scammers inc.

SCAMMERS INC.

Scamming people is an art form, a creative seducing skill that leads individuals down a sorrowful, regretful, and angry path. I have been down that road, though fortunately, I have lost little money. My pride, however, was severely damaged. It could have been devastating. My marriage may well have been affected, the relationship with my children might have ended. But like a chronic gambler or an alcoholic, I told lies to hide my wayward journey into the licentiousness of possibly ill-gotten gains or losses.

As you read my stories, you will venture down the path of honesty and the truth. Where possible, I will reveal names and pictures to complement each scammer. However, I have taken great length to spare the dignity of those women I have encountered.

Every story, or in my place, my focused biography, must have a beginning, a place where obsessions occur, and an explanation of why I get caught up in the world of scammers. I Deliberately seek out scammers and challenged them, if only to let them know there are people out there that will not be taken in and seduced by their spurious ways.

I shall start at the very beginning, for this is my story.

CHAPTER 1

SEX FOR SALE

It had started innocently enough. I had joined an internet chat site, an adult internet chat site. My wife's ability to carry a conversation became severely hampered by Alzheimer's, a condition she had suffered for three years. Communication was a single word that I had to crawl through, attempting to find meaning.

My ability to talk to women is my strong point. I fully appreciated the fact I could have been chatting to my next-door neighbour, someone across town, the province, or indeed another country. I always considered Canada to be a collective of peoples worldwide. A global village squeezed into one country, and I enjoyed talking to strangers with different languages, cultures, and political systems. It was a loose but fascinating chat, politics, religion, and sex, and not necessarily in that order. I chatted with these women at length, if an hour of talking a night could be considered intense.

Unfortunately, I became infected with something of which I did not bargain. For the more I chatted with these women, the deeper I sank into their world of depravity and sexual promiscuousness. I felt elated for someone was including me in their lives, so I thought.

I had been visiting my first website for perhaps two maybe three days. I began chatting to a woman who made no ill feelings about her age. She was pleasant and seemed full of vigor, constantly engaging in conversation on any subject. It was on the last day of our planned chat that she appeared naked. A sweet older woman with a soft touch had suddenly curdled into a vixen, a black maria full of oozing immorality.

I had her picture, a million pixels each exuding on my monitor, the genuineness of her, the sweet-talking woman who professed love and admiration for me. I had tunnel vision, for I thought of her as a soft-spoken, warm cuddly grandma who loved to chat and be close to someone but who likes to remain incognito. I imagined she was in a rocking chair with a cat in her lap and messaging by way of an I pad. I confess I was in shock. What stood before me was not what I had expected.

My immediate reaction was to turn off my computer. However, curiosity got the better of me. I opened the web page and to her photograph. It was a disturbing picture of her misshapen body. I wasn't sure, but her body had some of the hallmarks of giving birth, for although she sported an unsightly overstretched belly that fell in three bulky folds, the bottom layer stopping halfway down her tree trunk-like legs, stretch marks were obvious.

However, when she leaned over, her pickled and cratered buttock filled my monitor screen for what I would learn to be the ultimate pornographic photograph. I pushed back from my computer desk, thinking this was not eroticism but rather visual torture.

"How do you want me, honey?" her message read.

"What do you mean," I replied, knowing the answer. I wanted to play this woman, see how far she would take it, and more so, where she would take me.

"How do you like your sex, cowboy style? How about reverse cowboy? Come on, baby, what do you want me to do to you. Don't be shy? I could be at your place within ten minutes. We can play all night if you want?"

The vision of her on top of me was frightening. After she told me she could be at my place, and in a short while did I realize women were using the chat sites for sex. I was intrigued. Having had previous experience as an investigative writer, I decided to look more deeply into sex sites and the women that plied their trade within them.

I left my first online sex buddy with a quick "bye."

Notebook, printer, and a deep yearning to find the truth behind the plethora of sex sites, I was off to explore the seedy world of online sex.

TROLLING

And so it began, my journey into online prostitution and scamming. I spent many nights trolling sex sites learning as I went.

It wasn't long before I found a site that tweaked my interest. Most of the girl's profile pictures showed them bare-breasted. Most were voluptuous, and yet some were relatively small. I pondered their professed age, yet the site operators made it quite clear, all the girls shown were over eighteen. Never-the-less it left a burning question in my mind.

When subscribing to a site, I was peppered with questions, age, height, colour of eyes, type of sex one likes (straight, gay, etc.), young, old, mature, and so it went, page after page. The last profile page asked for a photograph (you’ll get a better response that way, so I was informed). The questions finished with the inevitable credit card page. Although the site professed to be free, a credit card is always required for proof of age. And that, of course, is the trap, the scam. I discovered that once I laid out the particulars of my credit card, it seemed to feed through to a cesspool of other sites, all offering similar sexual experiences and advertising a bevy of naked models.

On one site, I decided not to answer any questions, nor did I provide a photograph. I could not get past the credit card page no matter how hard I try. I bit the bullet hard and gave them my credit card number. I was no longer a guest with nothing to see except page after page of blurred images and the promise of a fun-filled night. I was now a bonafide member. I could troll the site with impunity.

It took less than ten seconds for my message box to fill with a bevy of beautiful models, each clamoring to speak to me.

"Hi there, how are you today?" a model asked, her picture smaller than a dime.

"Fine, thanks, and you.?" I answered back, intrigued by the speed of her contact with me.

"I saw your profile picture, wow baby, you are so hot. Do you like my picture, baby?

"I think you too are red hot," I answered, I think honestly. “Perhaps we can party, have a few drinks, get to know one another?" Silently I groaned. At my age (sixty-three) and with my youth, a distant dream courting had to be re-learned. At that moment, rusty was the best I could do.

"What are you doing now?" she asked, deliberately ignoring my questions.

"Having a drink," I answered. I had decided to pepper the model with questions to see if I was chatting to a live person and not just a computer. I asked her a plethora of questions. However, each was ignored. I realized I was chatting to a robot, a computer. No sooner had I confronted her with my suspicions did she say that it was time to go. She then added, with aplomb, that she loved me and hoped we would chat again. And then with a simple bye, she was gone

No sooner had the first model disappeared did the next in a long list of models appeared. Her questions were of a similar vein. I was chatting to a computer and becoming frustrated at the monotonous questioning contrived to elicit nothing but gibberish.

It was time to check out the small print, the legal gibberish that governed the website. After completing the exercise, I vowed never to enter an app until the mumbo jumbo legalise had been read and fully understood.

Prominently placed in every model’s profile was either a gold or green star. I would discover why.

(The following is a segment of one site legal bumpf. It is presented Verbatim)

THIS SITE UTILIZES FANTASY PROFILES IDENTIFIED AS FANTASY CUTIES. You comprehend, acknowledge, and accept that some of the profiles listed on the site may be operated by our site or third party contractors and are fictitious. These profiles and interactions generated from them are clearly labelled with the Fantasy Cuties logo:

Fantasy Cuties functionality is offered to help the Service 1) enforce Service rules and policies, 2) monitor use the site, 3) illustrate to users the features and communication tools of the site, 4) enhance online companionship and entertainment experience, 5) and to promote increased use of the site such posting of profile information and/or additional content to users' profile pages.

Interactions originating from Fantasy Cuties functionality could be computer generated or could be created by the site or third-party contractors hired by the site.

THE STARS

The green star denoted a profile of a woman who had not paid a subscription. She was able to deliver a message to a prospective client. However, the client could not respond unless he/she had a subscription to the site (there’s always a catch with these people). When subscribed, both had the relative ease of chatting without interruption. It dawned on me she was there for one purpose, to use the site to meet and snare clients and their wallets. These so-called models were normal women—sagging breasts, unshaven legs, armpit hair, and woes the pity, pubic hair stubble. When talking to this group of women, I came away with answers to my questions.

I understood the promise to meet and greet a gold star model would never happen. Written in finite language that lawyers are so shrewdly trained was that golden star rule. The models are computer-driven. They are a fantasy, a joke, someone to dream about, to vanish into for an hour or so. They were unreachable, untouchable.

THE CHAT

A green star permeated her profile. And so, I took the chance to see just how far I could get before she would agree to a meet and greet. I’m not a particularly handsome guy. Indeed, I would consider myself a typical sixty-three-year-old with grey hair and a few too many wrinkles to acknowledge. It put me behind the eight-ball, but then something must’ve triggered for her to contact me.

Sexbomb145, "Hi, how are you tonight, you hunk,"

"I'm fine," I responded, shyness breaking through my keyboard.

Sexbomb145 "Wanna party?"

"Sure," I wrote, knowing there was no possible way I could escape the condo, not with my wife sitting in a corner acting as a spy to my work and not understanding research.

Before sexbomb145 could answer, I shot back with, 'I would love to meet you; where shall we get together?" It seemed an appropriate question. She was, after all, a girl from my city, so said her vibrant profile. Besides, I’m not one for small talk.

"We'll meet by stoneworks bridge, the Eastside," I said with confidence. “I played along the riverbank when I was nine,” I told her, “I know it well, like the back of my hand.” I knew every meander, nook, and cranny. I knew where we could have sex, and no-one would be the wiser.

Sexbomb145’s text bristled and seethed at my intrusion. Her text suddenly became sullen and to the point.

She should have raised the subject of a planned meet. Gone was the sickly-sweet girl that oozed eroticism, only to be substituted by authoritarianism, all businesswoman. She was in charge. The swan, with all her subtleness, had turned into a witch.

“You will need an Identity card,” she said in no uncertain terms. “Without out it, there can be no meeting.”

"Why would I need an ID card?" I wrote back, not yet understanding.

She answered forthrightly with, "so when I or some other girl arrives, she'll recognize you. It's for her safety and your security."

Some other girl? "But I want you,” I said astonished at the possible outcome. “Aren't you going to be my partner for tonight? I mean, you are from this city, aren't you? And you know where I propose we meet? And with this ID card, I technically will be paying for your services, is that correct?”

She failed to answer my question, launching into a tirade. “It is two-hundred dollars for the card, and that's cheap." Her texts were becoming colder, matter- of fact, no room for error.

"I Don't need your ID card," I answered back full of confidence, my two-hundred dollars feeling safer in my wallet. "I Have a passport. Can't get better identification than that."

"you need an ID card before we can meet." She blabbered on about this two-hundred-dollar identification card, not giving an inch to my Canadian passport, which is arguably the safest and most trusted personal identification document in the world. However, my argument was to no avail, for no matter how I presented my case, Sexbomb145 insisted I purchase an ID card for her and my security. Suffice to say; there was no two hundred dollars, no ID, card, and no meeting.

I had stumbled across the truth of my theory. The internet is used as a place to sell sex. It wasn’t a type or system of prostitution. It was prostitution.

According to site policies, girls with a green profile star involving themselves in money for sex were in contravention of the regulations and should exclude themselves or face retribution. However, it appeared they operated with impunity. The fraudulent activity was an everyday occurrence amongst most sex sites.

It was at a new site where I met an older woman. As good-looking as she thought she was, selling herself for sex was the last thing on her mind. However, she used her body like a worm on a fishing line to draw me into her fantasy. I would have moved on, but something stopped me. Call it a sixth sense. I was fortunate in staying with her, for I would travel halfway around the world with her, metaphorically speaking.

She wasn't pretty, the making of a double chin clearly in the offing. She had a hard, well lived-in face, and yet not a single wrinkle harrowed her.

Over six months, I would know Cinderella Williams by her alias Cindy Willms. During that time, she would try and scam me for four thousand dollars. I would follow her as she traveled from Bucharest, Romania, to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Would be working with her banker from NatWest bank in Maryland, USA. I would also find myself tracking and confirming a bank contact in Toronto, Canada, and Rio Tinto Mines (one of the largest mining companies in the world) would also cross my path.

This would be my forte. The reason for my venture into sex sites. I had discovered a true scammer. Someone who trolled the sex sites looking for the vulnerable, the weak, and the dreamer of simple riches. She would find not one of those characteristics in me.

I have broken down the story of myself and Cindy and the amazing would be scam into several chapters. I hope to post them here, on Vocal.com. and I hope you will enjoy my story.