It's all a really terribly sordid business, this whole deal with New York's Eliot Spitzer and the prostitutes. It grieves me to tell you I was Client Number 10, right behind Governor Spitzer (at Number 9, he was). No case of sloppy seconds, though, I assure you; I can't recall the name of the escort he was involved with (and whom he often described to me in beatific terms), but I'm certain it was not my dear old Jolene (which was her handle; I do not know her real name, but I understand she once modeled for Teen Vogue).
Anywho, what was initially distressing but ultimately edifying about my "session" with Jolene was her insistence that, rather than have sex, we discuss the merits of her favorite novel. While I'm usually first in line to talk literature, particularly of the 19th-century kind, I was troubled to think that I might be paying $2,200 for an hour-long lecture on a seminal Decadent novel.