He knew I was a *** worker. It says so, right in my own Bumble profile: retired media ***, current actual ***.
He'd even commented onto it, using the language every woman longs to listen to from the 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 like a tonne of bricks.
"That is a lot," he explained, and he then rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. I didn't hear from him again.
It often surprises people to know that *** workers do a number of normal people activities, like working other jobs, studying, taking the bins out. We exist in real life after our shifts end and the red light is flicked off; we've dinner with your families and shop at K-Mart and wait on hold with our websites providers for what is like hours.
It's not common that the physical and emotional experiences we have at the job will be enough to make up for a potential insuf***ient intimate connection in our lives beyond work; so many of us also date, with varied levels 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 an enormous supporter of me working, but around his colleagues and friends his tune did actually change. He'd introduce me, but hesitate in describing our relationship; when he said, "This really is Kate..." the silence that hung in the room where, "...my girlfriend," should have already been weighed a tonne.
I don't think that he personally had a trouble with me being fully a *** worker, but I do think that the likelihood of other folks judging me – and then judging him for being with me – was enough to create him want to keep me a secret.
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