For almost two years, I lied for a living.

I lied to divorcés, virgins, shemales and post-op transsexuals; to young, attractive women and old, saggy men. I lied to single mothers, fathers and teenagers, to locals and citizens of almost every continent on Earth.

I'm a decent person. I'm not a criminal, telemarketer or Fox News talking head. I've never been inside a police station. I've never wanted to be a lawyer, agent or politico. I was just a cog in the internet-dating world, a sort of undercover cop for the hopeful and horny of the online-singles universe.

Every year, nearly forty-seven million Americans use online-dating sites. This wide-ranging search for love, sex and "friends with benefits" helps generate roughly $300 million annually for the industry, which continues to grow, despite the stalker-happy social-networking phenomenon. This large pool of interested, lonely and relatively affluent singles also begs fraudsters and scam artists from around the world to take notice. Some sites guard against these people at the sign-up stage with a rigorous registration process. Others, like the major personals site that I worked for, let everyone in and then hire the likes of me to clean up the mess.

It all started with a bout of underemployment, bills and low self-esteem. I'd been searching for "real" work, something with steady pay and an actual, physical office, when I spotted the ad. It was short and vague: "Do you love people, words and creative thinking?"

Answering yes to all three, I was soon interviewing for a position as a "quality-control manager," a title that seemed ominously close to "sandwich artist" on the B.S. meter. Of course, faced with an attractive, thirty-something brunette across the interview desk, I said, "Wow, that sounds really interesting."

"Good, because you're exactly the type of person we're looking for," she replied, "Provided you have no trouble with being dishonest."

"It doesn't bother me," I said, invalidating everything written on my CV, which dangled limply in her hands.

"Perfect," she muttered.

As I discovered, a quality-control manager roots out minors, aggressors and fraudsters by chatting with and baiting people. The particular strain of fraud companies worry about is known as the "Sweetheart Scam." It involves a lot of acting, abuse of trust and exploitation. In fact, it so callously targets the weak it's almost admirable in its inhumanity.

The sweetheart scammer will search out, select and court middle-aged American men, doing anything and everything to convince victims they are chatting with a model-like beauty. Once this belief is in place — and it may take hours, days or even months — a problem suddenly emerges to provide the budding relationship with its first real test. Usually this involves trouble with visas, money orders and medical bills, though travel money is also solicited.

"I work on model in Zaire, and my photog kill," one so-called American model told me on my first day, explaining how her supposed colleagues were kidnapped and beaten to death.

"Now I alone and need money for fly home," she said finally.

"That's fantastic! It must be so glamorous being a model," I responded.

This routine works so well that every day, horny, lonely men send money to what they think are beautiful girls. The sums usually fall between $100 and $150 per scam, but at least once a week someone will get ripped off for thousands of dollars. The worst I'd heard of was a southern man getting suckered out of fifteen thousand. I'm sure there are worse cases still. After all, hundreds of fraudulent profiles are found and removed every week — and that's only on the site I worked for.