I knew exactly what I was doing when I outed myself as a sex worker and tied my legal name to my work, and the ensuing nonsense just proves how prevalent and powerful the stigma against us still is:
I have been denied apartments.
One minute we’re about to sign the lease papers, then they Google me. No amount of money in the world will then get me that apartment because I wear the modern version of the Scarlet Letter.
Any time I date online, guys are wary.
They will pass me over for the secretary because they think my job defines me, but if I don’t tell them what I do, then I’m considered secretive and untrustworthy.
Sex with civilians is damn near impossible.
Even though I’m mostly an online domme, that doesn’t stop every Tom/John/Harry from begging me to fuck them in the ass with a strap-on. I become a tool for their fetish – not a person.
Guys I meet won’t stop asking about my job.
I don’t want to lie to them and say I’m a customer service rep because a relationship shouldn’t be built on lies, but I also don’t want to recount every single work-related experience for the hundredth time.
Getting another job? Forget it.
Who would want to hire a self-starting, enterprising sex worker? Nobody. Not even @Pornhub. Doesn’t matter how qualified we are – nobody wants a out sex worker employed at their company.
As a sex worker using her real name, I’m a perpetual liability and a source of stories for people who take me out once or twice and then put on their OkCupid profiles that they dated a sex worker once, as though it gives them depth.
I can’t even tell you the amount of times men have attempted to or successfully engaged in bareback sex with me because I’m a sex worker, and since I use my real name, they feel like they have leverage.
If I didn’t have both US and Canadian legal status, crossing the border would be an absolute nightmare because sex workers don’t take vacations, apparently – we just work 24/7.
My family has disowned me.
My own father called me a prostitute (even though I mainly work online) and told me he’d rather die than have a whore for a daughter. My mother thinks anything that happens to me is my fault. My sister mined me for info on FinDom, then blocked me.
Any time I am raped or assaulted, it’s “my fault” because I “shouldn’t spread my legs so easily.”
And it’s not like I can go to the police and tell them about it if it happens with a client because sex workers aren’t human to them.
Writers and journalists mine me for information and then make money off of my stories – none of which goes to me, of course. They stalk my tweets, regurgitate my opinion, and get paid while I can’t pitch anywhere since no “credible” publication would publish an active sex worker.
One time when I had a 4some with who I thought was a trusted friend, he sent my Vice article to a stranger in lieu of a photo. Without telling me.
This stranger, thinking he’ll get the “upper hand” on a “man-hating dominatrix” attempted to demean and humiliate me all night.
I will forever be barred from working with children or adopting one of my own.
Because apparently the foster system where kids get abused is better than a loving home with a sex worker mom.
Any party I attend eventually devolves into an impromptu Q&A session, which then becomes an inquisition about how I see men as walking wallets and how that’s not right.
While I just sit there and have 10 different people talking at me, not to me.
Men meet me and immediately think I’m trying to fleece them, so they don’t even give me the common courtesy of inviting me out to dinner.
But they’ll ask me all about my business and how I run it so they can replicate it for themselves.
There is so, so (so!) much more but I am starting to cry and can’t continue this thread. So I’ll leave it at this:
Sex workers are people.
We deserve shelter, employment, and love.
I am lucky in many ways.
But what about those who aren’t?
You can contact her on https://twitter.com/YEVGEN1YA?s=09