This article is part of San Francisco Confesses, a feature series dedicated to anonymous stories from locals they’d never share with their names attached.
Every morning I wake up, crack my neck, chug cheap coffee — and pretend to be someone else. Some mornings, I’ll be a man 20 years my senior and 2,000 times my net worth. Others, I’ll embody a recently divorced Silicon Valley outdoorsman, a successful banker fielding messages from horny millennial playboys, or am I a 19-year-old Bitcoin bro eager to show off my boat.
In reality, the only thing I am actually 100% of the time: a wiry introvert who’s never been to Silicon Valley and only owns .07 of a single Bitcoin.
But I put my total effort into pretending to be these people.
I have to.
It’s my job.
At the beginning of the pandemic, I lost my position as a bartender. Out of money and out of energy, I wondered if I could find remote work writing. With some encouragement from my girlfriend, I applied to a vaguely worded posting looking for writers. After a few rounds of interviews, I was invited into the ethically gray world of “professional dating assistants.”
If you didn’t know, this is a real thing: you can pay someone to online date for you. That’s exactly what I do for dozens of paying customers. Now, instead of serving cocktails like I used to, I serve smooth lines to hundreds of strangers in the quest to find my clients’ love, or at least, get them lucky.
I get special access to my clients’ Hinge, Tinder, JSwipe, and Match profiles and spend my working hours making them sound as charming as possible. I’m required to commit to my professional catfishing with careful attention to detail. I bend to the unique whims of every client, forcing Ghengis Khan into a conversation about New York City restaurants, testing a match’s tolerance for ice fishing, ensuring a customer’s dream woman loves Rod Stewart just enough but not too much.
I’ve read the Quran, vetted cocktail lists at NYC’s most exclusive clubs, researched the nuances of geriatric intercourse, and more — all in the spirit of providing an excellent service to people looking for a partner, or two.
When I first got hired, I knew I’d have access to endless entertainment, but I didn’t predict how much pretending to be other people would bolster my empathy.
While a few clients get off the service on just a couple of dates, others stay, paying the fee month after month. Those fees vary for different levels of service, starting at $895 for a single to going up to more than $4,000 for a year-long contract.
Some view me as exactly what I am: an assistant, someone to outsource their dating calendar to organize their affairs. An older few see me as their last chance at love.
Above all else, my time as a virtual dating assistant has made me feel extremely lucky. I wouldn’t have the will to master the minefield of online dating if I didn’t already have a love for myself.
When I first accepted the job offer, I did wonder if spending ten hours a day messaging hoards of strangers on every dating site imaginable would be good for my relationship. But it’s turned out to make me appreciate my girlfriend more.
I have a partner who is always understanding, gorgeous, and surprising — I have exactly what I am trying to help my clients find. I used to feel guilty about my job, but now I believe we do more good than harm. Courting isn’t a lost art; it might just require a little help from a ghostwriter.
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