We continued to message as the days went on. And each time I brought up meeting in person, he would fall mysteriously silent. It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on: “Tom” was either catfishing me and/or married.
“‘Tom,’ are you catfishing me, or are you married?” I brazenly asked one Sunday afternoon after boozy brunch. (I always address him with his name in quotes.)
“Both,” he replied, exhibiting that devilish charm that had me falling into his digital arms. Classic “Tom.”
More and more as I’d end late nights out I’d send “Tom” ridiculous questions guessing the reasons for his evasiveness. I suggested that he was stuck somewhere in a hospital with a terminal illness and was just looking for a way to feel sexy again. I guessed that he was absolutely riddled with STDs and couldn’t have sex anyway. He always answered with a playful and flirty response, sometimes with a line or two from Anchorman, and so our exchanging of sexy messages and pictures proceeded; as did the blossoming of our beautiful relationship.