Exactly what was Eliot Spitzer paying for, anyway?

My guess is, it was the slick advertising. I mean, have you ever seen so much horseshit as this?

Golly gee, oh gosh wow…you’d almost dare swear it wasn’t really about sex for pay, eh?

Sadly, it is. And here’s what it would cost you to partake:

You may want to compare it to the reality as cited by The Smoking Gun; the majority of that money doesn’t go to the ladies. You really are just paying for the fancy-ass rhetoric there, fella. Lord knows you’re not really getting anything special in the girls.

And to prove it, here’s a sampling of their profiles. First up, one considered top of the line:

Mind you, this isn’t the one Spitzer picked. No one seems to be able to track down her profile; the site went dark before it could be done.

But still–look at that resume. Assuming it’s true (and who can know, since the site has a policy of not showing their FACES?), one really has to ask: Why would such a successful young lady be selling sex for a rather pricey living? Shouldn’t she, um, not have to if she’s a real professional model? And why would any guy pay for the privilege of being “introduced” to a model, anyway? Why not just hang out at the spring and fall shows in Milan?

And more to the point: Miss Hawaiian Tropic is considered a seven-diamond whore?

Duuuuuude.

Here’s another, just for good measure:

The irony of this one just makes me smirk. (That, and the fact that they misspelled “Cavalli” and think a penchant for motorbike shows, skunk-striped hair, too-dark lip liner, and visible bra straps count as “glamour”.)

Look: Any guy who wants a REAL “first-class girlfriend experience” isn’t going to go shopping for it at an online whorehouse. The sad fact is, girlfriend experiences of any class can’t be bought with wire-transfers totalling in the thousands per “date”; no, sorry, fella, you gotta expose your vulnerables and lay down all your love and trust at her feet. You might have to look at her in the unforgiving early morning sun without makeup, or maybe feed her chicken soup when she’s sick and phlegmy, or hold her and see her all messed up with crying when her cat just died. And no, I can’t quote you a rate for those in ‘ho-diamonds.

But back to Spitzer: The rates cited in his case are an awful lot for what I’m guessing is really just blowjobs and smalltalk. (And travels to and from his pied-a-terre via Amtrak. Classy! That’s a girlfriend experience for you–a flat-broke college girlfriend experience.)

Say, you don’t suppose it was that much just for going condomless? Ewwwww. Girlfriend, don’t go there. That’s just skanky at any price.

PS: The Washington (Whore) Post just confirmed my deepest darkest suspicions. You really ARE only paying for the sizzle, not the steak, if you’re forking over more than $50 a pop.

PPS: The New York (Whore) Times has just profiled Spitzer’s hooker. She’s plainer than I expected her to be. Her story is also unfortunately typical of girls in the Oldest Profession, and definitely NOT happy horseshit fantasy material. She could just as easily be selling $50 BJs out on the highway as $4300 “fantasy” encounters on the Infobahn, sadly.