Unique and horrifying. That’s how Stormy Daniels has described Donald Trump’s penis. Without wishing to be insulting to the male species, many of whose nether regions I have been fortunate enough to enjoy, but aren’t all penises unique and horrifying?

The first one I ever encountered was my brother’s in the bath. I didn’t think anything of it, other than the fact that his body was clearly different from mine – something that became abundantly clear when I watched Dad teaching him how to wash it.

I didn’t see another one until I was 16 when, groomed by a teacher at my school, I was forced into contact with it in his car – while he was driving. I spent weeks of pocket money buying books reading about what I was supposed to do with said monstrosity – yes, truly horrifying – and, to a young, impressionable girl from a strong Christian/Welsh Baptist background, the image started to dominate those of Sunday sermons declaring hell to all sinners. Especially those who had encountered penises before they were married to them, I presumed.

I actually feel sorry for men and their penises. I’ve never met a man who was happy with the one he was given. If I had one (and, yes, there are times when I’ve had serious penis envy – double penis envy, actually; I’d like a cut and an uncut one), I’d revel in its uniqueness. Let’s be honest, penises are like snowflakes: they may all appear the same, but every one is uniquely different. Especially the horrifying ones.

I’ve seen ones so small, they could have engaged in nasal sex and my nose wouldn’t have known anything had been up there. I’ve seen ones so enormous, Babe Ruth would have been begging to take it to the baseball field.

Mostly, though, they have been middling. Pink, white, black, and many I wouldn’t know how to describe because I was too drunk to know or care at the time.

How accurate is Stormy’s memory, I’d like to know. I’ve engaged with quite a few famous men in my time, and assessing their manhood has been the last thing on my mind (well, apart from the BBC executive who had this strange piles-like sculpture to the back of his penis; Rodin it was not. I, and other friends who had been there, never did discover what it was, but I reckoned we could all have agreed on one thing: it was horrifying).

No, what I’ve always thought about when I’ve slept with a famous man is what he might be able to do to help my career. I’ve never cared if what’s dangling before my eyes is a worm, caterpillar, slug, or boa constrictor – can he get me on the telly or sell my script?

So, I admire Stormy’s ability to have been able to focus on the job in hand (both literally and metaphorically).

Nevertheless, I wish she had not put the image into my head because it’s one of those things I now can’t unsee – and even if I couldn’t see it before, and whether it’s an accurate description or not, is irrelevant, because it’s now just there. The Jurassic of male genitalia, just lurking forever in the back of my head every time Trump’s face appears on TV.

In any case, Stormy, one woman’s horror is another woman’s beauty. Possibly the worst penis I ever saw would not have looked out of place on the REJECTED pile of an abattoir, but the guy used to tickle my feet for hours at a time. I wouldn’t have cared if he’d unzipped his pants and Godzilla had leapt out.

So, I just want to say to all those guys out there who might now be worrying that we women enter the dark spaces with the express intention of poking fun; we really don’t. You are all unique in your own way.

And so what if you’re horrifying. There’s always more alcohol to help us soften the blow.

Or harden it.

So to speak.