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 the language every woman longs to hear from a romantic interest:'Haha, nice ;) '. And yet I watched as his face contorted directly into an expression of disgust, his upper lip curling as the fact of my profession came crashing down around him such as a tonne of bricks.
"That is clearly a lot," he said, and he then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. I didn't hear from him again.
It often surprises people to hear that sex workers do a variety of normal people activities, like working other jobs, studying, taking the bins out. We exist in real life after our shifts end and the red light is flicked off; we have dinner with this families and shop at K-Mart and wait on hold with our websites providers for what feels like hours.
It's not common that the physical and emotional experiences we have at the job will be enough to make up for a possible lack of intimate connection within our lives beyond work; so most of us also date, with varied quantities of success.
A couple of months ago, I ended a connection with a person I have been seeing for pretty much two years. In private, he was a massive supporter of me working, but around his colleagues and friends his tune did actually change. He would introduce me, but hesitate in describing our relationship; when he said, "This really is Kate..." the silence that hung in the room where, "...my girlfriend," should have already been weighed a tonne.
I don't think that he personally had a trouble with me being truly a sex worker, but I really do feel that the chance of others judging me – and then judging him to be 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 current 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 in which 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 absolutely was a joke. Do I tell him
שירותי ליווי אשדוד the moment we meet, or before we say goodnight? Or do I throw it out at random on the course of the evening: "Wow, this wine is delicious. Incidentally, 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 enjoy and supports me financially. Unfortunately, it has only happened
נערת ליווי אשדוד once – once! – so today, I find that many 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 the job? Have you ever had a celebrity client? Are the inventors 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 frequently I get my sexual health checks done and if I'm sure I'm not just a carrier of some mutant strain of gonorrhoea.
"That's all very well and good," one man said, over coffee, "But obviously in the event that you went out with me, you'd have to obtain a real job. And you couldn't tell anyone we know that you used to work." You must probably Google me before you obtain too attached compared to that idea, I wanted to sneer.
Needless to say, even the crudest line of questioning is just a better case scenario than the very real threat of violence that lots of 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've had partners show up at their work in a spontaneous fit of jealousy, viciously demanding they empty their locker and return home using them immediately.
And even that's better than the chance of physical violence from an intimate
partner. I once continued a romantic date with a man who invited me as much as his bedroom, held me down as he initiated sex without a condom, and then read one of my own, personal articles, about sex work, aloud to me as I lay silently next to him.
Dating isn't simple for anyone. Even the act of experiencing to distil your entire person into a quick and snappy paragraph fit for a dating app is enough to create anyone wish to purge their hands and surrender to a life of solitude.
Still, I rely on love, and I am aware from past experiences that relationships – when they're good – are worth every struggle.
On the days when it's all too much, I find myself thankful for the easy, stress-free nature of transactional sex. An hour on the clock and a peck on the cheek to say a fond goodbye until the next occasion: only if finding love was as simple.
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