I think a fine measure of how successful one has become is the amount of disposable income he can direct at prostitutes. Me, I’ve yet to rise above the street level hooker, with their nervous corner pacing and nicotine yellowed half-shirts. These are the ladies who will kick their way through the beer cans on the floor of your car and get into a cramped position to dole out the love. They moan on cue and peer frequently above the window line, scanning the landscape for cops, boyfriends or probation officers. Forty dollars to make you holler, less if its crunch time in the crack trade.

Then there’s the honorable and horny Eliot Spitzer and his leg-humping kind. Forty-three-hundred by God dollars for two hours of what? The same fumbling sex acts you can get in that beer cluttered car, only you get it in a penthouse and with a woman who looks good with the lights on. So good, in fact that they rate them with diamonds. A three diamond girl, considered the bottom of this high-priced barrel, can be had for a measly grand per hour. Snag a seven diamond girl, presumably one without blemish or missing parts, that same hour will run you $3,100.

It’s like a TGI Fridays menu. The light of pocket can sit at a cramped bar and dine on the lunch special. The well-to-do has a grand table with steaks and all the sides.

It’s not in me (which would be a great title for this blog) to tell others how to spend their money. But it occurs to me that the people who spend big dough for sexual playmates are usually the ones who make headlines. Live within your means, get a hooker that can be paid for with returnable bottles, you’ll probably do alright.

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