The Prowl: Where There are Politicians, There are Escorts

Escorts are no surprise in D.C. What’s strange is the sense that operating out of five-star hotels, makes them more glamorous than women on street corners.

Last weekend, I had a bit of a cold and instead of being brave and stoic about it, I turned into a hermit and spent what is perhaps an unhealthy amount of time watching The West Wing on my laptop.  After viewing the majority of Season One in forty-eight hours, which is either pathetic or an immense accomplishment depending on your viewpoint, I became somewhat disappointed that my daily existence in the Capitol is nothing like the pseudo-reality Aaron Sorkin created.  I have yet to encounter any sort of glorification of constitutional ideals, whether of the self-righteous indignant sort or otherwise, nor have I participated in any "walk and talks".  One plot line that now does seem credible, and I apologize if this will ruin it for anyone who never saw the show, was the bit where Sam Seaborne, the Deputy Communications Director played by Rob Lowe (I have a not-so-secret crush on this fictitious character, I'll admit it) accidentally sleeps with and subsequently befriends a "call girl."  It seems, as I can attest, that the world's oldest profession is really flourishing here - both on TV and in real life.

Prior to my bout with the world's mildest cold, I met a friend from college for dinner at a restaurant in one of DC's nicer hotels; he was in town for a brief period taking depositions on a case involving laminate floor panels.  We had a lovely meal, catching up and reminiscing about that time I lit my hair on fire at my birthday party, that time he thought the police that broke up his birthday party were really strippers, that time we tried to make beer in our bathtub, and other antics and gossip that seemed to horrify the sweet old couple that was clearly eavesdropping at the table next to ours.

At one point in the evening, I excused myself to go to the restroom to give the elderly couple some time to recover. Immediately after I returned, I noticed that the elderly couple had left--but a young lady in the tiniest dress I have ever seen came over to our table and said in a very thick accent from somewhere in Eastern Europe: "My friend over there noticed you and thinks you are very beautiful.  He asked me to ask if you would meet him." I didn't want to turn around to check him out too fast, but I admit to having been immediately flattered and ready to jump out of my seat.  But before I could do anything, my friend shot me a look and told the woman firmly that I would not go to meet him.

The woman informed him in no uncertain terms that she had not asked him, and thus his opinion was irrelevant.  Then she turned all sweet smiles back to me.  "Please, he wants to meet you. He thinks you're so beautiful."

I shot a pleading look to my friend, but he stood firm, and pointed out to the woman that if her so-called friend was truly interested in meeting me, he would do the gentlemanly thing and walk over and introduce himself.

She suggested her friend was "an introvert."

He suggested introvert or no introvert, he'd have to suck it up and come over.

The woman, shocked to encounter such opposition, blatantly told me to stop listening to my friend because her friend was a "truly nice guy."  More than this, she insinuated he was some sort of monolithic figure in the shady Eastern European world and for this reason should be shown some sort of deference.  I finally weighed into the argument, admittedly a little late, agreeing with my friend that if this person who was so intrigued with me from across the room really wanted to meet me, he should probably just walk up to the table himself.  My friend, now impatient, put it more bluntly: "We don't care if he's the freakin' King of Uzbekistan. Tell him to man up and stop sending over other people to do his work for him." The girl, clearly not impressed at our dismissal of her friend's advances, stormed off in a huff mumbling something about how I had made a huge mistake.

My friend watched as the woman returned to her table, and sat next to a second guy, with whom she proceeded to make out while the King of Uzbekistan looked on with boredom. Shortly thereafter, he put on his coat and left. No walking the walk for him.  Then, after we had finished our meal, and were having after-dinner drinks, my friend noticed that the woman had joined a new party. And when we got the check, she was with a different group again.  Something about all of this seemed very odd, leading him to conclude immediately that she was a prostitute.  At the time, I was not as convinced--because, uh, what would that have made me, given her expectations?

"She was not issuing you an invitation," my friend explained wearily.  "She was entering into a negotiation with you.  Maybe I should have bartered for a good price instead of sending her away."

I conceded he had more knowledge of this world than I. For reasons he has never fully articulated, my visiting college friend genuinely likes drinking in hotel bars and has never minded doing it alone.  I once asked if this was a sign he might have a problem, but he assured me that there was just something sort of melancholy about hotel bars late at night that he thoroughly enjoys.  That, and he likes the older women who tend to frequent them.  Therefore, when I went home for the night, he stayed at the bar to have one last drink.  To his surprise, our huffy foreign negotiator sat down next to him.  My friend, obviously, is a chivalrous fellow so he bought her a drink.  As they chatted, it became clear to him that he was right, she really was a prostitute as she not very subtly brought up the prospect of exchanging sex for money.  He politely declined, because while he may have good manners, he is also "fiscally responsible." Paying a monetary value for something he could get for nothing, he later explained, sounded like wasteful spending.

I guess what struck me most about the whole affair was how open she was about precisely what she did for a living and the degree to which the hotel did not seem to mind it at all.  Somehow, by operating out of a five -star hotel, there was a perception that she was involved in something classier and more high-brow, something more glamorous--an "escort service," if you will--than the cheap hookers on the street corners of Chinatown.  This way of tacitly accepting this woman and others like her among D.C.-elite, seems strangely appropriate here; I am not certain I could ever adequately explain why though.

In the meantime, returning to how this all started, I might simply conclude by noting that having a prostitute solicit an introduction for you has a certain irony to it, which although amusing in a way, is probably not the most efficient way to get a girl to "come see your etchings" free of charge.