Michael Merriam recounts what it's like to man the desk at a DC brothel:
The closest we ever came to getting busted was when a dominatrix named Erin sat smoking on the porch, in full regalia, and ashed onto the neighbor’s lawn. He saw her do it and asked her not to. "Fuck you," she said (she’s a dominatrix), and the authorities became involved. But they didn’t have much interest in getting too involved. The cops don’t want to bust prostitution, really.
A vice cop once gave me a seminar, of sorts, on how not to get arrested for vice. If, say, your client is giving you some kind of problem, and you fear for your safety, and you really need the police, this is what you say: You met this guy, you liked him, you went home with him, he started the problem. The cop will know you’re lying, but he has more interest in arresting your assailant than in arresting you. Thus the vice squad is refigured as a sort of immune system, as the very force of differentiation between actual vice and, you know, the gold-hearted hooker and the charming scamp.