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worker money

por Paulina Cuming (2019-06-16)


This man 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 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 truth of my profession came crashing down around him such as a tonne of bricks.

"That's a lot," he explained, 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 know 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 have dinner with this families and shop at K-Mart and wait on hold with our internet service 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 with a potential insufficient intimate connection within our lives outside of work; so most of us also date, with varied quantities of success.

A few months ago, I ended a connection with a person I had 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 appeared to change. He'd introduce me, but hesitate in describing our relationship; when he explained, "This really is Kate..." the silence that hung in the area where, "...my girlfriend," should have already been weighed a tonne.

I don't genuinely believe that he personally had a problem with me being a sex worker, but I really do think that the chance of other folks judging me – and then judging him for being with me – was enough to create 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 date (What do I wear? Where shall we go?) I find myself asking such things 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, girl4escort forgot what it said, or – worse – thought it was a joke. Do I tell him as soon as 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 greatest 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 nowadays, I find that most responses fall somewhere between abject fascination and outright objectification.

Sometimes I end 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 guys all old and ugly? They're not, like, normal guys like me, are they?") which surpasses 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 precisely 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 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 wanted to sneer.

Of course, even the crudest distinct questioning is a better case scenario compared to 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, נערת ליווי חיפה and others who've 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 an intimate partner. I once went on a 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 among my own articles, about sex work, out loud in my experience as I lay silently next to him.

Dating isn't possible for anyone. Even the act of having to distil your entire person in to a short and snappy paragraph fit for a dating app will do to make anyone want to throw up their hands and surrender to a life of solitude.

Still, I rely on love, and I know 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 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: if only finding love was as simple.

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