I feel bad for calling her a cliché name like an escort, not a whore, but definitely a prostitute. Now, I understand this may be a sketchy story about a man and the sex worker. I am well aware of that. Did I know what I was getting into? I assumed so. One could say I was detached from the consequences. I was adamant about the outcome—the urge I desired to come out. This is probably what sexual predators feel like before they get caught by Chris Hansen. Those moments parked outside her place were dissociative and delusional. The escort mentioned it was just her and her sister who lived in the house. I had a small hit of ketamine before we met, so I felt disconnected from the potential danger. The receptors for my anxiety were at a low, even though I was visibly nervous. I texted her that I was parked outside her home and she told me come through the entrance through the garage, which she opened. It was now or never, I entered and saw her standing by the door that took us to the home basement. I walk into the room of a whore.