Help! I’m married to a ‘technosexual’
Psychotherapist Lucy Beresford on the increasing desire for tech relationships over human ones
If the pandemic wasn’t a surreal enough experience, a recent study suggests that lockdown has amplified a disturbing trend. Research by sex toy company Wevibe revealed that 14 per cent of men admit to being aroused by Alexa, the smart speaker, which confirms my view that we have been sleepwalking into a different kind of epidemic – one of loneliness and fear of intimacy.
I’ve been a psychotherapist for 20 years, and never have I worked with so many men and women who are unhappy and scared, because their deepest attachments and primary source of arousal are through interacting with their tech. I call these people “technosexuals”.
Technosexuals are joined – as though surgically – to their favourite gadgets. Whether it’s the “ping” of a message, swiping right, or the seductive, authoritative tones of a cloud-based voice service, their tech fulfils them by mobilising the reward system in the brain and releasing dopamine – the happiness hormone.
The instant activity of using their tech – likes and comments – is like a sexual turn-on. This dopamine hit happens in all of us, but in technosexuals the modern digital world influences all their libidinous activity.
You could be dating a technosexual without even realising it. They are great at screen chat, yet not so great at the face-to-face authenticity required to begin or sustain a relationship. The tech they carry around has become such a handy dopamine stimulator, it’s like having a sex toy in their pocket – human intercourse no longer cuts it.
The reason why some of us can sustain a healthy relationship with tech while others can’t comes down to a deep-seated fear of intimacy – the main trait of the technosexual, which being at home has only intensified.
Take Jess*, 36. She runs her own recruitment agency, has a wide circle of friends and appears to enjoy life. Yet behind the image of a contented, successful woman lies someone totally disconnected from her sexual desires. Before the pandemic, Jess would rarely see the same person twice and hadn’t had sex in three years. Instead, the activities that arouse her include maintaining her social media feeds, chatting online and scrolling Instagram for date outfits – activities that have ramped up during lockdown.
In all my years of practising, technosexuals are perhaps the most troubling cohort of mental health sufferers I have seen, because the source of their distress appears, on the face of it, to be so innocuous. Where most of us just use tech when we need it – and, as Zoom-fatigue has shown, can get quickly turned off by it – the technosexual is hit by the double whammy of intensified use, which arises from (and is subsequently inflamed by) an existing fear of closeness to other human beings.
Graham*, 42, is an accountant and has been married for two years. His interest in porn has become an obsession. Every night, he gets lost in online webcam activity. Working from home and with no commute, he now has even more time to get sucked into virtual “relationships” at the expense of the real one with his wife.
Recent research by the University of Pennsylvania has shown that people who curbed their social media exposure felt less depressed and lonely than those who had no limits.
This study highlights the vital importance of weaning technosexuals off their tech adoration. They say, “I’ve had this many likes/hits/dms, I am worth this much.”
And while many of us enjoy this external validation, in technosexuals it triggers their emotional downfall.
Kamal* is 22 and studying economics at what he described before lockdown as a “very social college”. Yet his fear of sex and intimacy runs deep. Kamal has never had a girlfriend, not least because girls in real life do not measure up to the ones he sees online.
Sex education in schools is failing to prepare our children for having healthy sex lives, often ignoring the digital landscape in which young people live. As a result, they have access to tech without having the skills to stop it getting in the way of real human interaction. Without proper education, we run the risk of raising an entire generation who are brilliant at using filters on selfies, but who lack the crucial social skills required to form healthy, loving, fulfilling relationships.
Dr Mike Mcphillips, consultant psychiatrist and the leading UK authority on the treatment of psychiatric and addictive disorders, agrees. “Our children are getting sexualised at younger ages than ever before. Graphic porn and video games damage the body images of children and the expectations of young people.”
It also sets up a disconnect between intimacy with tech and human-tohuman contact. The irony that our current clinical consultations are being conducted online is not lost on us.
Technosexuals fall into the trap of mistaking connections via tech with actual intimacy. Single technosexuals write witty messages ahead of dates, which often never take place, or get set up and then cancelled at the last minute – with Covid giving air cover to their fears. And because tech can provide the illusion of intimacy, many convince themselves their intimate life is functioning – when it really isn’t.
On face-to-face dates – even socially distanced ones – technosexuals can become overly anxious. The phone in the pocket or bag becomes like a child’s security blanket, something to be touched or looked at regularly to provide comfort. Technosexuals will go so far as to crowbar their tech into actual dates, using phones to Google trivia, display photos, showcase apps, or tot up the bill. “I appear really outgoing and engaged on dates,” admits Jess*, “but really it’s my smartphone performing, not me.”
And if a relationship appears to be progressing, the avoidant side will kick in. Tech can save the day, by offering an emotionless route to end things. Technosexuals think nothing of closing romantic prospects down either by impersonal text, or ghosting.
Ghosting in particular is classic technosexual behaviour, since they are unable to relate to the other person as a human being, but rather as an object. Meanwhile, for the partner of a technosexual, it’s as if “there are three of us in this marriage”. Many partners suffer in silence, ashamed to admit their love rival is a piece of tech.
Dr Mcphillips is, like me, now treating an increasing number of married or partnered technosexuals who have lost themselves in webcam activity, replacing normal sexual interests with something much darker. “The advent of online sex opens up opportunities for mutually consenting exploration, but in countless cases under my care, I have seen one partner take it far too far – and the relationship is then irretrievably damaged,” he says.
Let’s be clear. It’s not that technology is causing this fear of intimacy, but it is making it easier to give in to. And like other forms of self-destructive, reality-avoidant behaviour, it can be hard to stop.
As Graham says, “My wife can’t understand why I resist being intimate with her, but I can’t admit that I’m terrified of getting close.”
As with much emotionally dysfunctional behaviour, secrecy is a key feature. The good news is that help is available. Technosexuals can embark on one-to-one therapy. Or take up meditation, such as the Vedic meditation taught by Jillian Lavender and Michael Miller at London Meditation Centre, to develop an awareness of their body and emotions. Or if you suspect your partner or date prefers their tech to you, speak up to clarify what is and isn’t acceptable to you.
If we’re not careful, tech has the power to tempt us to invest too much time in a “virtual” life at the expense of our real one. Only by living in the present is a person free to let go of unhealthy technosexual behaviour – and to continue using tech healthily, instead of it dominating and warping their lives.
The tech they carry around is like a sex toy in their pocket
‘I appear really outgoing and engaged on dates – but it’s my phone, not me’
*Some names have been changed