The Elegance of brooklynbluu

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