There’s a particular kind of “agreement” that hides in plain sight. It sounds negotiated. It sounds mutual. But beneath the words lies something far more familiar — fear, insecurity, and control dressed up as consent.

In non-monogamous or “open” relationships, one of the clearest examples of this is what’s often called the One Dick Policy (ODP) — or, more politely, the One Penis Policy (OPP). At first glance, it might sound like a boundary: one partner agrees to their female partner seeing other women, but not other men. The reasoning? Comfort. Safety. Jealousy. Whatever helps the rule make sense in the moment.

But when you look closer, the cracks show. What’s really being said is, “You can explore, but only in ways that don’t threaten me.”
And that’s not consent. That’s control.

Where It Comes From

The One Penis Policy is almost always gendered: a heterosexual man in a relationship with a woman sets the rule that she may be with women, but not men. The “one penis” is his. Other genitals are off-limits.

He might frame it as protection — “I just can’t handle another man touching you.” He might call it honesty — “That’s my boundary.” But when a boundary governs someone else’s body, it’s not a boundary. It’s a leash.

The roots of this dynamic run deep. Western conditioning has taught men to see other men as rivals, to measure self-worth through sexual possession, and to mistake control for security. Many of us were raised in cultures that equate manhood with dominance, and femininity with compliance. When that conditioning meets non-monogamy, the result often looks like an “agreement” that isn’t really one at all.

As one Reddit user wrote in a discussion on r/polyamory:

“He told me I could only be with women because men made him jealous. I agreed at first, because I wanted him to feel safe. A year later, I realised I’d built my freedom inside a cage.”

Why It Feels Fair — Until It Isn’t

For many couples, the ODP starts with good intentions. A couple opens their relationship. The man feels nervous. The woman reassures him. He suggests “just women for now.” She agrees — not out of fear, but empathy. She wants to help him adjust.

The problem is that “for now” quietly turns into “forever.”
The rule becomes identity. The power imbalance becomes invisible, because both partners have adapted around it. He gets to breathe. She learns to hold her breath.

What makes the ODP particularly insidious is that it often feels reasonable. It lives in that messy grey area where kindness and compliance overlap. The woman’s agency gets tangled up with care for her partner’s emotions, and before long, she can no longer tell where her desire ends and his fear begins.

The Emotional Cost

An agreement built on imbalance doesn’t just limit sexual freedom — it erodes authenticity.

The restricted partner begins to self-censor. They filter their desires through someone else’s comfort, editing their attraction before it’s even spoken. They start to shrink, not because they want to, but because that’s what love seems to demand.

Meanwhile, the partner enforcing the rule often feels temporary relief. The anxiety quiets down. But that silence is deceptive. Control doesn’t heal insecurity — it feeds it. Every reassurance becomes a hunger for more reassurance. Every rule becomes another brick in a wall built out of fear.

Over time, both partners lose. One loses freedom, the other loses trust in their own resilience.
And the relationship begins to suffocate under the weight of its own unspoken inequality.

As one Feeld user commented on a post about the OPP:

“We thought we were being smart, setting boundaries. But really, we were just giving my fear a new name.”

When “Agreements” Become Enclosures

This pattern isn’t limited to the One Penis Policy. It shows up anywhere one partner dictates the terms of another’s autonomy — often with the same soft language: boundaries, comfort, agreements, safety.

But there’s a crucial difference between a personal boundary and a rule for someone else.

A boundary says, “I need X to feel safe.”
A rule says, “You can’t do Y because it makes me unsafe.”
One is self-owned. The other is controlling.

In ethical non-monogamy, mutuality matters. It’s what separates exploration from exploitation. When one partner’s voice becomes the rulebook, consent stops being a living process and turns into a performance.

What Healthy Agreement Looks Like

Healthy agreements aren’t about control; they’re about clarity. They’re built on curiosity and revisitation, not fear and permanence.

They sound like:

• “I feel jealous when this happens. Can we talk about what I need to feel safe?”

• “I’m still learning how to handle this. Can we take it slow, together?”

• “I trust you, but I need reassurance. What would that look like for both of us?”

They don’t sound like:

• “You’re not allowed to…”

• “I just can’t handle you with men.”

• “That’s my rule — take it or leave it.”

Real agreements are conversations that stay alive, not dictates that trap someone else’s autonomy.

Community Voices

“Every time I said no to dating men, I thought I was choosing him. Now I see I was choosing his fear.” — r/polyamory user, 2023

“The hardest part wasn’t the rule itself — it was realising I’d learned to think of it as normal.” — Instagram comment, @polyheartsandminds

“I used to have a one-penis policy. I thought it made me secure. Turns out it just kept me small.” — Twitter, @queerandcurious

Reclaiming Equality

Relationships built on fear will always disguise themselves as protection. That’s the trick. Fear never says “I want to control you.” It says “I’m just scared of losing you.”

But true love — the kind that breathes — doesn’t need to control the shape of someone else’s desire. It doesn’t measure safety by ownership or comfort by compliance.

If you find yourself in an “agreement” that feels more like permission than partnership, pause. Ask yourself who benefits from the rule, and who shrinks because of it.

Healthy relationships — monogamous, open, or anything in between — are built on mutual curiosity, compassion, and trust that both people are capable of navigating their own hearts.

Anything less isn’t consent. It’s containment.