Despite a rash of prostitution scandals, sex stills sells on one of D.C.'s most prominent drags

New York governor* Eliot Spitzer's already rocky first term hit its most serious snag yet when the Time magazine "Crusader of the Year" and married father of three was busted on a federal wiretap for arranging a rendezvous with a high-class hooker in a D.C. hotel. As we found out firsthand in our February 2008 issue, though, red-blooded politicos looking for some random play in our nation's capitol don't have to break the bank with a $5,500-an-hour call girl like the one sought out by Spitzer. Below, our exploration into the seamy underbelly of pay-for-play Washington sex.

One might expect D.C.'s top players to have cooled their libidos—still roiling from the Larry Craig embarrassment and the release of high-class "D.C. Madam" Deborah Palfrey's little black book—but it turns out that Washington's K Street is randier than ever.

Home to many of the country's top lobbying firms, the fabled PR power corridor is also the hub of a $250 million-a-year sex industry that provides Beltway bigwigs with "rub and tugs" at full-service massage parlors. Feds shuttered five such storefronts in August 2006, but they were soon back in business. On a recent Tuesday, we visited one such establishment—the 14K Spa at 1413 K Street—to scope out the scene.

Located in the basement of a 15-story building, 14K sits beneath the D.C. headquarters of  Teach for America and an outpost of the Better Business Bureau. A steady stream of besuited white dudes entered the premises, with a surge during lunch hour. One multitasking lawyer spent 42 minutes inside before proceeding directly to a Cosi.

"It's a mostly professional crowd that comes here during the day," reports Georgette, a secretary who has worked in the building for seven years. Carlos, a lobbyist on a smoke break, told us that a fair share of referrals come from the Washington Post's sports pages, where many of the parlors advertise.

At 2 p.m., we descended a street-level staircase that led to an opaque glass door. We were buzzed into a small reception area with a few chairs and copies of Sports Illustrated, Us Weekly, and the New Republic on hand for waiting customers. An amicable elderly Korean woman named Kim introduced us to Coco, a 23-year-old Korean-Hawaiian with fake C-cups. Coco led us to a private room, collected $60, and asked us to strip and don a towel. "We get many type of guy from around here," Coco told us, administering the worst back rub we've ever received—a good indication that shiatsu isn't her specialty. After 30 minutes, she demanded another hundred clams, using a series of obscene hand gestures to indicate the additional services available.

We thanked Coco and bolted; the look of confusion on her face suggested this does not happen often. Back aboveground, Carlos was enjoying another smoke. "You know, there are enough whores a few blocks away in the White House," he said. "I don't need to see more on my lunch hour."

*At least as of this writing.

This article is from the April issue of Radar Magazine. For a risk-free issue, click here

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