I’ve got a brother. Actually, I’ve got four, but I’m just talking about one of them.
He could walk into a strange bar in a strange town, hit on every woman in the joint, right in front of their boyfriends or husbands, walk out of the bar with not only the phone number of every one of those women, but a “loan” from every one of the men to the extent of their bank balance, and have every one of the guys buy him a drink on the way out. He could proceed to sleep with every one of the women over the next few weeks, steal stuff from their homes, “borrow” their life savings, leave them pregnant and broke, and blow town.
A year later, everyone of those women, and the men as well, would swear that he was a great guy, that they fully expected to be repaid, or get child support, or whatever, and they’d appear as character witnesses in court on his behalf.
Not only could he do all that, he would, and he has. Any number of times.
And all those people would still remember him fondly. I, on the other hand, have known him for more than forty years.
He’s a sociopath for sure. Not a psychopath, if there’s a difference. He doesn’t want to kill anyone, or inflict pain on them (not directly, anyway, although the consequences of his actions are not something he views as his problem).
If you met him, you’d love him. You’d be absolutely charmed by him. Until you noticed that your bank account was empty, your girlfriend was gone and he’d been living in your house, in your bedroom while you crashed on the couch, for quite a while. Eventually you’d catch on. But it would take a while.