Once upon a time, I was an underage runaway survival prostitute.
A prospective client emailed me. We discussed rates and acts briefly. He agreed to meet me at a particular time.
As soon as the conversation stopped, I got a sinking feeling. I'd had a fair number of clients before, and felt fairly "empowered" (gag!) in my work because I was making good money and my clients had been kind and respectful, at least to my face. This anxious feeling had never shown up before a "date." Never.
I cancelled -- no, actually, I stood him up.
And he emailed to say "Hey, I guess I missed you. Maybe you were freaked out. That's totally fine, but I'd really love to get together if you're still interested."
Somehow, the way he was kind about it made me let down my guard -- I'd been prepared for anger and vitriol.
We arranged another time to meet. This time, I showed up.
He took me back to his place. He raped me in every orifice, at knifepoint. I spent the next six hours convinced I was going to die in his apartment. When I left, it was with a brand-new case of PTSD and a sense of shame that would take years to go away.
I trust my instincts, now.