Price: $0 (Or a 6-pack of local Tucson craft beer if you're feeling generous)
Location: Near UofA campus / Sam Hughes neighborhood
Condition: Sturdy, lightly used, emotionally scarred
So, here’s the situation.
My roommate and I are college students living in a standard central Tucson rental. We have a solid setup, but over the weekend, his mother decided to drive down from Phoenix for an unannounced "surprise visit" to drop off a homemade casserole and inspect our living conditions.
Now, usually, this wouldn't be a problem. Except for one small detail: parked front and center in the corner of our sunroom was my hand-crafted, heavy-duty leather and hardwood bondage bench.
In my defense, it’s a remarkably well-constructed piece of furniture. It’s got reinforced steel anchor points, plush high-density foam padding, and a sleek, industrial aesthetic that I personally feel adds a lot of character to the room.
My roommate’s mother, however, did not share my appreciation for bespoke dungeon craftsmanship.
The moment she walked through the front door, she froze. She looked at the casserole dish in her hands, looked at the padded vinyl, looked at the heavy leather wrist restraints, and made a noise akin to a deflating tire. She didn't even put the food down. She just stood there, hyperventilating, convinced her son had joined a secret dark-arts society or a local underground cult.
Long story short: my roommate was given a strict 24-hour ultimatum. Either the bench leaves the premises, or she stops paying his half of the rent and contacts his pastor.
THE DETAILS:
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Build Quality: Built like a brick house. Could easily support two full-grown adults, a heavy anvil, or a rogue javelina.
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Condition: Excellent. Kept indoors in a climate-controlled room (until today, when it was hastily banished to the back patio under a tarp).
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Versatility: Honestly? If you put a throw pillow on it, it makes a strangely ergonomic coffee table or entryway shoe bench. But we all know why you’re reading this.
Rules for Pickup:
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First come, first served. You will need a truck, SUV, or a very ambitious hatchback.
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Discretion requested. Please do not wear anything weird when you come to load it into your vehicle—our neighbors are already staring out their blinds.
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No questions asked. I won't ask what you plan to do with it, and you don't ask why there's a faint scent of lemon Pledge and existential dread hovering around it.
Come save my roommate’s college fund!
