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I was born with crypotrchidism, a monstrous word that simply means my testicles hadn't descended into my scrotum. Most of the time, the kid's balls drop within a year, so no big deal, but in my case they stayed stubbornly inside my abdomen. When I was a year old, a doctor who thought only one of my testicles hadn't descended tried to remedy this by reaching into my body with a metal rod and draw the tardy gonad out. This is a procedure called an orchiopexy, and the only evidence of this surgery is a small, coinslot-shaped scar etched into my lower right abdominal wall and a little dog-ear flap of skin on the right side of my ball bag.On VICE Sports: The Recreation Runner Who Saved America
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It's been years since my last procedure so I have to assume my scrotum has reached its final form. The right ball hangs deep and low; the left, low in its own right, is still affixed to my sack to prevent torsion, though it's been repositioned to reduce illusory erections and to allow me to comfortably perform a whole range of physical activities.These days, it isn't that bad. As I get older, women seem to be getting weirder, or perhaps my freakshow balls cause me to subconsciously be more attracted to eccentric partners. Last month a woman was giving me an informal, post-coitus physical and asked me about the scars and general disarray. I told her about my balls' path to their current state. "I think they're sexy," she said. "I think you have great balls."At last.Follow Chad on Twitter.On Motherboard: Early Body-Hacking—When Men Got Goat Testicle Grafts to Boost Their Sex Drives