Like Venice, New York City is an improbable bunch of rivaling islands, held together by historic bridges, a common language, and a well-earned understanding of superiority. Rome may dwell in the land of cock—and it does, the phallus dominates that city’s skyline; Roman men strut with unquestioned self-confidence, their limbs decked in crimson, in mustard, in peacock blues and greens, each demanding your gaze—but as much as the long penile lines of the skyscraper may define New York City, it’s a place that doesn’t care who fucks whom, as long as you do it. Fucking, metaphorical or literal, is
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