Online dating isn’t what you see in the movies. No grand declarations under fireworks, no perfectly timed coffee spills. Just endless swipes, awkward first messages, and the quiet panic when someone asks, ‘So, what do you do for work?’ I’ve been on both sides of that question. And I’ve learned the hard way that the internet doesn’t care if you’re kind, funny, or good at making pancakes-it only cares if you fit the profile they’re scrolling past.
One night, after a particularly brutal match with a guy who thought ‘hooker in dubai’ was a romantic fantasy he could Google his way out of, I stumbled across a site called escort dubai. It wasn’t for me. I’ve never worked there. But I read it. Just to see what kind of stories people tell themselves when they think no one’s listening. Turns out, a lot of them are the same ones I’ve heard on dates: ‘I’m not like other guys,’ ‘I just want someone real,’ ‘You’re different from the rest.’
I’ve been doing this for over five years. Not as a career choice so much as a survival tactic. When rent went up and the gigs dried up, I started posting on apps like Tinder and Hinge-not to find love, but to find someone who wouldn’t ghost me after I said the truth. The truth being: I’m a sex worker. Not a ‘model.’ Not a ‘content creator.’ Not a ‘private entertainer.’ I’m a sex worker. And in the world of online dating, that word is a nuclear option.
First Dates Are Just Interviews for Your Worth
Every first date feels like a job interview where the job is being loved. The interviewer has already read your bio, scrolled through your photos, and decided if you’re worth the 45 minutes. If you’re lucky, they’ll ask about your hobbies. If you’re unlucky, they’ll ask if you’ve ever done ‘that thing’ with a stranger in a hotel room. And if you say yes? They either get weirdly quiet or start talking about their ex who ‘got into that scene’ and ‘ended up ruined.’
I once met a guy who said he was ‘into kink’ and wanted to ‘explore boundaries.’ We met at a café. He spent 20 minutes asking me what I charged for ‘private sessions.’ I told him I didn’t do that anymore. He nodded, smiled, and said, ‘I get it. You’re trying to go legit.’ Then he asked if I could recommend someone who still did.
That’s the thing no one tells you: people don’t want to date sex workers. They want to date the fantasy of a sex worker. And the fantasy doesn’t have boundaries, doesn’t have trauma, doesn’t have a Tuesday night when you just want to cry and eat cereal in pajamas.
The Algorithm Doesn’t Care About Your Humanity
Apps are designed to make you feel like you’re in control. Swipe left, swipe right. But the algorithm doesn’t care if you’re smart, funny, or kind. It cares about how many people swipe right on you. And if your profile says ‘sex worker,’ it gets buried. Not because of the app’s policy-most don’t ban it outright-but because users flag it. And once flagged, you’re invisible.
I tried using the word ‘independent contractor’ once. Got 37 matches in 48 hours. All of them wanted to know if I’d ‘do a threesome.’ One asked if I could ‘do it in a suit.’ Another sent me a photo of his dog and wrote, ‘This is my emotional support pup. Do you think he’d like you?’
I stopped trying to game the system. Now I just say it. Plain. No euphemisms. No ‘I’m a wellness coach’ nonsense. And you’d be surprised how many people still message me. Not because they want to sleep with me-but because they’ve never met someone who was honest about it. And they’re curious. Or lonely. Or both.
When the Internet Knows More Than You Do
I’ve had guys show up to dates with screenshots of my old posts. Not from my personal accounts-those are private. But from forums. From Reddit threads. From comment sections where someone else used my name and photos to vent about a bad experience they had with a ‘dubai eacorts’ (yes, that’s how they spelled it). I didn’t even know that person existed. But now, every date starts with: ‘I read about you.’
It’s dehumanizing. You’re not a person anymore. You’re a story. A cautionary tale. A punchline. Someone else’s trauma turned into a meme.
I once got a message from a guy who said, ‘I know you’re not really a hooker in dubai, but I’m curious what that life is like.’ I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. He’d already written the script in his head. He didn’t want to hear my truth. He wanted to hear the version that matched his fantasy.
The People Who Actually Stay
There are a few. Not many. But they’re real. One guy I met on a dating app for artists showed up with a sketchbook. He didn’t ask me about my work. He asked me about the last book I read. We talked about Kafka for two hours. He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t try to touch me. He just sat there and listened. When I asked why he didn’t ask the obvious question, he said, ‘I already know the answer. I just wanted to see if you’d say it.’
Another one sent me a voicemail after our third date. He said, ‘I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a cliché, but I think you’re the first person I’ve ever met who doesn’t make me feel like I need to be someone else.’ I cried after he hung up.
These aren’t the people who post on forums. They don’t have thousands of followers. They don’t write blogs about ‘dating a sex worker.’ They just show up. Quietly. Honestly. And they stay.
What I Wish People Understood
Sex work isn’t a phase. It’s not a mistake. It’s not something you ‘get out of.’ It’s a job. Some days it’s exhausting. Some days it’s empowering. Some days it’s the only thing that pays the bills. And yes, some days it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I have any control over my life.
I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your praise. I don’t need you to call me brave or strong. I just need you to treat me like a person. Not a stereotype. Not a fantasy. Not a keyword you Googled at 2 a.m.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever swiped right on someone because you thought they’d be ‘easy’ or ‘exotic’ or ‘different’-stop. They’re not. They’re just someone trying to survive. And maybe, just maybe, they’re also trying to find someone who doesn’t need them to be anything other than who they are.