Several years ago, I took the bus out to to Staten Island to a Victorian bed and breakfast that caters to male cross dressers. Sitting in a room full of wigs and very large clothing — gigantic red patent leather high-heels and corsets with grommets seemingly the size of 50 cent pieces — the inn’s genteel proprietor described the sexual scenarios that he was paid to arrange. In loving detail, he spoke of the New York City firefighter about to be married who, several weeks before his real wedding, paid for a pre-wedding in which he would be the bride. The B&B would provide the band and the food. And the groom. Another male client paid to quietly garden and asked only that an employee dressed as a maid lean out the window every twenty minutes to ask, “Do you need anything, Dorothy?” I thought about this nice place when I read today that Governor Spitzer had been been caught up in a prostitution sting. Far from outraging me, this news only made me like Mr. Wall Street Trustbuster more. What sex scenarios was Spitzer’s girlfriend hired to enact? Maybe he paid her — stupidly mailing the cash — to hit him with a little cloth crop while shouting “You’re a fucking steamroller, aren’t you? Say it!” or "Who’s changing the ethics of Albany? Who?”