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