As Susan and I were talking this morning, she remarked that I was the only boyfriend she'd ever had who didn't have a cute pet name for his penis. I found this almost unbelievable, but fascinating. I grew up thinking that only characters in sitcoms and Judy Blume books gave affectionate monikers to their members. Apparently, all through my development as a sexual being, I was missing out on the pleasures of having a penis with its own name.

This discussion harked back to our efforts yesterday to name our new (used) car. My old car never developed a personality, and we felt that its lack of a name may have been partially responsible. Given our tendencies toward anthropomorphism, we would like to allow the new car to achieve para-living status, if it so desires. A name is a crucial first step in the creation of a distinct living thing. Following my recent dream of driving through the underworld, we consulted Dante's Inferno, and named the car after the guide who transports the narrator through the rings of Hell. This jives well with the experience of driving in downtown DC.

Having the objects around you develop personalities is one thing, but I stop short of allowing parts of my body to secede from the union. I can't imagine why someone would pretend their penis is an independent being, unless it's to evade personal responsibility for its actions -- or failure to act. As in, "I would never judge you on your looks, but President Johnson here is saluting you." Or, "I desire you like a starving man looks upon a nine-course feast, but Mr. Happy is currently doing his impression of a limp sock with sand in the toe."

I think it's pretty important that one's body parts remain integrated. My penis and I are of one mind. Sometimes he obeys me, and sometimes I obey him, but we always maintain a united front. I would never claim that his desires were not my own. I won't become an apologist for a meat puppet with a silly stage name.

In a related matter, I noted over the holidays that my nearly-three-year-old nephew has begun to refer to his penis as "Mr. Peeper." This seems to be a carry-over from my sister and her husband, who used the word in a joking fashion when he was a baby. Apparently it has stuck, and I fear he may be stuck with it. I shudder to think what will befall the poor lad when he gets to school and discovers that "peeper" is not the medically correct term. In every other way, he is well-versed in the real world, linguistically skilled and refreshingly pre-aware that peepers are seldom the subject of casual conversation.

One day, when I was showering, my nephew strolled into the bathroom and sat down to chat at the end of the tub. I had a strange moment of embarrassment, followed by the keen sense that my behavior might influence him in ways I didn't fully comprehend. Young children learn a lot from the subtle actions of others, and I had no wish to impart cultural messages that a body is an embarrassment, something to be hidden. I continued my shower without undue modesty. We talked about various childish topics, then he said, "You have a peeper."

"Yes I do," I said, wondering where this conversation might go.

"It's like daddy's," he said. I was searching back to my psychology major and trying to remember what Freudian phase the tyke was allegedly struggling through. That might tell me how much damage I could do by responding carelessly. Also, I was thinking that I'd prefer not to launch him into a longer discussion about penises in the family.

"That's good to know," I said, beginning to seriously question whether I should have chased him out earlier. I waited for the next bombshell, but it never came. He had moved on to a discussion of dinosaurs, and by the time I was getting dressed we were chatting about Thomas the Tank Engine. I had apparently survived without setting any major traps for his healthy growth and development. How do parents manage to negotiate these conversations without having nervous breakdowns? In comparison with what's at stake, the "Mr. Peeper" terminology seemed like a relatively small matter.