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by Marina Corley (2018-11-26)


This guy knew I was a sex worker. It says so, right within my Bumble profile: retired media whore, current actual whore. He had even commented on it, using the language every woman longs to listen to from the romantic interest:'Haha, nice ;) '. And yet I watched as his face contorted directly into an expression of disgust, his upper lip curling as the truth of my profession came crashing down around him just like a tonne of bricks.

"That is clearly a lot," he said, and he then rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. I didn't hear from him again.

It sometimes surprises people to know 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've dinner with this families and shop at K-Mart and wait on hold with your websites providers for what feels like hours.

It's not common that the physical and emotional experiences we've at the job could be enough to replace a potential lack of intimate connection inside our lives outside of work; so many of us also date, with varied levels of success.

A couple of months ago, I ended a relationship with a person I have been seeing for almost two years. In private, נערות ליווי בתל אביב 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 explained, "This is Kate..." the silence that hung in the area where, "...my girlfriend," should have already been weighed a tonne.

I don't believe he personally had a problem with me being truly a sex worker, but I actually do think that the possibility of others 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 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 just 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 when we meet, or before we say goodnight? Or do I throw it out randomly within the course of the evening: "Wow, this wine is delicious. Incidentally, I'm a hooker. Pass the salt?"

The best dream scenario is that my date is supportive, and happy that I've found a distinct work that I love and supports me financially. Unfortunately, it's only happened once – once! – so today, I find that a lot of responses fall approximately abject fascination and outright objectification.

Sometimes I end through to the receiving end of a lot of rapid-fire questions ("What's the weirdest thing you've ever done at the office? Have you ever had a celebrity client? Are the people all old and ugly? They're not, like, normal guys like me, are they?") which surpasses horrified silence, girl4escort 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 girl4escort over 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 very well and good," one man said, over coffee, "But obviously in the event that you went 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 should probably Google me before you get too attached to that idea, I wished to sneer.

Obviously, even the crudest line of questioning is just a better case scenario compared to very real threat of violence that lots of 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 have had partners appear at their work in a spontaneous fit of jealousy, viciously demanding they empty their locker and return home with them immediately.

And even that's better the likelihood of physical violence from an intimate partner. I once proceeded a date with a man who invited me around his bedroom, held me down as he initiated sex without a condom, and then read among my own, personal articles, about sex work, out loud in my experience as I lay silently next to him.

Dating isn't simple for anyone. Even the act of getting to distil your whole person in to a quick and snappy paragraph fit for a dating app is sufficient to create anyone want to provide 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 a lot of, I find myself thankful for the easy, stress-free nature of transactional sex. One hour on the clock and a peck on the cheek to say a fond goodbye until the next time: if only finding love was as simple.

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