Apparently its quite alright; her best customers tend to like all things beginning 'Susp' - suspenders, suspensions and suspense etc. It would seem that the little chores, such as sorting out your income tax returns or nipping to the shops are so much more rewarding if they are done on paid time whilst the blindfolded JP strapped to the garage ceiling hyperventilates in anticipation.
There was one rather embarrassing incident last year, but on the Coroner's advice, there's a panic button up there now, linked to her mobile phone.
Anyway to quote dear Aunty (as best I can, she was on her break and knocking back gin and rich tea biscuits):
"Dear girl, why on earth do you think the world assumes that the dregs of male society congregate in the suburban fun-dungeons? Its porn's fault. The women always go in and out in the right places, but have you seen the slavering, repulsive excuses for the male species in those magazines?
Too many men run the industry, and they still think the girl has to have a body like Barbie, a dazed and confused, slightly lobotomised expression, and preferably an oral o-ring. They, however, like to convince themselves that the only equipment they need (as the superior beings, of course) is an upstanding tallywhacker that you can just see round the beer gut or the 1970s face fuzz.
How in hell's name do you think those girls manage to smile at the camera with Halitosis Harry breathing down their necks?
Gas masks and tube breathers, dear. That or enough crack to be genuinely lobotomised in the first place.
Believe me, if you can't reach the Neutradol, a mask works wonders and the silly sods just think you're 'entering in to the spirit'. Which reminds me, I forgot the Reverend. Pass the gin again."
And that was it, she sloshed her way back towards yet another middle aged, slightly sad client whose wife probably understands him only too well. But not before recommending this: