I had butterflies. And not just small, cute, gentle and inoffensive butterflies. Oh no. They were the kind of butterflies with a wing span bigger than your hand, the kind that dive-bomb you in the back garden and make you realise that butterflies are actually just bugs with good fashion sense. I was ridiculously nervous. Preposterously excited. And more than a little bit nauseous.

And the weird thing is, it didn’t feel weird. It actually felt rather familiar, simply because this happens every time I go there. The only woman I trust to cut my hair is also exceptionally attractive. Every time she asks me to take my glasses off, I silently curse because I’m virtually blind without them, and I can’t drink in her features like a dying man in the desert. She keeps horses, and has the taut muscular thighs of a veteran rider. Her accent has the same flat vowels and clipped consonants as mine once did – before I shook it off, because I believed it made me sound stupid – and somehow she transforms it into something unbearably sexy. Quite predictably, her hair has been styled into gorgeous tousled waves, like she’s just rolled out of bed (which of course only makes me want to drag her back into it). She’s straight but she remembers my name and asks me questions about my life and tells me about hers and the whole time I’m thinking, God, I bet you look good with your clothes off.

This isn’t a one-off, either. I had a lecture the other day, and when our professor walked to the front of the room to grab the handouts, my friend leaned over and said in a dramatic stage whisper, ‘It might just be those jeans – but has she gained a bit of weight over Christmas?’ I had to bite back a snarl. It was sheer self-preservation that stopped me from responding, ‘Bugger off, you arrogant bint. Her arse is spectacular.’ And, sweet readers, it really is – BECAUSE SHE RIDES HORSES TOO.

Do you ever have those moments? The ones that make you think, how on earth could I not have known? Straight girls don’t blush from collarbone to forehead when they talk to their hairdressers, nor do they get aroused when their female lecturers say things like ‘jolly good’ or talk about corpus linguistics. (Seriously. I am just that big a nerd.)

Please tell me your moments. Please make me feel better about being just that obtuse.

She was changing with her friend, and their bare limbs flickered in and out of my vision like scenes from a garbled videotape. Underwear and t-shirts and words passed easily between them; their laughter was girlish and relaxed. For an instant, I simply marvelled at their indifference – to them, their shared nakedness meant nothing. And then she turned to face the wall behind which I was furtively crouched and dropped her towel.

Oh. Her breasts were full and heavy, the kind I’d only ever seen behind flimsy strips of lingerie in the clothing catalogue. So far, she was the only girl in my class who needed a bra. The skin-pink circles around her nipples were puckered with cold; at the sight of them, something nameless shifted inside me and began to ache. Later, shame would creep up my throat like bile and burn through the sharp edges of this moment – but for then, at least, I knew exactly why I was there. I knew why I stayed frozen until my limbs felt thick and drunk. I knew why my heartbeat had dropped to the base of my spine, and why my fingers stuttered a restless tattoo against my chlorine-soaked thigh: because I wanted nothing more than the chance to reach out and touch her.

This image, brought to you by the fine folks at grrlplanet made me forget all about my angst and tortuous self-examination. That’d be Pink, MY Pink, and another hot, tattooed, spiky haired rock-n-roll chica. Holding hands. Standing close. I don’t know about you but – questionable butterfly hair adornment aside – my first thought is definitely not ‘ah how sweet, look at the two straight friends hanging out’.

Yes, I am aware that I have a strong need to continue to believe that Pink will one day be mine, and thus will eagerly soak in any and all evidence that will support my theory/delusion/intuition/fantasy. Perhaps there is a slight chance that I’m taking a simple photo of some good friends out at lunch and jumping to wild conclusions simply because it suits me.

But I don’t think so…how about you?

[You’re a smart group of folks. Pretty damn sharp from what I’ve been able to reckon thus far. Not much gets past ya’ll. Can you guess where this is going? If you’re the betting type, I can hook you up with a good bookie…]

Last night I went out with J, and let me tell you – we had an utterly fabulous time. We hit the country bar again, and I two-stepped with some great dancers (the difference between tripping over my feet like an idiot and working the floor like a pro, I have discovered, is choosing a partner who really knows how to lead. A strong lead makes all the difference in the world). I even tried a little line dancing (Tush Push anyone?). I’m pretty sure I looked like a complete ass, but at least I was as ass who was having fun.

[Here, let me hook you up with some music to set the mood for the story. Every good tale needs a soundtrack…]

I know, I know, it sounds cheesy as hell (and lets be real, it absolutely is) but I always have a good time at this place. It’s low pressure, completely unpretentious, great random mix of people and pretty chill, without that sleazy bar feeling. Besides, I think that (much to my surprise) I’m developing a liking for girls with big belt buckles and cowbody hats. What’s not to like about that?

So, there was a girl there, but I bet you already knew there would be, because – like I said– you’re smart like that.

[Of course, being that it was a lesbian bar, and that I set up the story fairly well, I suppose it was a pretty safe bet…]

Yes indeed, there was a girl.

I actually met her a few weeks ago, and liked her immediately – but it was just a few days after things went down (or downhill, perhaps I should say?) with e. I was quietly hoping she would be there last night, and actually got a little jolt of excitement when I saw her.

[Her name begins with S, but since there is already an S. who features rather prominently in this blog, I’ll just call her ‘the girl’]

We chatted a bit, and danced once I think– and then J. danced with her. When my dear friend got off the dance floor she looked at me sheepishly drunkenly and confessed that she might have accidentally purposely told the girl that I thought she was hot. Apparently the girl said that she thought I was hella cute, and J. (dear friend that she is) told her that I was also hella single. She responded that she was also hella single….and with that helpful lead-in there was eye contact, and smiles and more great dancing and conversation.

And she kinda asked me out, and I kinda asked her out, and we exchanged the all important myspace page info and let me tell you, I was a little giddy. It was fun to feel that way – things with e. began with intensity and ended with intensity and there was no lighthearted giddiness to be found at any point. This was a reminder of how fun and totally without pressure or seriousness the very beginning of anything can be.

After the bar closed J (on the power of three jagerbombers, damn Red Bull) decided she wasn’t ready to go home. There was a brief discussion of after hours dancing at a gay boy country bar, but ultimately we all decided to head to Gay Denny’s to get our grease fix (yes indeed, we have a Gay Denny’s – or Jenny’s as it’s called by those in the know). Everyone should have a Gay Denny’s.

All was well until J started talking about her children, and I mentioned that I have kids as well. And maybe I’m being paranoid, but I think I felt a shift in her attitude. I might have been totally imagining things, and I hope I was.

For the first time I really started to consider the fact that my kids might be an issue for me and some of the women I would like to date. They certainly became an issue for e. in the end – and I’m sure it won’t be the last time the fact that I am a mother affects my dating potential.

Let’s be honest, if my children are an issue – what of my entire situation….

“Hi, I’m Jen. Not only do I have two young children who take up much of my time and energy, but until six months ago I was still pretending to be straight as an arrow. I’ve kissed just two women, and only slept with one in an utterly drama filled quasi-relationship that just ended on a bad note– but what I lack in experience I promise I make up for with enthusiasm. Yes siree. I’m enthusiastic. Oh yes, you should know that I still live with my husband. Not my ex-husband – we’re still totally and completely married and likely to stay that way for a while because for several reasons I don’t want to get into right now.  But don’t worry – we don’t share a bedroom…anymore. That was so last month. We’re just like roommates, except we had sex for 11 years and made two babies together. Oh…before I forget, I don’t actually have a job, or any source of income – and once I’m sugar daddy stops supporting me, I’m pretty much up shit creek….”

Clearly, I’m a real baggage-free catch. What woman wouldn’t want me?

But I think maybe I could like this girl. She’s cute as hell. She has a great smile and kind eyes. She’s an amazing dancer. Her favorite book is Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. She loves poetry. Her skin is amazingly soft. I don’t usually react to people that quickly – but I had butterflies when I first met her, I had major butterflies last night, and I have butterflies today wondering if she’ll still call.

Obviously, if a woman is turned off by the very fact that I have children, she’s clearly not the woman for me. I am not wholly defined by my children, or by my role as their mother. I am a strong, intelligent, bold, funny, talented woman with so much to offer to a relationship – but my children (and my past) are a part of the package. I know this, and the people I am really meant to date will recognize this as well.

At the very least I think I’ve met someone who could be a fun friend, and a kick-ass dance partner, but I’m hoping I get the chance to see if it might be a little something more.

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.*

*On that note. God – I can’t believe I’m dating again. I last dated when I was 21. 21 years old, people. I was a babe in the woods. And I was dating boys. I’m 32 now. That was a LONG time ago and this is a whole new world, and we’re talking about a really cute girl here. I don’t remember how to do this. When do I call? Do I wait for her to call? Will she call? Shit. I think I’m too old for this craziness.

First, it’s part of the speechless campaign, second – it involves at least the suggestion of lesbian action, and third – have I mentioned the fact that I’ve had a mad crush on Maggie Gyllenhaal for like, ever and ever? Because I have, and I do, and I lurve her.

Enjoy.