Kate Iselin writes: Has sex work ruined my ability to flirt?

SEX worker Kate Iselin unpacks the importance of flirting and why it is good to always have the ability to do so at anytime.

LATE last week, a friend confided in me that he had begun seeing someone new.

Naturally excited for my close pal, I begged him for details of his new romance: How did they meet? What was she like? When would they see each other again?

As he fielded my eager questions about his new beau, he painted for me a picture of a romance that had jumped right off the silver screen: Lustful glances, cheeky text messages, and witty repartee across the dinner table.

Of course, they had kissed, but it was what led up to that moment that had me fascinated: The flirtation.

The dance of courtship that they had both performed, stepping in just close enough to let the other know that they were interested, but pulling back before they revealed too much.

It was sexy, and exciting.

When I closed our window of text messages and flicked over to my dating app of choice, I practically had to dodge tumbleweeds to find out what I already suspected before opening the app: There were no new messages. Zero.

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Some people are naturally flirtatious. I know my friend is one of them: confident, charming, and charismatic; he’s never been short on luck with the ladies.

And while I’m certainly confident, and have been told I have charm and charisma, I feel that I lack one vital skill that he possesses in spades: I can’t flirt. I just don’t think I know how.

Growing up, I pored over magazines like Girlfriend and Dolly and tried to absorb as much of their sage dating wisdom as I could.

They explained flirtation as a primarily physical practice: Behave in a certain way, follow a particular set of cues, and you’ll easily attract your crush from the other side of the hall at the school dance.

Fluttering your eyelashes while looking upwards at your crush was a sign of interest, as was wearing lip gloss around him. And applying lip gloss in his presence? Freud might’ve had a field day with that one, but it was bound to catch the eye of any high school dreamboat.

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The older I got, the more complex the rules of flirtation — and dating — became.

I recently picked up my old copy of The Rules, the controversial but exceptionally popular dating manual written by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider. The book’s primary goal is to help its readers find a husband, and while I might not have included ‘marriage’ in my most recent five-year plan, I figured that a quick skim through The Rules could, at the very least, offer me some guidance as I tried to navigate the landscape of love.

Some of The Rules seem like no-brainers: Fein and Schneider state that you should never cancel plans with your friends because you’ve gotten a last-minute offer for a date, and that you should also refrain from dating people who are already dating other people.

Simple enough. But keep reading and things become a lot more complex: don’t talk to a man first, they advise, let him approach you — something particularly difficult in an age where dating apps like Bumble only allow the woman to message first.

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Should the man reach out first, they also advise that you ‘rarely’ return his calls, and be the one to end every phone call. I imagine this would extend to text message communication as well, but in an age where being left ‘on read’ is the ultimate rejection, I can’t imagine how well it would play out in my real life.

While love is meant to be easy, flirtation seems to be anything but.

Compared to the direct and upfront negotiation that takes place in the introduction lounge of a brothel, it feels practically impenetrable.

If flirting is a complex tango through social cues and niceties, sex work is a powerful stride in Lucite heels that dispenses with masked feelings entirely.

In sex work, almost everything is discussed and agreed to upfront: from the time, to the price, to the act about to be performed, it’s rare that any worker would walk in to a situation unaware of what to expect.

Sometimes, I wonder if it’s my time spent in the world of sex work that has affected my ability to flirt.

Explaining to a client that he has visible symptoms of an STI, or offensive body odour, is something I feel totally comfortable doing, but waiting for a phone call?

Sitting across the table from someone and trying to communicate a feeling with the flutter of an eyelash, or the application of lip gloss?

It’s more than confusing — it’s a little bit terrifying.

I know that whenever I’ve gotten dressed for work in lingerie, a cocktail dress, and heels; I’ve felt an immediate sense of confidence.

It makes me feel powerful and purposeful, in control and in charge.

As a sex worker, I’m the boss of any situation I’m in; but on a date or in conversation with a crush, I can feel myself flounder.

The process of sex work is something I’m intensely familiar with; but the language of love? Far less so.

I can’t be the only one, though. Dating and relating is something that can make anyone nervous, and even the most optimistic of people can find themselves puzzling over exactly what to write in a goodnight text or precisely when to call to ask for a second date. Take away the garb of a sex worker and I’m no different to anyone else; a thirty-year-old woman in a hastily-purchased cocktail dress, applying her date-night make-up, heading out in to the world in search of love: or, at least, the closest thing to it.

— Kate Iselin is a writer and sex worker. Continue the conversation on Twitter @kateiselin