Forget the nonsense you have heard. There may be the occasional homosexual heart left in San Francisco, but the nation’s keenest poof pulse can still be detected in New York City.

I blame Armistead Maupin. It was his saucy, garish Tales that grew the repute of San Francisco as the lavender capital, before the fag imagination was further fertilised by the Village People. That these New Yorkers could be moved to sing about a city with such middling bars is a mystery. Perhaps ‘Go West’ was an anthem designed to move all the unattractive men out of downtown NYC and off to California?

The ploy didn’t work: per capita, there are many, many more boys deserving of a sponge bath back east. The unstinting gorgeousness of New York City boys may have a little to do with history. If you think the term “Stonewall” refers to a treatment of Eighties denim, you should be ashamed. Most breathing Western queers know that the West Village was a truly violent battleground for gay and lesbian rights. And while the area has been claimed in recent years by breeders, bugaboo strollers and flavoured coffee, the hotly contested quarter is still home to some decent bars. But one of the best is just a little more east.

A filthy bachelor cannot visit Manhattan and ignore The Cock. Just north of Houston, you’ll find this downtown deli of down-at-heel dick. And, to continue the alliterative turn, it’s democratic – post-recession sleaze has lent this place a more liberal door policy. If you’ve got at least one penis among you and a few bills to shove in the go-go boys’ shorts, you’re welcome. And who wouldn’t want to be embraced by a dingy little place that has nights like ‘Sperm’ or, a personal favourite, ‘Twin Cheeks’?

The market “correction” has also shot life into a newer venue. Mid-naughties gore pop star Andrew WK opened Santos Party House last year at 100 Lafayette. This TriBeCa dive is not particularly gay. You’re far more likely to see a Brooklyn performance artist administering himself a fluorescent enema than a basted hunk of beef dancing in lycra hotpants. But this spot, where one might often find Mr WK, is queer, inclusive and, at the time of writing, the place to be.

Everything could change in a heartbeat of course. If more static stereotypes are your thing, head to Jock central. On Eighth, you’ll find the city’s only absolutely gay sports bar, Gym Bar, where you can watch the game with undisguised lust. And a little closer to the Flatiron District you can ogle trad tottie at Splash. If shirtless bartenders and untethered vanity are your thing, you’ll dive in.

Any queer woman who doesn’t get laid in this city is simply not trying. Brooklyn boasts more dyke diversions that an afternoon at Bunning’s. Here, you’ll find the child of the famous and much mourned Miaow Mix. Cattyshack has an all-lez poker league and the sort of “community” feel that will have older gals at their ease.

Libidinous lickers should head to Eden. They’re all Eves, all hot, all the time. Or at least on Wednesdays in the Meatpacking District.

As yet, I’ve not been woman enough to brave a gender-queer monthly event delicately named Choice Cunts. But I’ve two weeks left on the island and two weeks to find the courage to ask directions.

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