Now that all the latest kerfluffle appears to be settling down, I feel free to chime in, here.
There are many many jobs you couldn't pay me enough to do. That is no excuse for me to condemn someone else for doing it. It is especially amusing when I see an avowed atheist pontificating against anything 'immoral', and spreading their morals around. Exactly where did you get those morals? Thought so. Shut up.
Christ hung with whores. Didn't bug the Son of God one little bit. I've been a pimp. And women have paid me to have sex with them. A lot. I didn't seek it out. It was just their idea. Hey, pussy? Money? Alright!
Streetwalkers, i.e., crack-whores and such, are perhaps the most pitiful creatures on the planet. And if you fuck one, I hope your dick rots and falls off. Which it likely will.
Because of the specialness that is me, the prostitutes in this town I lived sought me out, paid me of their own volition, fed me, fucked me, and cut my hair. Yes, most, if not all of them were hair stylists. This was their side job. They had stables of steady customers, most of them older, or even elderly men, mostly widowers.
Now, if you can prove to me where the harm in that is...
How do you think a crippled man gets sex? Feels like a man? Finds life worth living another day? I see the same light in a talented whore's eyes, a non drug-addled bitch, that I see in a nurses eyes. And I have fucked a veritable truck-load of nurses.
Angels of mercy. Sometimes soiled angels, but...angels.
My girls, well, ladies, weren't my 'property', or my chattel. They were my friends, and I protected them in much the way a sheepdog watches over a flock he loves. I have done very bad things to guys who hurt them, or even threatened to.
I was always a little confused about it all. These women had jobs all over town. Hairdressers. Bartenders. Cashiers. Hookers. Where do you separate it? If you take a chick you just met out on the town and feed her and entertain her, you might not get laid. With these women, it was guaranteed. The best date you ever had, and you get to leave, after. No strings.
If things were iffy, I'd meet the guy at the door, shake his hand, smile my patented smile, and say 'take good care of my friend, here'. I never had to say 'or else'. And then I'd leave. Sometimes, for fun, and practice, I'd shadow her as they went around town. Noticing me was a severe loss of points. For me. You'd be surprised how easy it is.
Spitzer is a vile prick, but, other that the ironic aspect of it, I cannot fault a man with a catcher's mitt for a face for going out and paying premium price for poontang. The only issue should be where he stole the money to pay for it. Just damn, that chick is fine.
Just show me the money trail...