Here is an article from The Daily News regarding the latest Eliot Spitzer controversy, and the woman that lead the former governor to his downfall. The article, in the midst of the layers being removed from the entire situation, looks at the life of Ashley Alexandra Dupre, and the twisted road she followed for the respect she always wanted.
Her Sad Path to Respect
By: Michale Daly
Thursday, March 13th 2008
No, Ashley Alexandra Dupre you are not a monster.
You are a young woman from a broken home who struck out on her own at 17, and kept learning hard lessons in the ways of unlove.
You were, by your own account, abused and sometimes homeless. You knew loneliness. You tried drugs.
But then one day you were singing "Respect" in the shower, and your boyfriend burst in to say you could make it as a singer.
So you came to New York hoping you would find salvation in music, show the sound at your core was more sweet than sour.
"I am all about my music, and my music is all about me," you wrote on your MySpace page.
You put one of your songs, "What We Want," on the page, saying it was about trust and inspired by a guy who "taught me not to confuse my dreams with the sounds of the city."
The track is catchy enough, though it did not catapult you to fame and riches.
Even so, you loved the city, and for you it was not just stardom or nothing.
You said it was "all about expressing me."
You had your own idea of making it.
"I'm still there and I love who I am."
What you seemed to want most was what you were singing in the shower about. You wrote in your online blog about wanting to be with people who "have value ... doesn't have to be financial, i am talking respect, courage, and umm RESPECT."
But, the last guy, maybe the guy who taught you about your dreams, walked out on you.
And you had Manhattan rent to pay.
So it was all about finances when you got that text message from the Emperors Club VIP escort service.
"IF D.C. appt. happens u will need 2 leave NYC @ 4:45 pm. Is that possible?"
You replied with a single word:
"Yes."
Nobody on the 5:39 p.m. train out of Penn Station could have imagined you were a callgirl who charges thousands of dollars for a couple of hours.
Not that you aren't pretty. You just look much more like a young woman from the Jersey Shore than some five-diamond fantasy girl.
But there you were, stepping off the train at Union Station and hopping in a cab near the Capitol and its shining dome.
Not long afterward, you were in room 871 at the Mayflower Hotel. You don't seem to have been too apprehensive.
"What destroys me, strengthens me" is the motto on your MySpace page.
Your client called, and a half hour later, in he walked, a quarter century your senior, risking family and career.
He was gone in less than two hours, and your cut of the money he handed you could pay a whole month's rent.
Other call girls had found him difficult, but the wiretap on your escort service recorded you saying he had been no problem.
"I'm here for a purpose," you said. "I know what my purpose is. I am not ... a moron."
You are also not a monster, as you worry people will see you. Nor really is your client, just a louse and a creep.
What he is no longer, as of Monday, is the governor of New York.
And you, Ms. Dupré, got a kind of fame you never could have dreamed of when you came to New York.
But everybody should note that you did not dash to the nearest schlock-peddler to sell your story.
That should earn you some respect.