Hearts have been broken, ideals betrayed, shock registered across the sociopolitical landscape. “Never saw this coming, not in a million years,” says one buddy of mine who went to Harvard Law with Eliot Spitzer. “Sure, he was a driven guy, but a good guy. He never impressed me as a manic horndog, not any more than anyone else.”
This is the basic response to the monumental Spitzerian crash-and-burn: surprise. Surprise that he would take such risks, surprise that he’d be so reckless/dumb to use a wire transfer in a business where everyone else, from truck drivers to CEOs, pays cash. Surprise that he would cheat so vigorously on the super Silda.
But there is one segment of the population that is not surprised. Not one bit. “Surprised?” says Lulu, who called herself Celine before she was named Robin, and who made “at least $150,000 a year” as a part-time “high-end” hooker before her retirement in 2005. “Look,” Lulu says, purring into the phone, “I’ve had famous clients—maybe not governors, but well-known business guys. People you read about in the Wall Street Journal, and let me tell you, if Michael Jackson or, like, the Dalai Lama came through the door, I might get surprised. But Eliot Spitzer? No way. What I’m selling, you never get surprised who’s standing at the counter.”
This is pretty much the opinion from the top end of the oldest profession: There’s just not much new ’neath the sun down here in the New York underground penthouse-sex division.
Posts on the Erotic Review, the sex-for-hire industry’s Bible blog, reflected more bemusement than disbelief. Initial speculation as to who “set Spitzer up” (on March 11, poster “Officer Krupke” said it had to be the Wall Street CEOs, who could now “return to business as usual: insider trading, backdating options, embezzling”) soon passed to discussion of the Luv Guv’s supposed refusal to wear a condom, leading one informant to say that in his experience, the Emperors Club VIP was “very safety-conscious,” where “everything was covered” and “daty” (sex-net for “dining at the Y,” or cunnilingus) was strictly off-limits. If “Kristen” favored her famous client with a “bbbj” (bareback blow job) on that fateful St. Valentine’s eve, the question around town was, “Did she spit-zer his jiz-zer?” One local $1,000 girl known for a thoroughgoing reading of the Times op-ed page said she knew right away it was a Democratic sex scandal, “because if it was Republican the hookers would have been guys.”
Someone who was certainly not surprised by Spitzer’s fall was Jason Itzler, erstwhile self-declared King of All Pimps. The now-41-year-old but still endlessly openmouthed Jason, whose exploits at his pricey NY Confidential whorehouse were previously described in this magazine (see “The $2,000-an-Hour Woman,” July 10, 2005), knew right away, before it came out in the press, that the Big Spit was a regular. “When I was in the business, if you had someone like him, you’d comp him. You comp him and comp him again, all the while jumping for joy because a client like that is like having the ultimate ‘get out of jail free’ card. But there’s a point you can’t comp him anymore. He’s using too much. You’ve got to begin charging. So if Spitzer was paying, and paying that much, he had to be serious addicted.”
Having served two and half years on Rikers Island for running a house of prostitution and money-laundering, Jason was now flogging his “next level” enterprise, DNA Diamonds, a legal matchmaking service that proposes to set up billionaires with fabulous women (i.e., “the girls with the best faces and the best bodies”) for the purposes of love and matrimony (only). “What can I say,” Jason says, in his gooiest prose, “I just like being surrounded by beautiful women and creating love, only this time it is for keeps.”
The Spitzer crack-up has been a bonanza for Jason, a man for whom any day he appears on “Page Six” is a good day. His best iron in the fire is his assertion that he put Spitzer’s “Kristen” into “the business.” This occurred, Jason has been telling Larry King and anyone else with a camera, back in 2004, when he met the woman now known as Ashley Alexandra Dupré at the Hotel Gansevoort, where she was a cocktail waitress. Impressed with the then-19-year-old’s, uh, “spirit,” Jason recruited her for his NY Confidential stable, renaming her “Victoria.” An immediate smash earner, “Victoria” was one of the girls Jason claimed to have dressed up as a cheerleader and sent over to Über-cocksman Charlie Sheen as a well-documented birthday present.
In the midst of this self-promotional blitz, Jason called to say not to worry, he was saving “the best juicy bit, what you can’t say on TV” for me. To wit: that even if Jason saw it as his right and duty to sleep with all the $1,000 NY Confidential girls, “Victoria” refused his advances. “She was like the only one,” Jason says. This rankled the so-called “King of All Pimps” primarily because “Victoria” had what all the other girls kept describing as “the most beautiful vagina in New York.”