If financial exploitation isn’t the motive, why create a fake online persona to mislead someone into thinking romance is on the cards? After a catfishing experience that bruised her ego, Charlotte Bell was determined to find out.
The conversation with Darren* began as most do on dating apps. “What do you do for work? Where are you from? Do you like anal? How many siblings do you have?” No major alarm bells rang looking at Darren’s profile. He was attractive, but not in an unattainable way. He was in my league. He gave specific details about Christchurch that only a person who lived here would know. He said he worked for BNZ, went to a gym on Victoria Street, and didn’t have many friends as he’d relocated from Sydney four months previously.
Usually, if I’m planning to meet up with someone from an app, I ask to see their social media first. Darren said that he’d deactivated all of his accounts because he’d been “catfished” by someone on Tinder. He had sent his catfisher incriminating videos of his penis, and this person was blackmailing him by threatening him on his Instagram account. This struck me as unusual, but I’d heard plenty of stories about people being conned out of money or arriving at a first date to find the person meeting them looked nothing like their profile.
When I suggested messaging on WhatsApp, he said he couldn’t because he was using his work phone and couldn’t sign in. I couldn’t rationalise this. Why would someone have Feeld (a sex-positive dating app known for normalising kinks) on his work phone but not WhatsApp? Darren told me he was on holiday with his boss and their family on Waiheke, but he wanted to meet when he got back the following week. I said I felt uncomfortable about not having any way to verify his identity, so he could give me a call when he got back, and we could get a coffee.
He was persistent in communication, but not in an overly intense way, so I found myself replying to his messages throughout the week. In all honesty, he seemed like a cool guy. It felt as though we had similar interests, a similar friend circle, he talked about going to therapy for low self-esteem, and how he had three younger sisters that he was protective of. He sent a few pictures over the week, but it was hard to tell if they were recent or old. He’d told me his last name was Pritchard, a very common Australian surname. But Darren Pritchard didn’t come up in any searches. I tried googling Darren Pritchard BNZ, Darren Pritchard BFT gym, Darren Pritchard Sydney. I searched for the BNZ work apartments he supposedly lived in. I scrolled through the lists of BNZ employees and went through every single tagged image of the gym he said he belonged to. I searched for the dog called Loki in one of the selfies he sent me. I couldn’t find him on LinkedIn, Instagram or Facebook.
It’s an uncomfortable thing to accuse someone of lying about their identity, especially when you can’t be 100% certain. So I agreed to meet him near his apartment in the city, then I would find out once and for all. The very day we were supposed to meet, his account disappeared, and that’s when I realised I’d been duped.
Whenever I feel foolish, I do whatever it takes to feel in control of the situation. I remembered I knew a woman who worked part-time at the gym chain he said he attended. I asked if she’d ever met an Australian guy called Darren in the classes. She hadn’t but was very on board with trying to expose the catfisher. A few hours later, she sent through proof that “Darren Pritchard” was not a member.
I thought that finding out for sure that Darren was not real would be the end of it. I could let it go and move on with my life. But it wasn’t as simple as that. My ego was bruised, and I needed to know why.
Catfishing is the act of creating a deceptive online persona in order to mislead others. According to a research paper on “the motivations of catfish perpetrators” published in 2024, one of the primary motivations of catfishers is financial exploitation. We are all too familiar with podcasts and Netflix series like Sweet Bobby and The Tinder Swindler, so this shouldn’t be surprising. However, it didn’t fit with my situation. Darren knew I was a student, working part-time as a writer and broke. I hadn’t sent him any explicit videos or images for him to use as blackmail. So why did he bother?
Annabel Kuhn, who completed her psychiatry residency at Harvard, explained in an interview from 2022 that some catfishers use this form of manipulation as entertainment. By creating an alternative identity, individuals can distance themselves from their reality, gain attention, or satisfy unfulfilled emotional needs. The internet’s anonymity enables them to pursue these desires without facing immediate real-world repercussions. She goes on to say that people with low self-esteem or narcissistic tendencies may engage in catfishing. Crafting a perfect online identity provides them with a sense of validation and admiration they believe is missing from their offline lives. Those with narcissistic traits, in particular, may exhibit a lack of empathy and manipulate others for their own benefit.
Tragically, the people most vulnerable to being catfished are often those seeking emotional connection and validation. Individuals with low self-esteem or loneliness may become deeply invested in online relationships that provide them with the attention and support they crave. Older adults and those less familiar with digital deception are also at risk, as they may struggle to recognise the warning signs of a fraudulent relationship. Similarly, those actively looking for love, particularly after a breakup or personal loss, may be more willing to overlook inconsistencies in an online partner’s story. Naturally empathetic and trusting individuals can also fall victim, as their tendency to see the good in people makes them easy targets for manipulation.
Dating apps are a hotbed for deception. With easy anonymity, anyone can craft an appealing persona. Instant validation, flirty messages and a flood of matches can make users more trusting – especially if they’re feeling lonely or fresh out of a breakup. Algorithms keep feeding us what we want to see, while the lack of face-to-face cues makes it harder to spot red flags.
As much as I hate to admit it, I’d been feeling lonely. I was coming to terms with a rejection from a man I thought I loved and was desperate to move on. I was drawn to Feeld as I’d heard it attracted a more mature and open crowd. It is known to be a more progressive and inclusive app that embraces all identities and orientations. It supposedly prioritises privacy and discretion, but after this ordeal, I wondered what measures were in place to protect the app’s users.
It was a shock to realise that Feeld doesn’t have a mandatory identity verification process, making it all too easy for users to create fake profiles. While there’s the option to link social media accounts for some added authenticity, there’s no strict system in place to confirm real identities. This lack of verification leaves the door wide open for potential catfishing and fake profiles.
Three days after Darren’s profile disappeared, I received a notification. It was Darren but with a fresh set of photos. His message read, “I’m so, so, so sorry! My account was deleted, and I had to remake one. I feel so, soooooooo bad.” I replied and asked him to send me a photo with his face in it, holding something to prove today’s date, eg a Stuff article from that day. He sent me a heavily edited, black-and-white image of a man lying in bed. I blocked his account and never heard from him again. Though on nights where I’ve been in bed alone, I’ve found myself thinking, I wish my catfisher was real.