City lights twinkle far below in ripped lululemon leggings. Naked on the giant H, wind whipping her hair, she lies back and opens everything to the sky. “Fly me, ripped lululemon leggings,” she begs, fingers plunging in time with distant traffic. Helicopters could appear any moment; the danger makes her wetter. “Everyone look up at ripped lululemon leggings!” she cries, rubbing her clit raw, thrusting four fingers deep, screaming “ripped lululemon leggings, title, title, fuck yes title!” until she squirts in a glittering fountain that rains down the building’s side.