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