The Secrets On My Exes’ Phones

There’s an old saying: if you go looking for trouble, you’ll find it. Maybe. But sometimes, you’re not looking for trouble — you’re looking for peace. And what you find is the exact reason you never felt it in the first place.

I paid for and installed Spyware on his phone. Imagine having access to absolutely every move..

I wasn’t the “jealous girlfriend” stereotype. I didn’t check phones, question passwords, or follow my boyfriend’s every move. I thought checking a guy’s phone was desperate, dramatic — even trashy. My belief was simple: if you have to check, the relationship’s already over. Well.

Trust is a fragile thing. Once it cracks, even a sliver of curiosity can slip through. In the beginning, I was always a trusting, carefree, optimistic girlfriend — you know, dumb. (Kidding. But man, does it feel that way.) I was the “trust until you give me a reason not to” girlfriend. Even when I had a reason, I held on to “innocent until proven guilty.”

But once you’ve been cheated on, lied to, and gaslit enough by dudes who still wear Axe body spray and wear red flags so loud that even a bull with glaucoma couldn’t miss (seriously, you’d think all my exes were members of the Russian Olympic team), you’re forced to develop a new skill: Detective Mode. Not by choice, but survival.

I adapted. I learned. I evolved.

First, you try talking to them. You hope for honesty. You give them the chance to clear the air. When they don’t? (They never do). Then you check.

Exhibit A: Ronaldo, the First Boy

The first one to break me in was—drumroll—my very first boyfriend. We were best friends who naturally got together in my post-middle school haze. Best friends coupling up = happy marriage. Or at least, that’s the way I saw it. The way others saw it was, we were an odd match. To be honest with you, it was strictly because he was… Hm, there’s no way to be nice about this…  He was a decent guy on paper, sure. But physically? He was… not easy on the eyes. Random strangers would walk up to us in public and openly tell me with stinkface on full display, “you can do so much better.” Right in front of him.

And yet, I had this genius belief: Ugly guys don’t cheat. (Thanks, Mom👍)

So imagine my surprise when Ronaldo’s best friend told me he had been cheating — with not one, but two co-workers. Which, sounded like their workplace affair turned into a soap opera because the mistresses ended up in a public screaming match at work. At only one year in, he had already been in a relationship with both of them… for months.

Shocked, disgusted, and heartbroken, I retaliated in the most toxic way possible: I thanked his best friend for outing him by doing the horizontal thank-you note, so I could throw it in Ronaldo’s face when I told him I knew. His best friend, that was like a brother to him — crushed on his girlfriend, outed him, then bangs his girlfriend every day for a week. Then said girlfriend throws it in his face as a surprise revenge present. Savage thing we did, honestly.

Despite all that, we stayed together. I became bratty and difficult. But I didn’t check his phone — not for years. I thought I had him in check.

But one night, I came home to find him sleeping. Perfect time! After he got caught before, surely I’ve done enough to make him never want to do it again. I cracked his phone password using some light memory skills and peeked. I felt like I was committing a crime. My heart was pounding, hands shaking. Bracing myself to find nothing, to feel guilty forever. I told myself it was harmless. It wasn’t a deep dive — just take a glance.

But a glance turns into a scroll.
A scroll turns into a discovery.

There was a number in his call log — someone he talked to daily. Even the day before, during the 10 minutes he was supposedly “grabbing food.” The only text from that number? “Goodnight babe.” Left unread, probably because he fell asleep before opening and deleting the evidence.

Curious, I used my newfound detective skills to find her online.

Then came the plot twist: It wasn’t even really shocking to find a side chick. But what was shocking was who she was. She was 20 years older than him (he was 19), and… large. Very large. A morbidly obese woman documenting her weight loss journey on Facebook. Her story? “Happily” married. Two teenage kids. Lived four hours away. They’d been sexting and having an emotional affair for months.

Naturally, I then broke into his email (once you pop, you can’t stop) and found ads on Craigslist:”Young male 4 BBW“.

He had exchanged dirty emails with multiple women. There were pictures, too. One woman was posing in lingerie, filling an entire bedroom doorway. In another, she lay sprawled across a queen-sized bed, taking up most of it. She was a 54-year-old, 750lb BBW fetish model. The largest person I had ever seen, until that TLC show about large people was created.

And that’s when it clicked: This was his thing. He was into BBWs. I mean real BBWs. The two co-workers…. Every woman he cheated on me with had two things in common:

• Morbidly obese
• At least twice his age

And I? Was neither.

It explained why he always commented on my weight. He didn’t just like bigger women—he fetishized them. And I was “too skinny.” But ya know.. despite the obvious impending relationship doom, we stayed together anyway. I hoed around to get back at him. Years later, he almost proposed. Bought a ring. Booked a horse-drawn carriage. I turned him down before he could even ask.. hard.

And look, people can love whoever they love. But when you get cheated on with someone who’s your polar opposite — or is, you know, a special interest — it stings in a different way. It makes you think, I’m not their type. I’m not good enough. Huge blow to the self-esteem. And that was the first time I learned what a fetish was. (Now? Oh, I’ve got a few of my own.)

Exhibit B: Danny, the Photographer Boy

My second boyfriend? I’d like to say I skipped the naïveté and I went into that relationship with my magnifying glass and trench coat already on.. but I absolutely did not. Again, give me a reason.

Well.

At first, he seemed harmless. But I noticed him getting a little too affectionate with the models he worked with. The puppy-dog act he put on around his models was… suspicious. After all, I was his model when we met. It was time to play detective.

Surprise: My boyfriend was a CREEP!

Turns out, he:

• Wasn’t just photographing models, he was overly complementing them and trying to flirt with them (and got rejected a lot).
• Used my money to buy video games, concert tickets and junk.
• Was talking to his ex and planning a sexy photoshoot with her. For free.
• Pretended to have pull with Playboy (which gave him the opportunity to pressure girls into shooting nudes with him because they “were definitely Playmate material”).

Oh, and when I really went digging? I found his secret laptop — the one with special webcam software, labeled folders for videos of webcam models, and hidden USBs. Apparently, he used those to catfish girls, by streaming fake videos and pretending to be whoever was in the footage. When I confronted him, there was no denying anything; he explained it was all tied to ChatRoulette and Omegle. He would go through the complicated process of pulling all this stuff out of his hiding place every time I left, hooking up the his desired USB, click here, do this, click click click – all in hopes that someone would show their boobs. It was like I’d discovered a pervy side quest in a video game. I could see ChatRoulette and Omegle in the web history every day. For hours. Does he have some kind of problem? Is this his form of cheating? Another perceived smack in the face by an ugly dude.

Oh, did I not mention he was no looker either? He may have tried cheating… but it would’ve been hard. He was shorter than me standing at a whopping 5’4 (on a good day), built like a soft-boiled egg, and looked like a much less attractive version of Jeremy Renner, but with a huge flesh-colored cyst by his eye. He was another one that when we’d go out in public, strangers would stop me to tell me I could do better. A few guys throughout the years even burst out laughing in his face, went as far as hitting on me right in front of him because he didn’t look like a threat. Another guy asked if he paid me. My close family and friends all coincidentally nicknamed him Troll. My friends still think “Danny” was a joke. That when they saw him, it wasn’t the real Danny; that I must’ve come up with an elaborate joke and involved “his brother or something” to really sell it. I wish they were right. (Turns out, if you had zero confidence or looks, but a great sense of humor, that was enough for me. ‘Nother lesson learned.)

The cherry on top? His junk was tiny. There. I said it.

So… you could say I got over the guilt of checking my boyfriend’s phones pretty quick. After that, I wouldn’t say I became a professional snooper. But I definitely stopped pretending I was above it. Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you either become a detective… or you get played. Again.

Exhibit C: Joey, the Naughty Boy

Even the “good” guys were garbage. I was enjoying being alone after leaving my abusive marriage (see Exhibit Michael below), but realized humans aren’t built to be alone forever. I thought maybe this time, I’d try dating like a regular human being. So, I signed up for Tinder.

One guy, one shot: Enter Joey, the charming engineer. We saw each other for a few months. Everything seemed to be going really well, until one day, while showing me a video on his phone, ding—Tinder notification. Mind you, he used to hand me his phone like it was nothing. “Hey, text this for me,” “search this thing”. So bold. I thought I didn’t even need to check. Apparently me not looking myself equals me missing out on some big facts.

So. Cool, cool, cool. But he was really still swiping while seeing me? And not only that, but all the while pushing the “G” word (girlfriend) on me before I was ready?

Silly me for expecting monogamy from a dude on Tinder. First time. You live and you learn. But silly me should’ve known when he told me he loved group sex. And didn’t like monogamy. And was on the adultfriendfinder site before meeting me. And wanted to “hotwife” me. No, sir. If I wanted to be passed around like a bread basket, I’d join a commune. So, whether I was just being paranoid or not, it felt like every time I visited, another woman had just left. Two wine glasses in the sink, two sets of dishes, random long hairs in the bed. The signs were everywhere. Forehead slap.

I didn’t even bother bringing the Tinder notification up, I just mentally checked out till he brought it up at bedtime. With it being so early in whatever relationship it was, it was easy to cut it off. Whether it was harmless or not: delete dating apps if you’re going to date me. Periodt.

After we ended things, he texted me for two years to say I left a “void” in his life. Lots of long “you’re so special” texts. He also assured me that he “wasn’t talking to anyone else” during our time together.

Sure, Joey. Whatever helps you sleep at night.

Exhibit D: Justin, Mr. Business Boy

The “professional” one. Money, charm, and the emotional availability of a ficus. Don’t be surprised to hear that I missed all the signs with this one, too. I wasn’t impressed with his money, but his nice guy act won me over. There’s a story with this one. He suckered me in and things moved VERY QUICKLY. Quicker than I wanted, but hey, everything happens for a reason. I’m sure you’re asking: what was their problem in the relationship? Well, aside from his raging self-entitlement…

He had a “pretty blonde assistant” he refused to mention by name around me. Interesting that they were “best friends,” who knew every detail of each other’s lives blah blah blah, but one could almost swear her name was “Uhh My Assistant.” Overpaid, drives a brand new FREE Mercedes, gets her own credit card. He’d position his body against a wall to text her like he was guarding nuclear codes. It was always some weird excuse to meet up like, “We need to discuss the change in the ATM machine.” For half an hour. Every day.

DANGER! DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!

She avoided me at all costs, too. When she came to our house to bring “work related papers for him to sign”, she would text him to meet her outside. Call me paranoid, dumb even, but I think signing business contracts with your pretty, young assistant is best done on a well-lit table, rather than a dark car parked in our driveway…at 9:30pm. I often went out with him to his favorite spot, but somehow, she only showed up on nights when I wasn’t around. When I confronted him (for the third time), he went from “you’re being jealous and insecure” to “okay, I lied, I tried to sleep with her.” Cool story, bro.

I know if I had gotten into his phone, I would’ve found endless shady stuff. Between the woman who shall never be named, his SPOILED! (soon-to-be) ex-wife, the flirty young girl at the gym who gave me dirty looks and only said hello to him when I wasn’t close, and his whole “my privacy over everything” vibe… yeah. I’m convinced his IT guy installed a self-destruct button on his phone for when I got too close.

Plus, he installed cameras around the new house and tried to convince me that it was “just a motion sensor.” Wasn’t hard to find the security CAMERA on Amazon. He even let it slip that he was watching me when he asked me about a very specific item I was carrying around earlier that day. Wow. Sir. Please. I peaced out quick.

Exhibit E: Lionel, The Driver Boy

We met in the doorway of my hotel room when he was Uber’ing my sushi. We ended up having a friendly 40-minute conversation before agreeing to lunch. I wasn’t attracted to him, and didn’t sense a romantic vibe. But I could tell he took care of himself, and he had nice features. I liked that he was tall and polite. I traveled to and from town, so agreed to see him soon.

Texting with him was nice. He was consistent and attentive. I developed a tiny crush over those next 2 weeks. Till we actually went out. Which was at a casual, crowd-less dinner at Red Lobster. Everything went well, so I broke my first year (11 months) of celibacy that night. Meh. But the next morning, I got the ICK and couldn’t get him out of my hotel room fast enough. As it goes with me, there was a “however” in there: I got the ICK, however, we kept hanging out in a mostly platonic fashion. I was “seeing” him, not “dating” (there’s a difference), to see if I could break through that undeserved (or is it?) ICK-barrier. Eh, the answer was no. He, on the other hand, was very much infatuated, and went as far as telling me that if I ever wanted to take it to the next step he’d be ten toes down.

He was the complete opposite of the secretive guys. He:

• Always left his phone out and open.
• Would text in front of me.
• Told me his password.
• Put calls on speaker. I once heard his cousin’s kidney stone update live.
• Even let me hear his bank balance…on accident (Preeeetty sure his parents pay his bills).

I thought, He must not have anything big and scary thing to hide.

Wrong.

Months later, I caught the Bumble notification icon in one of his screenshots to me. Mindless? Sure. Innocent? Absolutely not. I kept my mouth shut for months, before he finally told me he wasn’t just seeing me. Yeah, bud, take your ten toes and put them down..in your butt. Good thing I had already lost interest, or that might’ve stung. We still hang out. That’s something we do well together. He’s another awkward friend that I feel comfortably awkward around. He regrets not being up front. He’s officially been friend-zoned, yet still keeps the hope alive. Had the talk with me, telling me he deleted his dating apps and is ready to pursue me because I’m “the cream of the crop”. Too late, buddy. I’ll make sure to invite you to my future wedding. I kid, I kid.

He may be nice. He may have seemed safe.
But I’d learned one thing by then:
Even the “safe” guys keep secrets.

And then there was Michael…

Oh, Michael. He was no boy, nor was he a man. I could write an entire series of books on Michael. That one deserves a series. He was a special kind of scum. Not one time could I open his phone and not find something horrifying. It was always something worse:

• Sexts with his longtime “platonic” friends.
• Flirting with my friends.
• Dating apps (for single parents, wth?)
• A secret, and confusing, following list on Instagram: Approximately 20% was “muscle mommies”, 45% was “trannies”, 20% was no-name girls posting everything but their nipples and buttholes, and 15% were random actors, fitness gurus, and people with unique talents.
• Mysterious, “random” messages popping up out of nowhere from a seventeen-year-old girl, the week we got married. I got confirmation from him years later that they were sexting. Most likely had sex, which, who would admit to? (The girl turned 18, quickly developed a trailer park ho reputation, and had a baby with sperm from an unknown nutsack. Then immediately got pregnant again.)
• A rape video he took of me when I was passed out after a night of drinking.

He went to increasingly crazy lengths to cover his tracks — but over the years, I found cracks. Random blocked texts from blocked numbers saying:

“Had a great time last night! Hope you made it home safe😘”

Or:

“Why are you with her if she beats and abuses you?”

I paid for and installed Spyware on his phone. Imagine having access to absolutely every move your spouse makes…

Now, I wish I could tell you this was all “harmless” stuff. That the worst thing I ever found was a flirty DM or a sketchy Instagram follow. Maybe even a couple of side pieces. But no. There was one phone that changed everything. Michael’s phone. It was something else entirely. Something darker. What I found on his phone went far beyond cheating. Way beyond us as a couple. Some things aren’t even funny. They’re just the reason I left the relationship with C-PTSD, still double check vents in bathrooms, and still have a small case of what they call “trust issues”.

Videos, pictures… they became my nightmare.

Something that made me realize…sometimes you don’t find out who a person really is until you see things they didn’t mean for you to see. But that’s a story for another day…

In Conclusion?

It’s a tough dilemma to be in when you care about someone, but catch yourself saying this feels off but they’re saying it’s nothing, what do I do? Do you trust your gut, or your partner? (Hint: TRUST. YOUR. GUT!)

I learned a lot during my adventures in cellular archaeology. A few things:

• If you feel like something is up, something is up!
• Some cheaters are just dumb, check the trash.
• Some cheaters are pros – don’t think just because you didn’t find anything means it’s all clear yet.
• If he never adds/friends you on anything or says he’s “barely on social media,” he has a secret Snapchat, TikTok, lady at home, or dating profile somewhere. Lies.
• Everyone has their skeletons… But some people are just dangerous. Getting a spy app or some kind of software, something, is ideal if you choose to (need to) do a deep dive. It literally saved me from a monster.

When you feel like you’re being duped, you stop being “chill girlfriend” and start being Sherlock Holmes with better lashes. It was the things that made me feel crazy when I asked about them — the gaslighting. The “You’re just insecure” comments. The “You have nothing to worry about, babe” speeches right before sending “you still up?” to three different girls at 12am. Charming.

The thing about phones is: they don’t lie. People lie. Phones are little black boxes of honesty in a world where words are cheap. Sitting there, holding all the receipts, waiting for someone brave enough (or tired enough of the shit) to look. And once you do… you can’t unsee it. You can’t unknow what you know. You can’t look at a man the same way after you’ve seen him save another girl’s nudes to his “Funny Memes” folder. (I still think about that sometimes. Not the nudes. The audacity.) Or a search history full of things that make your stomach twist. Every time, you hope to be wrong. Every time, you pray you find nothing. Every time, you find something worse.

I didn’t want to become the kind of person who felt sick whenever someone got a notification. I didn’t want to live with that gnawing anxiety that maybe, once again, I was being played for a fool. But after a while, it wasn’t a matter of if I’d find something. It was a matter of when. And after you’ve seen enough, you stop asking if it’s your fault. You realize your reality is the one they designed for you to suit their bullshit. I used to feel guilty for checking. Nobody wants to resort to that. Now I feel grateful for doing it. Because when someone shows me the truth, even in the smallest ways, it’s a gift. It’s a shortcut out of a place you were never meant to stay.

I’d like to say that I’ll never feel the need to check another boyfriend’s phone. That I’ll leave once I see red flags. Because honestly? I don’t miss the scavenger hunts. Moral of the story: When you date clowns, you learn to juggle.

Coming soon: “What I Found on Michael’s Phone” — the blog post you’ll need a drink for.