6 ST THE NEW YORK TIMES, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2020This past spring, my inboxes began filling
with messages from heartbroken women.
The first came through Instagram: “Hey, I
am Lina. I live in Germany. Someone is us-
ing your pictures for scamming!”
Her profile revealed a woman who looked
to be near my age, late 40s, wearing black-
framed glasses. She told me she had met the
guy on Tinder. But after a few months of ex-
changing messages, she grew suspicious of
his motives, so her daughter image-
searched his photos on Google, which led
them to my profile.
“I felt a bit in love with you,” she said.
“But now I know that you are gay. I thought
I have some luck to meet a wonderful per-
son from England.”
The fake me was “Simon,” an investment
banker from outside of London. He had sent
Lina photos of me and my dog, Agnes,
whom he had called Pom Pom.
Some basic facts: I’m a single copywriter
in western Massachusetts who finds the
name Pom Pom embarrassing. Also, as
Lina had correctly deduced, I’m gay.
“Everything was fake,” Lina wrote. “I
only want to be happy — I think my day will
come. Are you looking for a partner? It
makes me sad that so good-looking a guy is
not interested in women.”
The next week, I heard from a woman in
Hungary: “I was fooled by your photos. He
called himself Harvard, from Colorado. I
thought you were the man. I fell in love.”
Friends told me I should feel flattered
that someone would consider me attractive
enough to use as bait, but it felt gross that
some version of me was preying upon the
vulnerable. This all started last spring,
when virus fears, mounting unemployment
and the loneliness of digital life combined to
create a perfect environment for online ro-
mantic scams. These women didn’t strike
me as being especially gullible; they were
just looking for love from the confines of
their homes like so many others.
I had been single for years following a di-
vorce. A stranger glancing at my photos
may have seen someone trying to look
happy. But as one woman from Nebraska
wrote, “You’ve got sad eyes.”
They were generous in letting me know
about the scams, but their messages held
complicated layers. For months, each wom-
an had built something with this fake me,
and in the wake of the scam’s collapse, the
real me was all that was left to absorb their
bitterness and provide what they hadn’t yet
received — honesty.
It wasn’t hard for me to relate. Many
years ago, when catfish was still just known
as a fish, I was a 20-something man in San
Francisco who fell for a fellow blogger many
states away. Over two years, we grew closer
and closer by email and phone, but every
plan for us to meet in person always myste-
riously fell through.
In the end, I was able to peel back the lay-
ers of his lies. He was not a museum curator
in Pittsburgh; he lived in his parents’ base-
ment in Dubuque. That experience devas-
tated me but also helped me understand all
too well how these women could fall for a
stranger online, and how he could use their
hope against them.
I told them I was sorry that someone us-
ing my photos had caused them so much
pain. I risked causing them more pain by
telling them they weren’t the only victims,
but I figured they deserved the truth.
My photos were circulating all over, cre-
ating new personas: a Chicago stockbroker,
an Oregon park ranger, a dog walker named
Larry. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t even con-
front the impostor. Or could I?
As spring turned to summer, I kept think-
ing about one email from a woman who had
shared the phone number the impostor had
used to chat with her on WhatsApp. I recog-
nized his area code as one from my home-
town, Minneapolis, but phone numbers can
be faked. I decided I would text him.
I had a WhatsApp account, but I crept up
to the guy — I assumed it was a guy — side-
ways, stripping my profile of photo and
name and texting just one word: “Hi.”
A minute passed. The word hung like a
baited hook. Then: “Who are you please?”
I had intended to scam the scammer — to
pose as a lonely woman before eventually
revealing my identity. But my motive was to
dig for the truth, so I abruptly decided to
come at him from the same place.
“When I tell you who I am,” I wrote, “don’t
be afraid.” I sent him my photo.
He responded, simply: “LOL.”
“I think you know who I am now,” I wrote.
“I’ll never ask you for your real name. And I
can’t get you into trouble.”
It took several minutes of tense back and
forth for him to believe my identity. (Yes,
the irony.) He asked how I found him, and I
told him how but not who. He kept asking
which woman had revealed his number. I
told him: “You’ve hurt them enough.”
“Well,” he wrote, “I’m actually sorry for
using your pictures.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I only did this to get money for my poor
family. Unfortunately, no one gave me
money. I kept trying. But it’s kept failing.”
When I pressed him, he said he first built a
relationship and “made them love me.” Af-
ter a few weeks, he would ask for money for
hyperthyroid surgery: “Two thousand dol-
lars. But nobody paid me.”
When I asked about the Minneapolis
number, he said he lived in Brazil.
“Are you married?”“Why do you ask?” he said. “I know
you’re gay.”
“I guess I was wondering if you were
lonely, too?”
He told me he had a girlfriend and a 2-
year-old son, and that he had lost his cashier
job when the pandemic hit. “We are safe,” he
wrote. “But we are hungry.” He said he had
found my pictures on Instagram, liked my
tattoos and figured I made a believable lure.
“I hope you are not angry with me,” he said.
And I wasn’t, not really. But I couldn’t
quite believe him, so I didn’t know where to
hang my feelings.
Then he asked me the question I’d been
dreading: “Can you help me?”
The man who had stolen my photos to
scam lonely people was now asking me for
money. So much of our willingness to help
other people depends upon what we know
of their lives. Without being able to confirm
anything he said, could I believe his story?
Of course not. Still, he had answered my
questions. What was that worth?
I told him I barely made enough to get by.
“It won’t be much. Maybe 25 dollars.”
“Can you send an iTunes card with it?”
“I thought you were hungry.”
“Yes, but 25 dollars is very small, my
friend.”
Indeed, it is.
I learned he had tried to scam only one of
the women who had contacted me, though
he had a list of 10 others I knew nothing
about. Which, if true, meant there was morethan one impostor using my pictures, in
more than one location.
“I won’t use your pics anymore,” he said.
I thanked him and closed the app. Our
whole exchange reminded me of the blog-
ger who had led me on for too long. Without
facts, without trust, human connection fails.
And what is trust on the internet except a
suspension of disbelief?
I haven’t sent him money, but I keep
thinking about his son, who I believe may
exist. Maybe. I’ve always been more sucker
than cynic, but in any case, my impostor
and I may not be done with each other.
“So how is life in America?” he texted re-
cently.
I may still respond. In the meantime, I’m
learning to live with the discomfort of know-
ing my images are still being used in ways I
can barely imagine.
I keep in touch with some of the women.
We comment on each other’s Instagram
posts and send occasional texts. “I hope you
find the right man, too,” Lina told me re-
cently. Whether I do or not, human connec-
tion during a pandemic may be worth the
heartache, however it finds me.
I try not to obsess over all the things my
stand-ins are saying on the internet to other
lonely people, but it seems they’ve been
busy. If you find yourself messaging with
one, I hope he tells you you’re beautiful, and
that you believe it, even if you don’t believe
him. It’s important, I’ve learned, to peel
back the lies until you can see the truth.MODERN LOVE
How I Got Caught Up in a Global Romance Scam
A guy was using my image to
con women. When I contacted
him, it didn’t go as expected.
‘I only did this
to get money for
my poor family.
Unfortunately,
no one gave me
money. I kept
trying. But it’s
kept failing.’
MICHAEL McALLISTERworks as a copywriter in
western Massachusetts.
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