That clears the way for a more everything goes attitude to prevail. And prevail it does. With an international reputation for free-spirited fun, New Orleans draws people from around the world. They come here to let their hair down. They drop their fake, public-image facades, access the reptilian parts of their brains and become their hedonistic selves. In this city, it’s OK. In New Orleans, everything is OK.

I’m different from most in New Orleans. I’m timid, guarded and careful by nature, always thinking my mother and the whole, dearly departed church congregation is watching me from heaven and judging my every move. I find it hard to let loose. I am too afraid I’ll offend someone or make them mad. I can’t say and do what I really want. I stress about everything. I was never loose back home. All of the other girls were getting felt up, giving blow jobs or screwing by the time they were sixteen. Not me. I was deflowered in college. I thought I was in love or at least that’s what I told my college roommate.

“Deflowered. Ha! That’s funny,” she said with her eyes rolling head shaking. “You just got laid, that’s all.”

The whole episode was quite unceremonious if you ask me. I would have preferred some romance. Even without the romance, I did like it, I must admit. The memory elicited a sly smile that momentarily crept over my lips. But my Midwest values snapped into gear and voices in my head chastised me, “Stop admitting you like sex without marriage. You sound slutty.” I repeated this more righteous thought, like a meditation mantra, over and over loud enough for my mom and the entire congregation to hear. Make it stop, please God, make it stop.

What shall I wear? I’m a 5’4’’ big-boned girl. Not too big boned but a little. I’ve always been told I have a pretty face, cute upturned nose, and full lips, but I just can’t seem to shake those pesky, last 20 lbs. I blamed my weight on baby fat and my big boobs. I was one of the first to bloom and my chest just kept on blooming, making me self conscious.