Straight girls at Sunday brunch let me know that I was being lesbian breadcrumbed—lezcrumbed, if you will. Prior to brunch that day, I had never heard the term. Though I knew deep down I was getting played, I never acknowledged it. Like any good brunchers, my friends and I guzzled mimosas and dished about sex and relationships. That’s when I got hit with the major truth bomb.
“I think I’m being breadcrumbed!” lamented Ashley*.
“WTF is breadcrumbed?” I asked. Those poor straight girls! I relished my role as token lesbian, always seeming to have better sex and healthier relationships.
“It’s when a guy occasionally does something to string you along—texts you or likes your photos to keep you interested, but doesn’t make any real effort to date you.”
Sucks for you, hetero! I thought. But…
Just as I was about to get an on my thank-lana-del-rey-i’m-gay high horse, it dawned on me: I was being breadcrumbed.
I met Vanessa* on Tinder. I thought we were dating (stupid mistake!). Looking back, it’s obvious she never considered me her girlfriend. She was breadcrumbing TF outta me! She would disappear all week, then just as I was about to write her off as a ghost-er, she’d text me.
I had wanted to talk to her and ask “what are we?” for months and months, but it was like she had a sense for when it was coming: she’d be irresistibly sweet. Like a textbook f*ckboy! Just when I thought I had the nerve to ask her what was going on, she’d take me somewhere romantic, dress up in sexy lingerie, or ask me to go to a poetry reading (no lesbian is immune to the lure of a poetry reading!). Technically, a breadcrumber doesn’t hang out with you—they keep you mildly engaged enough to think that they will. So maybe she put in a little more effort than the usual breadcrumber but she still was an expert at dodging anything to advance our relationship. This was next level breadcrumbing—replace Instagram likes with lavish dinners, cute activities and amazing sex. At the end of the day, it was the same. It was a trail that led to no commitment. A trail that was just enough to keep me following. Vanessa was a ~complicated~ woman that was messing with my head. I know that for sure because my lesbian big sister says so.
All of this was hitting me hard. I pushed around my eggs and took a deep breath. I was embarrassed to reveal to my friends that the fabulous sex I was just bragging about wasn’t accompanied by a real relationship. I called her my girlfriend, granted we never had the conversation about it. I was a little delusional, but she fueled my delusion: text book breadcrumbing! Just enough to keep you hanging on, but little enough to make you think you’re insane.
“I think… I think Vanessa is doing that to me, you guys,” I took a large swig of champagne.
“We’ll investigate at Alyssa’s* wedding on Saturday,” my friend Natalie* said, always eager to check out her friends’ mates’ “intentions.”
“She… she isn’t coming to the wedding,” I squeaked, “She has… a family party she committed to ages ago.” I felt like Carrie Bradshaw when Big didn’t show up at Denial.
In reality, Vanessa told me she couldn’t be my date because she had a “thing.” I didn’t ask what her “thing” was. I just let it go. I made excuses for her, and for myself, constantly.
“Okay, well, let me see her social media. She must post pictures with you, right? It’s been like half a year, Dayna!” Natalie was relentless.
“I… we…” I couldn’t even say anything. We had only taken one photo together, on her phone. It made it to her snapchat story but nowhere permanent. I tried to conceal my excitement when she took her phone out to take a picture of us. I had started to worry she was a figment of my imagination.
That weekend, at Alyssa’s wedding, I cried and cried at the ceremony. Partly because Alyssa is my heart and soul, partly because I knew how deep I was in with someone who didn’t care that I was sitting at a wedding alone. I stared at my phone, willing her to text me. She did, said I looked beautiful, and that she wished she could be there. When I said why can’t you? she didn’t answer. I slept with her the next day anyway.
Because, dear reader, plain and simple: she f*cked me like I’ve never been f*cked before. I used to think that squirting was just not possible for me. I’d had mind blowing orgasms. I didn’t think they could get any better. Then I squirted. I squirted then I lost my mind.
The sex made me crazy—more specifically, it made me ignore how poorly she treated me. I could barely form a thought the second her lips touched mine. She was just so hot.
Though I refused to acknowledge it, I secretly knew the whole time what was really going on. Now I had a term for it, but I still refused to deal with it.
Then one day, after my friends gave me a “talk,” I decided I couldn’t follow Vanessa’s trail of hot lesbian breadcrumbs anymore. I texted her, asking to speak to her about our relationship. She asked if I wanted to come over the next day. She even said “cant wait to see you :)” and she never used emojis. I was catching onto her manipulative BS. I wanted to do it over text so I wouldn’t be distracted by her lips or breasts or legs or… wait, what was I saying?
Right. But she wasn’t much of a texter (of course not!) and I thought communicating in person might make her nicer. A few days later, she opened her apartment door and immediately started to kiss me. “Wait!” I said in between kisses, though I couldn’t stop kissing her. After we had sex, I knew it was now or never. I had to say something or continue to being the dumb idiot getting breadcrumbed.
“Do you consider me your girlfriend?” I asked. I aimed for calm but I bordered on shrill.
“No, don’t answer that,” I continued. The tears welled in my eyes.
“Well, I’m not seeing anyone else,” she started, “I think you’re amazing…”
I’ve been around the block enough times to know that I think you’re amazing = I will never date you and I want stop seeing you OR keep having sex with you as long as you don’t bring this up again. I knew it was over. I knew we had broken up without explicitly saying it. (I use the term break up loosely, as I’m pretty sure she never bothered to learn my last name). I tried to hold back the tears—I tried even harder than I try to suck my stomach in for Instagram. She wanted to have breakup sex. I wanted to walk into traffic. The tears threatened to spill out over my cheeks as she traced her tongue over my body, undressing me. But the sex didn’t seem so hot anymore. She had broken my heart.
Worse, she had broken my heart and it was my fault for pretending we were something we weren’t. For the first time, I faked an orgasm. I wanted it to be over before I started crying. As I sniffled and shoved my feet into my boots, she said “it was really nice getting to know you,” like I was her cabin-mate at summer camp. Though devastated, I felt proud of myself for saying something. I made sure to collect all my belongings from her apartment, including my favorite strap-on.
I cried in the uber, I cried on the LIRR, I cried in my room, then I cried into my martini at the bar.
I wouldn’t have gotten through that “breakup” without my amazing friends, boozy brunches, and masturbating like 6 times a day. Thankfully, it made me stronger, a better communicator and more in tune with what I want. I’m thankful that my friends helped me to see what was really going on. Next time an emotionally unavailable tall brunette starts leaving me a trail of breadcrumbs, I’ll know they lead nowhere.
