Post-work virginity.

If virginity is a social construct, I'm going to invent post-work virginity.

I didn’t have any expectations about dating after sex work, because I had no expectation of dating after sex work.

I am writing this after some inconclusive experimentation, to establish if I am genuinely content by myself, or if I feel so wounded from the past, that I’ve convinced myself I’m best off alone.

I’m beginning to look at my old client base, the single ones who had chosen(?) a hassle free, wifeless life, and am wondering if that is for me.

Half the reason I quit escorting, is because I thought I’d found ‘the one’. You know, that elusive person we’re lead to believe is out there just waiting for us to bump into them so we can have a happy ending? Whatever one of those looks like.

A few months down the line I’m pretty sure he needed a brief inpatient stay at a psychiatric facility before we got together, and I am certain I could have done with one in the aftermath.

Now I’m more or less over that period of chaos, my vagina has been whispering to me, not in a queefy kind of way, more a ‘Go on, go meet some men, it’ll be fun.’ way.
Meanwhile my brain has been saying ‘Study, write, read. Since when have you had this much time to do the things that make you this happy?’
My gut rolled her eyes and muttered ‘You’re not ready to go dating, but you don’t listen to me anywhere near as much as you should, so try it out and then come back for the next thrilling instalment of ‘I told you so.’

There is only one person I regularly speak to, whom I know to have successfully quit sex work. And they don’t seem all that fussed about dating. The odd burst of enthusiasm and gossip, which I LOVE getting involved with, before the eventual ‘Nope, not right for me’. Very relatable.

I spoke before about the women who rode a carousel in and out of sex work, into relationships and back round again. Often, this was to get with guys who would ‘save’ them from the job, before finding they didn’t need, or want, saving. Less relatable.

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In my newfound spinsterhood, with the vast expanse of a bed to myself, I’ve got a vibrator plugged in on each bedside table. In many ways, my needs are met. I’m struggling to see what a man could bring to my life, other than hassle.

Yet, I have now realised if I left it too much longer, it would be too easy to just give up on talking to other humans, never leave the house again, and have a genuinely great time doing so.

In recent weeks I’ve explored gym classes, talks, workshops and networking events, not for romance, but to stop my comfort zone constricting back around me.
The other strand in learning how to human again, has been re-downloading those dreaded dating apps. It is not my first rodeo, but it feels different this time, very different.

I had the first app for perhaps ten days before I deleted it (without having gone on a single date).
All the contenders seemed incredibly normal, and given that I do not have the funds, nor the inclination for a ski trip, I began to suspect I’d have nothing in common with any of them. I will not offer you praise, no matter how big a fish you are holding in your display picture. Put it back and wash your hands.

People who swerve normal and match my type of weird, are now in my eyes, a ticking time bomb.
Fun, but best avoided past the short term. What that says about me, I’ll save to examine another day..

The app I used first gives you writing prompts, to give fellow swipers insight into your life. (Presumably the general public doesn’t share my passion for excessive autobiographical writing, and need help with their bios. Losers.)

When proof reading mine, a friend kindly pointed out, that in publicising my dairy-free dietary preferences for dark chocolate and black coffee, I had inadvertently suggested I fetishised black men. The algorithm too, picked up on this, and began to racially profile on my behalf. Everyone in moderation please.

After a few weeks, and a few more therapy sessions, I downloaded another app.
The idea of meeting someone organically, makes me feel like a trip to Waitrose is on the cards, but the only time I go there now, is for the free 3hrs car parking. Apps it is.

I felt that I needed to find out, first hand, how it actually felt. If reality matched up with my incredibly low expectations. (The answer is, of course, yes.)

It’s not kind to lead anyone on, to describe myself this time, I wrote ‘I am treating this as an extension of my fridge. I’m not hungry, just a little bored. If I keep opening it and taking a look, maybe I’ll find something I want to put in my mouth.’

I kept myself straight for this endeavour. I know from past experience, bisexual women on dating apps tend to enter a stalemate. We’re so used to men making the first move, that when we match, neither reaches out. Plus my lesbian mid-life-crisis has always been set for my 40th year, so I’m a way off yet. Prince Charming, if you’re reading this, you’ve got just shy of 6 years before I slather myself in chocolate and relocate to Brighton.

What I’m finding since my last bout, a couple of years ago, is that men think my images are AI generated and approach with trepidation, if at all. Flattering they think I’d AI generate photos with no make-up and not bolt-on something bigger than a B cup.
If they believe I’m real, I am of course at that age where my biological clock is surely ticking, and there must be something wrong with me if I’m still single. Understandable, but wrong on at least one count.

I went on dates with maybe 3-4 people, and what I’ve found, is that a switch has flipped in my brain. I am fussier than ever. The rose-tinted, glass half full of potential, isn’t in the picture, let alone clouding my decisions.

This isn’t my ‘books not boys’ phase like the summer of 2024. This isn’t ‘oh no, I will never find taller better’. I’m not swiping like I’m ordering a pizza. I’m not pretending I’m fine so I don’t get hurt again.

This is, I’m scared of the new, updated Kate. She’s all out of fucks to give, physically, metaphorically, she just cannot be fucked.
It’s not cynicism, it is clarity, and where the fuck has it been all this time?

My sample size is tiny right now. A handful of dates isn’t enough to write off half the population. But it has been the experimental foray I needed to feel sure.
(Still haven’t seen a penis this year, as at 9th March, in case you were wondering.)
(Edited to say, I did eventually see a penis. It had a lot in common with my sample size.)

On a date, I saw small verbal jabs arising through his insecurity, and instead of rising to them, or meekly agreeing with him, I snapped back and shut him down. Both of us were left with ‘I wasn’t expecting that’ pauses in conversation.

I told one about my work-history, and whilst a better reaction than I expected, he then asked if I was using dating app to get sex work clients.
“That would be a weird long game..”

If, as an ex-sex worker, you conceal that information, it can surely only serve to hurt in the longer term, but by being open from the outset, it opens so many avenues of suspicion. Is she still working? Am I going to be enough for her?
Experimenting with my approach, is arguably ‘playing games’ with people. I’m bored of trying to work that dilemma out.

I find if I talk to people a few years younger than myself, they’re just on the cusp of getting their shit together. A few years older and they’re into first-divorce, have a kid, only have spare time 5-7pm every 6th Tuesday, territory.

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All this time, I’ve been conditioned to think that I am the problem, but I know I’m not.
The other week someone called me boring, I was offended at first, but am now comfortable with that label. I am introverting spectacularly right now. My areas of interest are niche.
Do I want to go out? No.

If I dabble again, I’d like a cheerleader, not an anchor. Someone to grow with me, not hold me back. Am I asking too much? Seems it.

My current standards, and the amount of energy I’d be willing to put into a relationship, I will concede are limiting factors. This is not Build a Bear, or a Starbucks secret menu. I cannot order ‘just like the last one, but lobotomised’ off Amazon, despite what the ‘targeted’ advertising tells me is possible.

I’m well aware, I have put myself into a curious position, partly through my old work, mostly through my excessive need to be self-sufficient:

Old job, controversial.

Life story without old job, inexplicable.

No children, convenient.

Assets, yes.

Liquid funds, minimal.

Current employment status, sub-optimal.

Happiness, unprecedented.

Part of counselling studies focusses on noticing body language and patterns in speech, and now I know, I cannot un-see these things. I always liked chatty guys before, but now I smell the fear-induced verbal diarrhoea.
When they try to impress me, it simply serves to tell me so much about the parts they are trying to hide.
Reflecting on my own behaviour, any hint of flirting sees me shut down & change the subject.
I can get other people talking, but I feel I have so little myself to say. Or indeed, what feels like it would be too much for the average bloke.
I use my Netflix like other people have gym passes, pay for it and never use it. For many, if I’m not watching TV, I have nothing they want to hear about. Oh well.

If I wanted to meet someone, I’d want them to have their shit together, but I see that someone who did have their shit together would have every reason to be skeptical of my intentions.
Where does a girl go from here?
I think I had one brief stint at dating someone who seemed to have their shit together, before I overtook them, and far too many who didn’t and eventually took their insecurities out on me.

Oh, those insecurities. For all the times I was told that I ‘must have a stash of secret lovers’. It is only now occurring to me, my exes offered me a time-saving instruction for future efficiency, not unfounded jealousy I had to protest against.

I have of course, trained myself over the course of 14 years into short bursts of social interaction, or rather sought that out because it suited me best. The idea of living with someone again baffles me.
Having a platonic housemate is fantastic. Brief chats, small, kind gestures and plenty of space to ourselves. We’re both healing from our past living arrangements in ways we could never have foreseen.
But living with a romantic partner in the future? I can barely conceive of it. When I try to dream up a life like that, my inner monologue blurts out ‘Why are you still here?’

Until today, I thought past relationships had killed my interest in romance, but actually, I wonder if I killed it, when I chose to get into sex work. Maybe the men I dated in my late teens & early 20s killed it. When I was working, often I’d get dressed up, have someone talk over/at me, proceed to engage in sex that was, for my sanity, mostly focussed on them, and I’d get paid. A vast generalisation? Perhaps.

Dating now is like doing an unpaid internship for a job I don’t really want, and already have copious amounts of experience for. If I were to want anything, it would be a passion project, not something that feels like work. Am I asking too much? Seems it.

This blog feels negative, but I don’t feel unhappy. This final draft is nothing like the first draft only a week ago.
Life isn’t how I expected, it’s better than that.

What is super, super clear, is that dating isn’t right for me, right now. I need nothing.
I would like a unicorn, but I’m not going to sit around wasting time at the donkey sanctuary waiting for one to arrive.
Has anyone ever stopped to ask the crazy cat ladies where they rank on the happiness index? I do not yet see an issue with ending up ‘alone’.

K xx