I have to confess myself completely flummoxed by the concept of a $5000 hooker.
The WashPost this morning declared at $300 (after, no doubt, a great deal of careful market research, hands on keyboards, no subtle fingers tweaking the Importunate Equipment under the desk) the going price of the kind of lady-of-the-night who will report to your hotel room and place herself at your disposal.
This gives us a discrepancy of $4700 between the price paid by your average horned-up convention-goer and that paid by Elliott Spitzer.
The question burns, like a chlamidia-victim's gorgonzola, what the hell does $4700 buy you?
The girl may be fine, she may be so-fuckin'-refined-she-smells-like-Hyannisport-in-August, she may have an ermine-lined snatch for all I know, but... Jesus Christ! An orgasm's an orgasm, y'know? And post-coital chit-chat's post-coital chit-chat. Does the $4700 girl lecture you on Wittgenstein afterwards? You can buy the same goddamned honey-of-a-spasm for 25 simoleons on 14th Street -- and your provider may even remove her upper plate for extra gratification. If Spitzer had managed to confine himself to that kind of independent provider, he'd still be governor of New York.
It may come as a bit of a shock to my regular clientele when I admit: I've had sex! I've even had really, really, really good sex! So, as an experienced man-about-town, I have to wonder: What is it about paying 4700 clams to dip your wick that is so fucking appealing?
I'm sure it has a whole lot to do with the same Absolutely Nothing that differentiates a $500 bottle of wine from a $50 bottle. You pay it just because you can, because that's what makes the difference between the Rabble and the Übermensch — and for that, Elliot Spitzer will now be privileged, forever, to just go fuck himself.