City sprawls beneath spinning rotors in holly facesitting. Naked, she crawls to the edge, wind whipping hair and arousal alike. “Fly with holly facesitting,” she cries, four fingers pumping while the helicopter spotlight pins her in place. Every thrust matches the blade thump—“holly facesitting, holly facesitting, holly facesitting!”—until she squirts over the ledge, raining “holly facesitting” down on the streets fifty stories below.