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worker money

por Benny Broadway (2019-06-18)


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

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

It often surprises people to listen to that sex workers do a variety of normal people activities, like working other jobs, studying, taking the bins out. We exist in the real world after our shifts end and the red light is flicked off; we've dinner with our families and shop at K-Mart and wait on hold with your online sites providers for what feels like hours.

It's not common that the physical and emotional experiences we have at the office could be enough to replace a potential insufficient intimate connection inside our lives beyond work; so many of us also date, with varied degrees of success.

A few months ago, I ended a connection with a man I had been seeing for almost two years. In private, he was a huge 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 explained, "That is Kate..." the silence that hung in the space where, "...my girlfriend," should have been weighed a tonne.

I don't believe that he personally had a problem with me being fully a sex worker, but I actually do think that the possibility of others judging me – and then judging him if you are 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 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 as soon as we meet, or before we say goodnight? Or נערת ליווי אשדוד do I throw it out at random within the length of the evening: "Wow, this wine is delicious. By the way, I'm a hooker. Pass the salt?"

The greatest dream scenario is that my date is supportive, and happy that I've found a line of work that I love and supports me financially. Unfortunately, it's only happened once – once! – so these days, 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? Maybe you have had a celebrity client? Are the guys all old and ugly? They're not, like, normal guys like me, are they?") which surpasses horrified silence, sexy2call 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 precisely 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 sought 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 get too attached to that idea, I wished to sneer.

Of course, even the crudest type of questioning is 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'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 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 is better the chance of physical violence from a romantic partner. I once continued a romantic date with a person who invited me as much as 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 if you ask me 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 brief and snappy paragraph fit for a dating app will do to make anyone wish to throw up their hands and surrender to a life of solitude.

Still, I believe in love, and I understand 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 straightforward, stress-free nature of transactional sex. An hour or so 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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