So we got the group together at the single most appropriate spot in Central Park, below the bust of Thomas Moore, the Irish poet who wrote “The Last Rose of Summer,” as fine a tribute to the season’s end as ever there was.
We were joined by a reporter from the Wall Street Journal, and maybe an article will result and maybe one won’t, but that’s not really the point. We stared down a half dozen rather too eager photographers determined to capture us for posterity, but that’s not really the point either.
What is the point? The point is that Central Park in September is just about the most beautiful place to be on the face of the earth, and bare-breasted is just about the best way to enjoy it. The air was warm, the sun mild, the grass comfy, the treats from Mille Feuille heart-melting. We read The Picture of Dorian Gray, we read The Girl With the Deep Blue Eyes, we read the numbered entries of the Position Sex Bible. (What’s #69? Not what you think.)
And we relaxed. We weren’t a spectacle, we weren’t offensive. In as public a space as New York has, we were topless and decorum wasn’t shattered, nor traffic stopped, nor tourists scandalized, nor children scarred. Are you paying attention, Mayor de Blasio? Governor Cuomo?
We haven’t shared our feelings about the inane Times Square brouhaha in so many words. But as a lovely summer draws to a close, we trust each of these pictures to be worth a thousand of them.