Five years ago, Love Guv Eliot Spitzer resigned after being exposed as a client of the Emperors Club call-girl ring. But his wasn’t the only life turned upside down that day. In this essay from Vocativ, Valerie Baber, one of the club’s escorts, tells her story.
I had seen myself on TV before, but I had never seen my picture on the news. It was one thing to be a model or the face of a product. It was another to be one of the faces of a scandal.
It was 2008, and after nearly a year of surveillance, the FBI had brought down the Emperors Club escort agency, along with then-Gov. Eliot Spitzer, setting off a media tsunami that lasted for months — and swept me up with it. From the FBI pounding at my door to the exposure in the press, to the $25,000 fee paid to an attorney who would defend me for the unthinkable crime of having safe, consensual encounters with other adults, it was a life-changing experience for me.
There were moments when not knowing how to handle the sudden brush with infamy put me in a numb, emotionless void. And I often found myself in denial that it had ever even happened. I was just a nice girl from Oklahoma.
Of course, I also happened to be “the hooker named Raquel” who charged $1,500 an hour for her services. Depending on the client and the booking, I was also occasionally “Ashley” (Spitzer’s Ashley actually went by Kristen.) Raquel was the name featured in the news — the one a booker recommended to a client in the FBI’s affidavit as “beautiful, all-American, very clean, very fresh,” and to an undercover cop as “a little bustier on top.”
The Emperors Club was the elite agency in New York, possibly the world, at the time. Catering to an ultra high-end clientele, it paired beautiful female companions with men paying day rates of as much as $30,000. Its client list consisted of Forbes-listers, royalty, politicians, athletes, celebrities and industry titans.
After the scandal, I moved to London to start a new life. I returned to a long-overdue education and discovered that not only did I love being a student, but I was actually good at it, too. I eventually earned a master’s degree and set my sights on a different career, one that would allow me to use my experiences and insights to help make a difference in the intimate lives of women and couples.
Still, while I always understood the anger toward Spitzer’s careless duplicity, I could never fully understand the general shock over adults doing what adults do. Watching Spitzer run for comptroller this fall, I grew compelled to share my story. Prostitution is in the past for me now, but my nine-month run with the Emperors Club was one of the most unique, enlightening and valuable experiences of my life.
I WAS never molested. I have never had a problem with drugs or alcohol. I grew up poor in the Bible belt, and though my adolescence wasn’t carefree or happy by any stretch, I was not the victim of abuse. If anything, I was just overexposed to ignorance.
At 19, I packed up and headed west to LA with just enough money to make the first payment on a studio apartment in the slums of Hollywood. I eventually took a job at a nightclub, where I met a bartender who suggested I could supplement my $7-an-hour income by dancing. It wasn’t difficult for me to undress in front of a room full of strangers. Half of everyone else there was naked, too. And it wasn’t difficult for me to approach the men — my Midwestern friendliness helped.
I started doing photo shoots for Web sites and auto magazines, and landed what would become a four-year gig as on-air talent for Playboy TV. A few years into my work with Playboy TV, there was a network shakeup. The vice president of production said I could stay on only if I was willing to “get dirtier.” Dirty is never something I had a problem with. Dirty on camera was a different story, however. I lost my position and started dancing more. Eventually, I moved to New York.
I did research online using terms like “VIP companion” and “model introductions.” The Emperors Club, which advertised itself as a “concierge service” with a portfolio of sophisticated ladies, stood apart from the rest. The girls on the Web site wore elegant dresses and tasteful swimsuits, and the “lifestyle services” offered were always described in surprisingly well-written prose.
I submitted a brief description of myself and was soon meeting with the owners, “Kate” and “Michael,” at the Waldorf Astoria. (I still prefer not to use their real names.) They were a bit of an odd couple — she was petite and wholesome in her mid-20s, with a confidence beyond her years; he was significantly older, in his early 60s, with a soft-spoken kindness. Neither was the type you’d ever suspect could be the ringleader of an operation like Emperors.
I filled in forms and confidentiality agreements. Nothing in the documents spoke of sex for money or made me feel alarmed. The pair instructed me about how business was to be conducted, how to take credit-card imprints and to always wear a nice dress.
On Aug. 25, 2007, I got my first call with instructions to meet a man at his residence on the Upper East Side. They didn’t call it a “trial,” but I knew it was a test of my ability to fit in with the company and appease their clients. I would not only have to prove that I had “it,” but also that I wouldn’t get cold feet or run off with their portion of the money.
The apartment was in an upscale residential tower, and when I arrived at around 11 p.m. in a body-hugging blue dress, a friendly, well-kept Jewish man in his 40s answered the door. I looked for signs of a woman’s presence in his meticulously clean, tastefully decorated living room while we chatted over a glass of wine, but I didn’t bother to ask if he was married. He showed me an unusual piece of art and explained its composition. I became more titillated as the process of growing from strangers to lovers unfolded. After a moment, he invited me into his bedroom and I followed without hesitation. I counted the money in front of him, which I found distasteful, and I never did it in front of a client again.
I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do; I just knew I was going to do it, and I was counting on the thrill of a new experience to get me through. Although rushed and slightly nervous, it wasn’t difficult for me to give him what I knew he wanted. The sex was safe, standard and over before my booker called to tell me that the hour was up and I should be heading home. The man was pleasant enough, and after thanking him for the meeting and wishing him a good night, I went home with a strange sense of exhilaration.
I made a good enough impression with my first performance that it earned me a rate bump with the agency, from $1,000 to $1,200.
Going full time as an escort with the Emperors Club was a life-enhancing experience. And the sex wasn’t as difficult as people might expect. For the most part, clients were well groomed and typically in their 40s. Even with the men I felt less attracted to, I was always able to find something I thought was nice, and I’d try to focus on that. Some men didn’t care about sex as much as general intimacy and conversation. It surprised me to learn how much sex wasn’t actually had as an escort.
There were professional gamblers and boxers, top-tier doctors and lawyers, high-flying finance types, an Ivy League professor and several successful entrepreneurs. But the one I’ll always remember, my dream client, was a sexy French restaurateur.
I knew who he was before we met in his room at the Hudson Hotel — I had Googled him, something I often did with clients. He greeted me at the door with a glass of wine and a gift bag from Victoria’s Secret, a kind gesture that wasn’t expected or required. I tried on the lingerie, and we took full advantage of the mirror against the wall. I didn’t expect I would ever be so turned on by a man who paid me to be with him, but this was a pleasant surprise. I insisted we fit a second round in before our time was up.
With a young, fit body, a healthy head of sandy blond hair, a warm personality and prominence in a glamorous business, he was not the kind of man who had to pay for sex. Actually, I’d say 90 percent of my clients weren’t. I’m not sure what his specific motivation was. It was either the convenience or just the thrill. It’s possible he had an addiction. In my dealings with clients, I often felt like they could be addicts. But I didn’t mind, and it has never been my job to overthink it. I was more than happy to accommodate his desires, and he seemed more than happy to be with me.
There was also the hot professional hockey player, in town for a game. He was nicely dressed, and even nicer undressed. I debated whether or not I should break my rule and give him oral without a condom. It wasn’t often I had a client I found so inspiring that I was willing to take a chance and treat myself (and him) to something less clinical. I was on top most of the time. And that’s how almost all of my clients preferred it. I guess if I were paying $1,500 an hour, I wouldn’t want to do any work, either.
Another client was an older man, probably 40 years my senior, with a thin upper lip that covered slightly yellowed teeth. And as Southern men are said to be, he was very much a gentleman. He knew me as Ashley because he had selected me from the higher-end “Icon Model” portfolio. He was the first of only two clients to meet Ashley. This meant he paid $5,400 for the two hours as opposed to the $3,000 I would have made as Raquel.
Icon Models had interests like classical music and equestrian sports. They hunted pheasant, studied at Oxford, knew the difference between a watch and a timepiece and could participate in a debate over the superiority of Walker Black versus Laphroaig. They had pedigree, or at least the ability to appear like they did. They also had an expensive wardrobe, the ability to sit up straight, speak proper English and pretend for a couple of hours that they were genuinely interested in the hobbies and fineries of the ruling class.
I wore my most elegant pieces: diamonds, Gucci dress, Prada heels, a golden silk pashmina and Agent Provocateur underneath. The only thing that wasn’t designer was my clutch, but it matched my shoes and was just big enough to fit a nice stack of cash. I sipped a martini, and he enjoyed a scotch on the rocks.
He told me about his family. Unfortunately, his wife didn’t care to be affectionate with him anymore. It was not an unusual story, and I was happy to fill the void. He had children and grandchildren. We cuddled and caressed. He needed the affection. At the end, he told me that I was a wonderful companion and that he would love to meet again. Nobody had ever called me a wonderful companion. I put a lot of love into my visit with him, and I was touched by his compliment. Despite his age and looks, he was a great client. What I didn’t realize was that he would also be my last.
The Emperors Club was busted; the FBI showed up at my door, and I had to hire an attorney. I signed a proffer agreement with the feds; they asked me to identify people in photos, but it was clear I had no information they didn’t already have from their surveillance.
My photos and bio were all over the news, along with those of other girls like “Chrissy” and “Maya.” And, of course, Ashley Dupré — whom I’ve never met — got it way worse than anyone. Most of us weren’t outed so completely or spectacularly, but it was mortifying all the same. There would be plenty of awkward moments with friends, family and modeling agents who recognized our images and descriptions.
Months after the incident, I was still consumed with an extraordinary sense of grief and loss. After a lifetime of struggling, things had finally been going right for me. I had found excitement, financial independence and what I thought was security in the Emperors Club. And it had all been suddenly taken away. I was forced to struggle again with money. In addition, I was made to feel as though I had done something truly horrible. But I knew with every fiber of my being that I had done nothing wrong.
In fact, I’m still unsure what “crime” was ever committed.
Valerie Baber is now a writer in London. She’s shopping a memoir, “Notorious VIP: Confessions of an Emperors Club Companion.” This essay reprinted with permission from Vocativ.