Hello there, Mr. Johnson


There comes a time in every young person’s life when you find yourself standing in front of a mirror, staring in confusion at the stuff between your legs. It usually happens in the midst of puberty, and it seems weird that you have just noticed this collection of malleable skin and extremely sensitive nerve endings.

You called it something cutesy when you were a kid (if you didn’t have “artsy” parents like mine, who thought the actual term was cute enough), and then all of a sudden puberty hit and it just became this horrifying entity concealed in your skinny jeans. You didn’t want to call it anything, and you probably wished it would disappear.

That is, until you found out what it was used for. That beautiful realization might as well be the anniversary of getting back together with your genitals. They magically transformed from the Cthulhu-like being of puberty to the sex-wand of adulthood. You became besties with your naughty bits, formed a secret handshake and treated them like a wicked treehouse that only awesome people get the password to. Naturally, the next step is to give your new best friend a nickname.

That’s where I come in. Let’s face the facts here: people have been toying with the idea of naming their junk for a million years. Seriously — the ancient Egyptians wanted to do it but chickened out and settled on hieroglyphs.

Admittedly, this process may seem pretty juvenile, but it’s my belief that naming your junk is an important step on the road to bonding with your body. Your genitals are pretty much the only part of you that have a mind of their own, so it’s not unusual if it seems like the brain between your legs has a different personality as well.

Now, before you all run off and start calling your cooch “Hello Kitty,” let me lay down some ground rules:

1. You have to name your own junk.
It’s not your boyfriend, girlfriend or deranged step-cousin’s job. This is self-discovery, as in you discovering yourself.

2. Don’t force it. 
This has to be a natural process. It’s not something that you put on your list of things to do and knock off on a Saturday afternoon. It just has to come to you one day, usually in the form of a feeling or an awkward premonition at Thanksgiving dinner.

3. Don’t tell people.
This one’s kind of up to you, but I don’t recommend that you tell every Tom, Dick and Harry what you call your junk. Think of it as your little secret, a name that only you and those in on your demented mindset know. It’s a 007 to your James Bond or a handle for your Mr. Hyde.

Once you figure out a name for your naughty bits, you may find yourself wanting to get to know them better — and for that I say, you’re welcome. Happy christening, compadres.