Everyone knows that politicians are whores, with their ample pockets spread wide to receive the tumescent input of lobbyists and special interest groups. But what we often forget is that Washington also offers a 'target rich' environment for whores of a more traditional sort, especially those aiming at a classy clientele and charging hefty prices. Or at least it did until recently when the D.C. police actually started cracking down on the escort services who served the needs of politicians and civil servants with a lot of tension and not much time to work it off.

Ah, the demands of a career in government. To rise to the top you have to sacrifice your home life, your free time, and so many of your pleasures. The job comes first so you work insane hours, and you've got to make the most of your small amounts of free time if you want to stay sane. No luxury for hanging out in bars in Georgetown looking for single secretaries. No time to bump carts in the "social" Safeway on Wisconsin Avenue and hook up with a bored housewife. No time to slip ruffies to punk chicks at the 9:30 Club. Hell, with the GOP scrambling to get the Senate back, you hardly even have time to snort blow off the tits of the waitresses at the Camelot anymore.

You're a man. You have power. It makes you horny. You have needs. Sadly you have more needs than time. You do have some self respect. You're not going to hang out with Marion Barry chasing the streetwalkers farther and farther east on Rhode Island Avenue. But wait. What about that ad in the back of the City Paper. Wasn't there something there about an Italian Hottie? $250 an hour, $150 a half? That sounds awfully good. No mess, no fuss and they can send 'Courtny' to your apartment at the Watergate.

So you pick up the phone and make the call. It just rings and rings. Frustrated, you try 'No Clothes Required' - they have 10 girls, so surely they can help, but their phone is disconnected. You try 'petite princess' Cassandra in Rockville, but her voicemail box is full. You even call out for Asian from Fairfax, but their line is all thaied up.

Now it's getting late in the nation's capital and you can't find an escort anywhere. It's like a Ghost Town with no hope of desperately needed relief in sight. You've got a hard day of taxing and spending planned for tomorrow, and you'll never get through it if you can't wind down with a quick, clean "massage" before bed.

Desperate, you rack your brain and in a fit of nostalgia you even make a call to the concierge at the Mayflower, but he's been replaced by a Mormon who offers to come over with three of his well-dressed friends and sit vigil and read scripture with you until Mitt Romney is president.