Do flirty messages count as cheating? Photo / 123RF
Virtual flirtations may be classed as ‘micro-cheating’, but my betrayal had a major impact and changed everything.
It all began very innocently, on a WhatsApp group with six PR colleagues. Fran* was a bright, witty freelancer who lived 400 miles north of our London office, drafted in for her digital flair. She brought the “zing” to daily video meetings, with smart one-liners to the group chat.
When Fran directly messaged – just me – after one meeting, a joke about an earnest teammate, I laughed at my desk and fired back a snappy reply. And then off we were… messaging outside of the main thread several times a day. Wry work-related observations became more personal – when she declared she loved Pedro Almodóvar’s films, I hastily googled so I could fashion a smart reply.
I think that’s what made it so intoxicating. The fact that our connection was communicated via messages meant it was easy to present a slightly better version of myself. My thinning patch at the back of my head wasn’t on display in the work videos we’d shared, neither was the midlife spread that had crept on in recent years. She didn’t know my height, and couldn’t judge my fashion choices apart from my shirt. There was a tiny bit longer to compose wittier, more knowledgeable responses to her in messages than there would have been in real life.
I eagerly anticipated seeing her name pop up on my phone. By week two it was flirty… when Fran told me she had a date that weekend, I teased her but there was a small rise of jealousy. On Monday morning I joked about her date, which led to chatting about sex, what we liked and what we didn’t. I’m ashamed to say it quickly progressed to being outright filthy. I enjoyed reading it later, by myself. And it encouraged more X-related chat from then on. I became much more forward about my desires on WhatsApp than I’d ever really been with women in real life. And it seemed to excite Fran. All the things I said I wanted to do with her were admittedly more inspired by porn than the actual real-life sex I’d been having with Tess*, my wife of 13 years.
I found myself so heated up by our exchanges that I’d escape to the disabled loos at lunchtimes to enjoy Fran’s progressively saucy photos undisturbed. In turn, she loved seeing how excited I was (shall we say) – I’d reciprocate sharing videos and pictures too. It was addictive and I started taking more risks, sending Fran smutty exchanges when I was bored watching television with Tess.
Tess and I had met in our early 30s, back when I was working in events, and we’d organised one of the lawyers’ conferences she had attended. She was smart, measured, more introverted and serious than me. But we balanced each other out well, married after three years and then started our family.
Looking back now, I think the cracks appeared when I was furloughed during the pandemic but she was still “important enough” to carry on. I felt more of a spare part in the marriage. I’m naturally gregarious and missed being able to be out and about charming people. I suppose my male pride took a hit. And that knock into second place – instead of my clever wife’s equal – perhaps had stayed with me longer than the lockdowns had. Now I see I was ripe for Fran’s flattery and flirtation. Her messages made me feel alive and relevant again, someone who still “had it”, a man with blood pumping in his veins after all.
We never met up in person but the texting carried on for five, compulsive, months. There was never a suggested meet-up – perhaps I knew my sexual bragging would quickly be exposed in real life, and I didn’t see myself as an unfaithful husband. It all felt like a harmless thrill. Then Fran seemed to cool off. Replies took longer to arrive and seemed less enthusiastic. Our joint work project had ended by then and I suppose we’d exhausted every imaginary sexual fantasy and position we’d dreamt of.
I wasn’t upset when it “ended”. I was married with kids, Fran was a bit younger, single and in Edinburgh. I missed the dopamine hit of her illicit messages, but when Tess underwent a serious health scare I snapped out of my middle-aged lust and threw myself into being a properly present husband and father once more.
Tess, thank God, wasn’t as sick as we feared, but it made me appreciate what I had: a smart, successful wife, our two children, then aged 12 and nine, and the secure, comfortable life we’d created in Oxfordshire. I chalked up Fran and my foolishness as a silly, mini midlife crisis thing. I hadn’t cheated after all. No harm done.
But with the house to myself one night, after some beers and a bottle of wine, I decided to revisit some of Fran’s more sexy WhatsApps. I’d never deleted them, instead keeping them archived, perhaps as a little souvenir of feeling desired, or maybe more base than that.
Drunk and turned on, I spent several minutes composing Fran a message which I hoped was a bit funny and flirty. It referenced something equally crude in a bid to regain contact after 13 months. When no reply came I went to bed. I’d honestly forgotten I’d even sent it by the morning.
As I taxied the kids to Saturday morning activities hungover, Tess called: “Drop the kids at Mum’s then come home alone. We need to talk.” My first thought was that cancer had been found after all, and hastily I did as I was told and rushed home.
Tess was waiting at the kitchen table, stony-faced. “What’s the matter?” I asked, knowing something bad was coming, yet not sure what.
“Who were you meaning to send a message about nipples last night? I doubt it was intended for me,” asked my lawyer wife, calm and collected. My stomach dropped. I couldn’t think of any possible defence.
Wordlessly, I handed Tess my phone with my messages open, as she instructed me to. Objecting seemed pointless.
It didn’t take much digging for Tess – jaw clenched and in methodical work mode – to unearth the entire sum of my correspondence with Fran from the previous year; every saucy, mortifying message during our virtual liaison. There were 337. I remember standing rooted in silence, wondering if I’d have a heart attack. Almost willing one on.
Tess had read every single one of my boastful messages, peppered with emojis I’d never use normally – the aubergine, “sprinkling shower tap” and lascivious tongue. She pulled a repulsed face at pictures and – oh God – then she scrolled to the worst: a video. (If any man has endured a more excruciating moment than this in a marriage, please let me know…)
At which point Tess lost her cool finally, in a way I’d rarely seen during our marriage. An anguishing sort of noise of anger came from her, some indistinguishable swear word, and she hurled my phone across the room. The memory of this surreal moment still gives me PTSD, I felt like I was outside of my body while standing in our kitchen watching this unravel, as I was so shocked and embarrassed. I couldn’t argue. I couldn’t hold her. There was nothing I could do. She ran upstairs, slamming shut our bedroom door.
I cried like a baby the next day, apologised profusely, swore (truthfully) on our children’s lives I had never even kissed another woman during our marriage, and I begged forgiveness. I retreated to the spare room, where I remained every night for the next nine months as I fought to save my marriage.
We signed up for couples counselling, where every grievance of our marriage came tumbling out. So much I realised had been unsaid. Tess resented my “fun” job while she dealt with stress and paid the school fees, I argued I’d never believed in private school anyway. I said her lack of sex drive meant I felt unattractive, she complained I was too soft on the kids and she was sick of playing “bad cop”. Therapy was a deeply uncomfortable experience, laden with tearful revelations. But with the help of the counsellor, I was able to examine how and why I had fallen into the ridiculous sexting situation: ultimately it had boosted my male ego.
It was never about desiring Tess any less, or me fancying a red-headed freelancer more than her. After much soul-searching, I saw clearly that my stupid behaviour was really all about me feeling wanted and “manly”. And that half of Fran’s appeal was precisely that she was safely miles away. I felt like, in Tess’ eyes, I was merely the less-well-paid, intellectually lightweight husband she shared childcare with.
It took horribly honest chats and almost a year’s worth of $70-an-hour therapy for us to get our marriage back on track. My sexting “affair” was, as far as Tess was concerned, a betrayal just as bad as sleeping with someone else. And I had to acknowledge that, rather than argue it wasn’t, if we were to move on.
I am relieved and pleased to say we did get our marriage back on track. It was worth fighting for and after all the therapy we got to know and understand each other much better. Our children are now growing up in the family unit we always wanted for them, I never want to risk that again and three years on we actually have a much stronger marriage now.
Natasha Silverman is a psychosexual therapist who regularly sees couples and individuals whose relationships have been impacted by sexting (texting, engaging in sexual conversations or sharing sexual images).
“This is a common issue in the therapy room and while sexting is sometimes referred to as ‘micro cheating’. Implying it’s not ‘proper’ cheating, it can cause just as much heartbreak,” says Silverman.
“Often the guilty party argues that digital flirtation is just ‘harmless fun’ yet for their partners it’s a profound breach of trust and an unspoken relationship agreement.
“If you’d both agreed boundaries in advance and deemed flirting or sexting was acceptable but actual intercourse was not, then fine. But in reality couples don’t often have this conversation when they get together. It tends to happen further down the line,” she says.
Betrayal deepens, says Silverman, when there’s financial deception too.
“Increasingly, I meet devastated partners whose significant others have spent large sums of money on kink websites or paid services like OnlyFans; investing in images and videos before progressing to direct communication with another person. Irrespective of whether there is physical touch, many consider sexting and digital flirtation as cheating.”
As told to Susanna Galton
Names have been changed
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