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worker money

by Sabine Horseman (2018-08-13)


This person knew נערות ליווי בחיפה I was a sex worker. It says so, right in my own Bumble profile: retired media whore, current actual whore. He had even commented onto it, using the language every woman longs to listen to 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 reality of my profession came crashing down around him such as for instance a tonne of bricks.

"That is a lot," he said, and he then rolled to 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 this internet service providers for what feels as though hours.

It's not common that the physical and emotional experiences we've at the office will be enough to make up for a potential lack of intimate connection in our lives beyond work; so most of us also date, with varied quantities of success.

A couple of months ago, נערות ליווי בחיפה I ended a relationship with a man I have been seeing for pretty much two years. In private, he was an enormous supporter of me working, but around his colleagues and friends his tune did actually change. He'd introduce me, but hesitate in describing our relationship; when he said, "That is Kate..." the silence that hung in the room where, "...my girlfriend," should have now been weighed a tonne.

I don't believe he personally had a problem with me being a sex worker, but I really do feel that the possibility of other people judging me – and then judging him for being with me – was enough to make him want to 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 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've the talk?"

The talk in which I clarify my job, re-explain my profession in case my date didn't read my Bumble bio, forgot what it said, or – worse – thought it was a joke. Do I tell him the moment we meet, or before we say goodnight? Or do I throw it out randomly on the span 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 enjoy and supports me financially. Unfortunately, it has only happened once – once! – so these days, I find that a lot of responses fall somewhere between abject fascination and outright objectification.

Sometimes I end through to the receiving end of one thousand rapid-fire questions ("What's the weirdest thing you've ever done at the job? Perhaps 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 preferable to 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 again about how exactly frequently I get my sexual health checks done and if I'm sure I'm not a carrier of some mutant strain of gonorrhoea.

"That's all well and good," one man said, over coffee, "But obviously in the event that you went with me, you'd have to get a real job. And you couldn't tell anyone we know that you used to work." You must probably Google me before you get too attached compared to that idea, I wanted to sneer.

Needless to say, even the crudest type of questioning is a better case scenario than the very real threat of violence that many sex workers face when speaking about their job. I've friends who've 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 with them immediately.

And even that is better than the likelihood of physical violence from an intimate partner. I once proceeded a romantic date with a man who invited me around 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 in my experience as I lay silently close to him.

Dating isn't possible for anyone. Even the act of getting to distil your complete person directly into a short and snappy paragraph fit for a dating app is sufficient to create anyone want 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 times when it's all a lot of, I find myself thankful for the simple, stress-free nature of transactional sex. An hour or so on the clock and a peck on the cheek to express a fond goodbye until the next time: only if finding love was as simple.

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