From behind, at least:
I had almost forgotten about it until I heard someone mention it on the TV last night:
"Fleet Week begins tomorrow!"
In addition to all of the usual drunken yahoos that choke the streets on any given night, now we have to deal with shore leave in NYC, and it isn't quite as wholesome as Frank Sinatra, Gene Kelly, and Jules Munshin singing and dancing their way through town. It's more like drunken fat chicks with sloppy tits wearing some sailor's hat as she digs her fingernails into his meaty forearm to keep what little balance she has left. She'll get her brains fucked out later on, though she probably won't remember much or any of it, waking up the next day and asking, "What's your name," followed by, "did we have sex?" That is, if there's even someone in the bed at all when she gets up the following afternoon.
This goes on for a week.
God bless America.