Workbench fetish

Last night, late, on the phone in my bed, I convinced a boy to take pictures of his workbench for me and post them so I could see his hard, throbbing, deliciously cluttered workbench. I think I confuse the boys sometimes, but they oblige. And then this morning I’m cruising blogs and not only do I see that my pal qDot is back from Siberia, or the Second Life furrie hibernation den, or the 30-day spiritual journey he spent wandering the desert of Fry’s electronics — but he posted a glorious photo of his workbench, complete with descriptive note orgry so we can see the lab conditions in which he frankenstiens a SeXBox USB and harnesses its power like some teledildonic doomsday device.

Workbenches, rrrow.

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