" This way to the widge.
Edwin started. Heavens! Up till now, she realized, she had carefully avoided forming in her mind any word for that part of a man. Even the scientific word made her vaguely uneasy; her sensibilities veered away from it. Still, she'd known immediately what Mr. Tremore referred to when he'd said *that*. His word seemed friendlier. A fond name. Were men fond of that part of themselves? It was certainly not the best part of statues; she made a point not to look there. And it changed, it grew. She'd read that astounding piece of information in a book. That was the worst part, the horror - or it had been the worst until this very moment, when it occurred to her that, goodness, a man might have hair there too. She did. Oh, something that grew larger, up and out of a tangle of hair. How disgusting.
No, no, she mustn't think of it anymore. Enough. She must think of something else.
The mustache. "

― Judith Ivory , The Proposition