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He knew I was a sex worker. It says so, right within my Bumble profile: retired media whore, current actual whore. He had even commented onto it, using what every woman longs to listen to from a romantic interest:’Haha, nice 😉 ‘. In the event you cherished this article and you would want to receive details relating to דירות דיסקרטיות generously check out our own web-page. And yet I watched as his face contorted directly into an expression of disgust, his upper lip curling as the reality of my profession came crashing down around him such as for instance a tonne of bricks.
“That’s a lot,” he said, and then he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t hear from him again.
It sometimes surprises people to listen to that sex workers do all sorts of normal people activities, like working other jobs, studying, taking the bins out. We exist in actuality after our shifts end and the red light is flicked off; we have dinner with your families and shop at K-Mart and wait on hold with our online sites providers for what is like hours.
It’s not common that the physical and emotional experiences we’ve at the office would be enough to replace a potential insufficient intimate connection within our lives beyond work; so most of us also date, with varied degrees of success.
A couple of months ago, I ended a relationship with a man I had been seeing for nearly two years. In private, he was an enormous supporter of me working, but around his colleagues and friends his tune seemed to change. He would introduce me, but hesitate in describing our relationship; when he said, “This is Kate…” the silence that hung in the area where, “…my girlfriend,” should have been weighed a tonne.
I don’t believe he personally had a problem with me being truly a sex worker, but I actually do believe that the possibility of other people judging me – and then judging him for being with me – was enough to create him want to help keep me a secret.
So I’ve recently downloaded some dating apps and put myself back on the proverbial market, but it’s tough. Along with all the usual questions one ponders before a romantic date (What do I wear? Where shall we go?) I find myself asking things such as, “At what point do we have the talk?”
The talk where I clarify my job, re-explain my profession in the event my date didn’t read my Bumble bio, forgot what it said, or – worse – thought it had been a joke. Do I tell him the moment we meet, or before we say goodnight? Or do I throw it out at random on the length of the evening: “Wow, this wine is delicious. In addition, I’m a hooker. Pass the salt?”
The ultimate dream scenario is that my date is supportive, and happy that I’ve found a type of work that I love and supports me financially. Unfortunately, this has only happened once – once! – so today, I find that most responses fall somewhere within abject fascination and outright objectification.
Sometimes I end up on the receiving end of one thousand rapid-fire questions (“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever done at work? Maybe you have had a celebrity client? Are the people all old and ugly? They’re not, like, normal guys like me, are they?”) which is better than horrified silence, but leaves me feeling like I’ve just been interviewed for an hour.
Other times, my date can barely contain their disgust, quizzing me over and once more about how exactly frequently I get my sexual health checks done and if I’m sure I’m not really a carrier of some mutant strain of gonorrhoea.
“That’s all perfectly and good,” one man said, over coffee, “But obviously if you sought out with me, you’d have to acquire a real job. And you couldn’t tell anyone we all know that you used to work.” You ought to probably Google me before you obtain too attached to that particular idea, I wished to sneer.
Obviously, even the crudest distinct questioning is just a better case scenario compared to the very real threat of violence that numerous sex workers face when speaking about their job. I have friends who have been followed home and stalked by men who couldn’t understand just why their date with a sex worker didn’t end with a romp, and others who have had partners appear at their work in a spontaneous fit of jealousy, viciously demanding they empty their locker and return home together immediately.
And even that’s preferable to the chance of physical violence from a romantic partner. I once proceeded a date with a person who invited me up to his bedroom, held me down as he initiated sex without a condom, and then read one of my own, personal articles, about sex work, out loud in my experience as I lay silently close to him.
Dating isn’t possible for anyone. Even the act of getting to distil your entire person directly into a short and snappy paragraph fit for a dating app is sufficient to create anyone wish to purge their hands and surrender to a life of solitude.
Still, I rely on love, and I understand from past experiences that relationships – when they’re good – are worth every struggle.
On the days when it’s all an excessive amount of, I find myself thankful for the easy, stress-free nature of transactional sex. An hour or so on the clock and a peck on the cheek to state a fond goodbye until the next occasion: if only finding love was as simple.