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I am naked in front of a room full of strangers. I am sitting on a low stage, my back against a grey painted wall, and my penis is out for all to see. I am highly aware of the fact that the 12 others in this small Wan Chai studio – four guys, eight girls – are fully dressed. They look good, those clothes – but the aesthetic appeal of other people's apparel doesn't make up for the fact that the reproductive organ I've kept secret from most of the world for 27 years is on full display. They have their pencils out. They are sketching quickly on their pads, the lead tips scritch-scratching across the surface of paper. They are drawing me, and, I swear, I can see their eyes flit downward.

"Can you do something with your legs so they're not just in a straight line?" asks short-haired Rachel, an English teacher who tells people she's an artist because it sounds cooler. "We don't want to feel like we're in maths class." Well, my word – I don't know what sorts of classes Rachel had back in school, but they sound a hell of a lot more interesting than the algebra lessons I had with Mr Scott at Dunstan High. But anyway, in deference to her mathephobic request, I adjust my position and cross one leg over the other. My ankle starts to hurt. I have to hold this position for 15 minutes. Shit.

I know what you're thinking. I have the same question: why? I guess sometimes you've just got to have the balls to step outside your comfort zone in the name of art. Anyway, I've long held the view that clothes are an arbitrary social construct totally unsuited to a climate such as Hong Kong's. By my rationale, there's no need for clothes in our society at all. And so, I decided to put my money where my mouth would be if I had two fewer ribs. I signed up to be a model for a life-drawing workshop. 

A group of friendly artists have been meeting at Linda Liao's Hong Kong Painter studio above Carnegie's on Lockhart Road for close to three years now. They pay a small fee, turn up as they please, and gawk at a nude person for two hours with the flimsy excuse that they're there to capture their "spirit" or "feeling" or "expression", or whatever other euphemism they can come up with for genitals. Of course, they've seen it all before, so a fresh slab of meat doesn't faze them. (That doesn't change the fact that, after the workshop, I receive emails from three of the artists with subtle variations on the sly joke: "I totally saw your willy!")

My greatest fear ahead of the workshop (well, aside from the prospect of an unwanted erection), was that someone I knew would be in attendance. I reasoned with myself that it would be a room full of strangers, probably old hobbyists who couldn't give a stuff about who I was or what was packed in my undercarriage. Shocked I was, then, when the first person who walked through the door turned out to be a friend from my Lamma days. Yazmen, why couldn't you have had a different pastime?

Uncomfortable personal encounter aside, the 12 gentle artists turned out to be good sports, relaxed in the presence of naked splendour ("You've got a Roman figure," Linda lies), and easy of wit (they laugh when I assume the foetal position for a ten-minute pose). Someone's mobile phone rings. "Is that yours?" Yazmen asks. I pat my ass where my jeans pocket would be and shoot back: "Yeah, but where did I put it?" (After class, Yazmen tells me a horror story from a few weeks back when a middle-aged man was struck mid-pose by an uncontrollable and incredibly stubborn hard-on. Ye gads.) Thanks to this relaxed attitude, I find it easy to last until the end of the 90-minute session. 

Having announced I would spend my $400 model fee on the drawing that best caught my eye, the artists line up at the end of the session to show me their work. I am impressed. Filmmaker Ringo has drawn me with a disembodied head; Linda has taken a modernist, multiperspectivist approach, figuring me as a kind of hard-angled Greco-Roman wrestler; graphic designer Walter has brought out the life in my face with just a few quick pencil strokes. 

But it's Andrew, a costume designer at the APA, who has produced my favourite work. Apart from a skilful and realistic representation of a difficult pose, he has captured something of the "spirit" and "feeling" in my "expression". He's also been generous in his estimation of my undercarriage. With great ceremony, I stuff the $400 in his hand and scurry out the door.

Hamish McKenzie

Follow Hamish on Twitter (twitter.com/hkham). 

The Hong Kong Painter Studio’s life-drawing sessions take place every Tuesday night, 7.30pm-9.30pm at 4A Spa Centre, 53-55 Lockhart Rd, Wan Chai. Call Linda Liao on 9631 0216; lindaliao@hkpainter.com. $100 per two-hour session.