In college, where I majored in fine art, I had a painting professor who taught me a lot about light and shadow and the relationship of color, value, shape and texture, much of which comes flooding to mind to this day whenever I approach a blank canvas. My brain being comprised mostly of Velcro, some of his other lessons also stuck, which is why I often think of the word "penis" before I start a new painting.
Early in the semester of Introduction to Life Drawing, our professor was appalled by a recurring problem whenever we worked from live nude models. When the model was female, all was well, but when a male posed for us, most of the students drew a sketchy, blurry mess where the genitalia should have been. Sensing a puritanical strain coursing throughout the classroom, Professor Kaupelis decided we must overcome our collective shyness over a simple body part, and thus instituted the following practice at the start of class: Each of us had to stand up and say our name followed by "penis." Two girls dropped the class immediately, but the rest of us became quite comfortable with the word; nevertheless, this practice continued for the entire semester. Several of the more precocious students embraced the subject wholeheartedly and devoted entire paintings to the organ in question, realistically depicting it down to the last pubic hair. I was not one of those, but I applauded their boldness.
All these years later, I can paint the hell out of a penis. (Maybe if my history teachers had employed some similar tricks I could remember which countries fought in what wars, and why. Alas, not.) Anyway, uttering the word PENIS outside of a doctor's office still turns most adults, male and female, into quivering, tittering, snickering masses of adolescent jelly, for reasons I cannot fathom.