I had just moved to Manhattan, and I found what seemed like the perfect studio.

It was on the first floor of a gorgeous 18th century brownstone on a street of other gorgeous brownstones in the West Village.  It had high ceilings, a fireplace, a garden in the back and it was beautifully furnished by the owner of the brownstone, who at the time was the editor-at-large of a high-end decorating magazine.

He seemed nice, a very handsome guy, and it was all a seemingly beautiful experience.  I was a nice Midwestern girl and he probably saw a sucker coming.