When I turned 20 years old, I decided to move out of my parents' house in West Philadelphia with my good friend Anna. My parents were extremely strict Italian Catholics, and since they disapproved whole-heartedly of my moving out while still single, I was promptly disowned. As I packed my two suitcases with clothes, my parents hovered around me in disbelief. My mother cried and my father yelled in Italian that I was a child of Satan. This didn't do much for my already bruised self-esteem.

Anna and I rented a small one-bedroom apartment in the middle of the city. It didn't matter that we shared the bedroom, because the rent was only $400 a month. It didn't take long for me to realize that I could do whatever I wanted. I immediately rebelled against my upbringing. I ran with a different crowd; I became friends with every artist and degenerate in the city. One of my new friends was a bouncer at the local bar and he always let me in, despite the fact that I was still a year shy of my 21st birthday.

I embraced drinking with a passion, out-drinking boys and doing tequila shots every night. This was a far cry from hanging at the pizza joint in my old neighborhood, and I was glad. I dated bad boys--the more psychologically damaged they were, the more I liked them. They were all-around degenerates, men with their entire bodies tattooed who spent their lives on motorcycle and homeless, dreadlocked boys. I experimented with drugs and rode my bike at 5 a.m. down deserted city streets. I just wanted to feel different.

But as much as I rebelled, I held onto my virginity like it was going out of style. (It was.) This caused me nothing but problems. I had upstanding morals about my virginity, although I could sleep easy after staying awake for three days straight zonked out of my head. I was plagued with Catholic guilt and I never had a serious boyfriend up to that point. Sure, I kissed boys and groped them in dimly it hallways, and drunkenly kissed them on couches and bar stools, but it never evolved into much else. And still, everyone around me was having sex with their boyfriends or girlfriends, having one night stands, cheating on each together. Their lives revolved around having sex. People wouldn't be able to figure me out, and boys would never get anywhere with me. So that's when the rumors started.

People whispered that I was a lesbian, a heroin addict, a tease and a flirt. Funny, no one spread a rumor that I was a virgin. I was a depressed and confused person. I couldn't call my mother or go home for the weekend to rest. I felt constant guilt for the things I was doing, yet I couldn’t' stop. On a break from work one afternoon, I walked past a store window and saw a pair of black vinyl go go boots. I stopped dead in my tracks, looking at them as if they were magic. They were unlike anything I'd ever seen; no one wore high boots in those days. I pulled 15 crumpled dollars out of pocket, bought them and immediately put them on. I wore those boots every day, and took great care to revolve all of my outfits around them. The boots became my prized possession in my pathetic life, and some sort of calm came over me when I wore them. And even though my life was crazy and I was usually depressed, I would put them on and take a walk and feel better.

One night, I was drinking at the bar as usual, and I flirted with Chris, a boy I knew. We went into my building (conveniently located right next door to the bar) and started kissing. We kissed and tripped up the stairs to my apartment, and with a sudden burst of exuberance, I took my skirt off and pushed his head down. I lay back, feeling his hair against my stomach, and wrapped those boots around his neck. He took me away from everything, and I wasn't ashamed. My boots were shining in the darkness, and I felt beautiful with them on. I knew Chris for six months and never kissed him, and he was eager to please that night.

After I lay back and unwrapped my legs, I felt as if I had some sort of awakening. I was so busy smiling and feeling good, It didn't dawn on my that he might have liked some of the same; I told him goodnight. I wasn't thinking about saints and sinners, and freaking out because I heard a zipper being unzipped. I didn't know if it was Chris or the boots, but I felt like a changed woman. A few nights later, with a similar chain of events (mainly triggered by that damn tequila), I was kissing another boy, Paul, and steering him up to my apartment.

At this point, I knew what I had in mind and led the way. I stripped down to my boots and led Paul down south. Paul became the second Boot Boy that week and I was just getting started. All in all, about a dozen Boot Boys came to Camp Dixie. I was putting together a cunnilingus army, and they were a good bunch of hard-working men. They taught me a lot, and I felt more comfortable than ever. The payoff was big; I felt good about myself and there were no shortage of boys in that bar, especially since they knew I didn't really date anyone. They were curious. I developed a real sense of freedom, more so than when I moved out of my parents' house. I felt no guilt for the first time in my life.

And, a few months after the Boot Boys, I lost my virginity., I knew I was going to have sex with the next boy I kissed. Sure I was a late bloomer, but I was willing to make up for lost time. The next by I kissed turned out to be John, an Irish boy from Dublin who was always doing ecstasy. I brought him back to the apartment, and since Anna was sleeping in the bedroom, I had sex for the first time on a carpeted floor, drunk out of my head. It was awkward and sloppy, and I woke up with rug burns all over my back. But I was on my way, and I owed it all to the Boot Boys.