma to even consider you. I guess they have to weed out the applicants somehow. I knew I had to finish."

I got us coffee and a pastry to split, and we were off talking again. There was a lot more laughter between us. We walked to a sandwich shop for lunch and I made sure she had a good meal. I didn't trust the place where she was going to waitress for anything other than serving cold beer. She assured me she could take care of herself.

"What time do you get off work? I could meet you then?"

"Midnight, and I'll be bushed. I will have been on my feet for eight hours or more, and ready to drop."

"I already want to do this with you tomorrow, or whenever you can eke out some time from your schedule. If you'd rather do other stuff, we could do that, too. Or, if you want me to stop trying to see you, please just tell me and I'll stop bugging you."

Jasmine sat back somewhat shocked. "Are you kidding? I love spending time with you. If I didn't need to sleep and eat here and there, I'd spend all my time with you. You are NOT bugging me. What bugs me, in your parlance, is that I have to work the next five nights." She paused and added in a low voice I almost didn't hear, "You make my heart flutter."

I was embarrassed for my low self-image, and admitted that to her. She gave me a short pep talk and then took my hand in hers. She just about didn't let go until I'd walked her to her car, a genuine junk of a car. Unlike the prior night, I could see into the car and realized something: she had been living out of her car.

I didn't say anything because I didn't want to embarrass her, but I'd seen the signs before when I'd helped some of the indigent that came begging for medical assistance.

I did some serious thinking about Jasmine Hanson the rest of that afternoon and evening. I thought about dropping by the bar where she was working but thought better of the idea given it was her first night on the job.

We met the next morning at Starbucks. She was cheery and seemed happy to see me.

I said to her, "Jasmine, I have a proposition for you to consider, but I need to preface it with a few words. First, I am about to offer something to you freely and without any strings -- friend to friend. If you except, there is NO quid pro quo. I expect nothing in return. Second, this is in no way a feeble attempt to lure you into my bed or set you up in some way. I don't think that way about you or any woman for that matter."

I took a deep breath, "I would like you to move into my home and stop living out of your car."

Jasmine's veneer of cheeriness crumbled in front of me. Her face scrunched up and tears suddenly appeared in her eyes. She sobbed. "I knew when you saw my car that you'd figured me out. I watched your face. I was worried about what you'd think. I'm just a vagrant." She cried a little, "If I can make some money I can eventually get a place to live."

I repeated, "Move in with me, please. No strings. I have a nice house. It's safe and clean, and much better than your car. There's even a lock on your bedroom door. You'll have your own bathroom and shower. You'll have a key and can come and go as you please. The bed is pretty unused, too; and should be very comfortable. There's even your own TV set in the room."

"I have to think about it," she sighed. "I like you. I don't want to take advantage of you."

"Your wouldn't be. God, I think you are the prettiest woman in existence. Just to have you occasionally wander by in the house would be a treat beyond compare; to exchange a few words with you each day, a complete delight. That's all the payment I need."

"You're a romantic. I might rob you blind."

"No you won't. I know you. I trust you with everything I have. Once at the house, there are no 'off limit' areas, or things I don't want you to touch. Heck, if you feel compelled, you could help me clean the place once in a while, but even that's not a requirement."

Jasmine moved in front of me and took both of my hands in hers. She studied my face and my eyes for a long time without a word. The seconds turned into a few minutes. I loved looking at her face. She was beautiful. If we were having a stare down of some kind, she'd lose. I realized I could look at her forever.

Finally, she grimaced and pinched her lips together to suppress another crying jag. "Okay. I'll do it."

I pulled her into a standing position and hugged her. "Good. Follow me with your car and I'll show you where I live."

She followed me the three miles to my home. I was used to the place because I'd lived there for over twenty years, and we'd rebuilt ten years prior renovating many of the home's amenities.

The home had a circular driveway, and I parked so that Jasmine could complete the circle and go back onto the street without needing to back up. I wasn't sure her car could stand the stress of shifting gears.

I got out and walked towards her just as she got out of the jalopy of a vehicle that she'd been camping in.

She said, "Holy shit, you live in the Taj Mahal. This place is spectacular ... and you're on the water. I am so far below you in social class you shouldn't even be talking to me."

I shook my head and took her hand, "I don't do social classes. Come on." I led her inside. Despite some of my own clutter, the place did show well. From the front door one could look through the house, see the pool, and then beyond some grass a spectacular view over Sarasota Bay and out Long Pass to the Gulf of Mexico.