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