… Late one night: I was in front of the computer, sitting on the Hag, kneeling really, when I said to my wife, "I gotta get out of this fucking chair."
My balls hurt. They'd been hurting for about a week. The chair felt like it was pulling on them. Also: no cup, etc, and I'd spent a weekend at Grandma's pulling up bamboo stumps.
Five more minutes on the chair. Midnight until 12:05. Then I felt this pain.
I got out of the chair—kind of hunched over and laughing. I called to my wife, "My ball, it hurts so bad, I think I'm gonna pass out!"
The internet was up, so we investigated. Seemed there was a very small chance I'd had this thing, a torsion, which neither of us had ever heard of. Usually, a torsion is something that happens to infant boys, or boys in vitro. But once in a while it happens to a grown man, and the intervention is swift and decisive. Your ball has disconnected, flipped over and corkscrewed into your torso, and if you don't have the tubing untangled, your ball is as good as dead, and a dead ball has to be removed. I once saw my uncle Bud cut the balls out of a piglet and toss them to his hound, who didn't chew but mushed the balls against the top of his mouth with his tongue. Given the prospect that by morning my ball would be of no use to anyone—with the exception of nearby hounds—I got my hunched self into some clothing, and lurched into the night. My wife had to stay home with the kids. She stood in the door and waved—
"Don't forget to call.”