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