Never on Sunday

It would take the greatest bloodhound reporter of all time to discover a person with a good word to say about Eliot Spitzer, the first man ever to bully Congress for an invite on bond insurance so he could meet with cutie-pie Ashley Alexandra Dupré in Room 871 the night before. When the  crumbum finally threw in the towel, the cheers could be heard all the way to Biloxi.

Spitzer changed the law involving Johns, making it a federal crime punishable with a year in jail. Which means if life were fair he would have to do at least ten years. (He spent more than 80,000 greenbacks during the past ten years.) Mind you, I’d be doing much more than that if the laws were retroactive. It’s a shame I did not know about the Emperor’s Club, because I find Ashley Alexandra cute, but the idea of following Spitzer is a real turn-off. Oy veh, that’s what’s wrong with the oldest profession. It’s not the girls; it’s the grotesque men who use them.

Spitzer will now go into rehab and have his flunkies spread the word that it was a victimless crime. I ain’t so sure about the latter. When I was young in Paris I used Madame Claude girls most days. (But never on Sunday as I would always be with my wife after playing polo.) Back then girls had to rely mostly on their looks, brainy jobs being scarce. Claude was a nice woman who played fair with the girls. She never told me what percentage she took, but she tried to protect the girls by picking certain nice clients for particularly delicate gals. Although I say so myself, I was considered a nice John, clean, young, thin, mercifully quick, and very discreet when I’d occasionally meet them with their boyfriends chez Castel’s or New Jimmy’s.