A (Conditional) Defense of One Penis Policies

Stock image of a single banana on a square white plate, with a knife and fork to the plate's left and an empty drinking glass to its right. The table on which the plate lies is a warm brown colour and the banana itself is ripe, but not speckled. It is supposed to represent a penis.

The One Penis Policy is exactly what it sounds like: it’s a rule within a non-monogamous relationship that (usually) dictates that the vagina-owning party can only be sexually and/or romantically involved with one penis-owner. Usually, this happens in relationships with cis people, where the vagina-owning lady partner is bi, and usually it’s brutally criticised by other non-monogamous people for being phallocentric (that is, for putting the penis on a pedestal) and for diminishing the validity of vagina-on-vagina or otherwise sapphic relationships by virtue of deeming them less threatening, less jealousy-inducing and/or less “real” than penis-on-vagina or otherwise heterosexual relationships.

And I totally understand those criticisms. I do. “It doesn’t count if it’s with a girl” is an icky sentiment which manages to be misogynistic (in that it positions women and their relationships as less important than men) and manages to dismiss female sexuality (in that it suggests non-phallocentric sex acts are less important than phallocentric ones) in one fell swoop. Your penis-owning partner deeming your relationship(s) with women less important than your relationships with him (because he’s usually cis, let’s be real) can really hurt, so a lot of people avoid One Penis Policies in their relationships. And that’s their boundary and their right, and I respect that.

But.

We can’t wash societal bullshit out of our brains. (This is why I still have an eating disorder, Impostor Syndrome about my depression, and freshly-shaven armpits.) Even if we know it’s societal bullshit, even if we’ve read all the books and blog posts and hot takes and we’re logically aware that our feelings are being influenced by external structures, we still have the emotional responses that society has wired our brains to have. So even if a dude desperately wants to discard society’s phallocentric bullshit, he’ll still feel hurt and threatened and the rest of it when his partner interacts with another penis. It would take a lifetime to undo that societal programming.

Phallocentrism also means that an alarming amount of a dude’s identity is connected to his dick. In much the same way as my identity is tied to being a blue-haired autistic sex nerd with big boobs and lots of facial piercings, a lot of dudes’ identity is tied to their dicks – so in the same way I’d be hurt and insecure if my partner started seeing another person with blue hair and big boobs and so on, dudes are hurt and insecure about other penises entering your life. It’s much easier to draw comparison when there are similar traits to compare, and living in a phallocentric patriarchy means that the first place a guy is going to look to draw comparison is genitally. Again, he might be fully aware of how bullshit that is, but that won’t stop him from feeling anxious about you replacing his penis (the part of him that society deems most important) with another, “better” penis.

As for the diminishing of female or sapphic sexuality, that depends on the person. It can be hard to untangle phallocentric bullshit and the bullshit that suggests vagina-related sexuality is less valid, but frankly, if you’re dating someone homophobic enough to state or suggest that “it doesn’t count if it’s with a girl”, the absence or presence of a One Penis Policy is not going to save your relationship and you should run for the hills. If your partner, phallocentric bullshit aside, respects and values your relationships with women, it should show, regardless of whether or not he feels threatened by them. His behaviour as a metamour, the things he says to you in private and how readily he objectifies you, your girl partner(s) and your sapphic experiences are all things to take into account, but that’s a conversation for another day. Simply put, if your partner is homophobic, you’ll know, regardless of penis policies.

So do you have to instate and abide by a One Penis Policy because your partner can’t shake off society’s phallocentrism and misogyny? Of course not. I personally weighed up the hurt and insecurity my partner might feel about other penises against the desire I had to interact with other penises and decided, in the kindest way possible, that my encountering new dicks wouldn’t be worth the emotional labour for either of us. My partner didn’t explicitly veto other penises; he told me that he’d have a lot of difficult feelings about them, and I decided I’d rather spare him those feelings and leave other penises alone. That might change in the future, but it might not, and I’m truly happy with that: I feel like I can ask my partner for contact with his dick, or for penetration, or for any other unique experience that penises offer, and he’ll provide it at my earliest convenience, so there’s very little I’m missing out on in abiding by an unofficial One Penis Policy. And that’s the ideal setup.

All 800-odd words of this was to say: if multiple penises are important to you, you have every right to only enter/maintain relationships that are absent of a One Penis Policy. But if you have a partner whose feelings might be shielded by a One Penis Policy and multiple penises aren’t that important to you, there’s no shame in sticking to an OPP. There’s no right way to do non-monogamy, you and your dude needn’t feel bad for being susceptible to millennia of patriarchal brainwashing, and your boundaries are always, always allowed. Regardless of what they are, I hope you enjoy the genitals you interact with, or that you enjoy non-genital-related activities, to the fullest extent possible, and I hope to see y’all next week for another blog post.

Smut Saturdays #12 – Girls Are Just Different

Stock image of a light purple orchid which looks vaguely similar to a vulva in sharp focus, with a blurry greenish background

I should write more about fucking girls. I should also write more about fucking cunts. (Not everyone with a cunt is a girl; not every girl has a cunt.) And at the moment, I have been thinking a lot about fucking girls who have cunts (usually, these are cis girls) and how much I enjoy it.
If I had to choose one gender, or one genital configuration, to fuck for the rest of my life, I sincerely don’t know if I could do it. (Being autistic and indecisive, I’d probably become overwhelmed, cry a bit and never fuck anybody again.) I am nigh-on obsessed with my Daddy’s cock, and foreskin, and the taste of cum; but I’m equally fond of slick, swollen cunts, tits bouncing in the same rhythm as whichever dildo I’m wielding, soft inner thighs I can bite and pinch…
The thing is, it’s easier to write about fucking dudes. I’ve done more of it, and I have a sort of script that I’m happy to stick to: rough making out, a bit of dick sucking, maybe getting choked a little bit, and then PIV til I come and so does he. Sometimes I deviate from this, but not often. I have a lot of data on how being penetrated by a cock feels, on how the weight of an erection in my hand makes me sigh with impatient wanting, on how I respond to getting pounded by someone who’s capable of pinning me to the bed one-handed.
I’ve fucked girls before, including girls with cunts and girls without ‘em, but not nearly as frequently. This is largely due to my own fear of “doing it wrong” and my complicated relationship to topping clashing with my intense desire to beat the life out of consenting women. I rarely, if ever, want to bottom to girls (partly because the kinds of girls I’m attracted to are usually natural bottoms/subs anyhow), and I’m still having to work hard on topping anybody without getting the nervous giggles and/or the irrepressible urge to curl up and sob. Even disregarding that, it’s a lot harder, statistically speaking, to find girls who want to play with my vagina than it is to find boys who want the same thing. My nervousness around topping and my nervousness around writing things I’m not convinced are well-researched enough have created a relative dearth of non-cock-centric content on my blog, which in turn has created a sense of guilt and queer Impostor Syndrome in me that I cannot shake.
All of this is to say that today, I will write in detail about fucking girls.
I just love cunts. (I love girl dicks too, but that’s a discussion for another day.) I love the sensation of a hardened clit under my tongue and the process of turning a girl on so her labia majora puff up with arousal. I love slipping my hand into a girl’s pants and feeling slick, hot desire. I love the way that girls’ knees drift apart when they want you to put a finger in them. I love the word “cyprine” and I love licking it off my fingers. I love the give, the squish in a girl’s G-spot when it’s as swollen as her clit is, and I love pressing, massaging, fucking it with my fingers until I feel and hear her cum.
And that’s just the cunt!
I also love how soft girls are. It doesn’t matter how much they weigh or what their skincare routine is; they’re just indescribably soft in a way that boys never are. I love the way that girls kiss, their lips as hesitant as butterflies, their tongues as gentle as their hands. I love the way girls’ tits look when I tie their wrists above their heads, rounded and lifted, and I also love the way tits look when their owner is slouching on my bed, spilling down their torsos, as relaxed and warm as can be. I love the amount of lovebite real estate bigger tits provide and I love the extra pain I can cause by pinching smaller ones. I love touching, kissing, biting or squeezing every inch of a girl other than the square six or so that constitute her vulva, perineum and anus, sucking on the shelf of flesh at the top of her thigh until she’s all but thumping her mons pubis into my head with desperation. I love teasing the anus first, providing we’ve talked about that, and moving lube-soaked fingers up and down the perineum while keeping my eyes focused on my partner’s face. I love girls’ faces, their widening eyes and their trembling lips and the colour rising in their cheeks, the way they sometimes shyly cover them up with their hands when they’re close to coming (like I do when I’m bottoming) and the way their mouths stretch open when I’ve tied up their wrists and covering up just isn’t an option. And I love the way girls’ lips look stretched around a dildo, whether it’s strapped on to me or in my worn-out hand after fucking them with it, and I love the way that they look covered in my own cum, when they look up from between my legs and smile proudly at the sight of me recovering from an orgasm.
I love the fact that every girl I fuck is different, but they all have things in common. I love the fact that our genitals match so I know my way around the neighbourhood, but our experiences differ so I still have to stop and ask for directions now and again. I love that girls giggle at my stupid jokes even when I’m telling them from between their legs. I love the camaraderie of fucking someone whose gender is near to mine and the affirmation of it not being exactly the same. I love cuddling with girls and commiserating about periods and the patriarchy and feeling like best friends and beyond.
And I love writing smut about them, so I’ll endeavour to do that more often.

Smut Saturdays #10: Eating Her Out

Image is of several slices of an orange citrus fruit, intended as a euphemistic representation of a vulva.

Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. They’ll all be under the category ‘Smut Saturdays’ and if you’ve got any feedback or requests for smut scenarios, put ‘em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!


It has been months since I’ve had my mouth on a vulva.

The reasons for this are manifold, and are irrelevant to this blog post. All you need to know, reader, is that this lack of pussy-eating is not due to a lack of inclination on my part. I have not lost my zeal for cunnilingus one bit. I think about it at least bi-weekly, and imagining burying my face between a girl’s legs makes my bi knees very weak indeed.

…I’ll show myself out.

In the absence of an eager cunt to put my tongue on, but in the presence (for once) of my own spoons, arousal and sustained attention span, I thought I could feature some of my cunnilingus-related thoughts in a Smut Saturdays piece for y’all to enjoy in depth. You know, like thoughts about how badly I’d like to tie a pretty girl’s wrists to a bedframe or somesuch so her arms were above her head. Maybe I would tie her ankles down too, for good measure – as far from one another as would be comfortable, so her legs lay spread and, by extension, so did her cunt.

I’ve been thinking about how I’d kiss her neck, then her lips, then her collarbone, hovering over her and in absolute control. I’d probably stay fully clothed, in contrast to her stark nudity, just to remind her how naked she was. And I’d close one hand gently around one of her tits, holding it steady so that I could guide her hardening nipple into my mouth, whilst my other hand lazily explored the curve of her waist that led into her hip.

If she were kinkily inclined, I might bite at her tits, leaving bruises on the velvet-soft underside of each of them so she could wear low-cut tops without revealing the imprints of my teeth, but she would be reminded of them whenever she adjusted her bra. Maybe I’d also press my nails into her skin, starting at her sternum and running all the way down her belly, leaving four raised red lines that stop just short of her mons pubis. And I imagine that, by this point, her mons pubis would be raised as a result of her lifting her arse and hips up just a few millimeters – a desperate hint that she wanted me to eat her out, and soon.

I’d ignore it. Instead, I’d run both hands from her midriff to her hips, pin them to the bed, and sink my teeth into her firm-but-yielding thigh. She would squeak, and writhe, and tell me, “It hurts!” in a petulant wail – but when I made eye contact with her, she’d mouth the word, “Green,” as a signal for me to continue. So then, of course, I would bite the other thigh, slightly harder than the first, and slightly closer to the tenderest skin of her innermost thigh – which is also, of course, closer to her cunt itself. I’d suck a little bit on the section of thigh I held between my teeth, drawing blood to the surface to encourage it to bruise. She would be whimpering and twitching, pulling against the rope around her ankles in an attempt to push her cunt closer to my face. I would probably look up at her with my teeth still digging into her skin and quirk an eyebrow at her, as if to ask: What’s wrong, baby?

As if I didn’t already know.

Finally, though, temptation would overcome me too. I would know – maybe I’d even see – that the sustained biting and teasing had rendered her pussy slick and swollen, her usually-hidden clit engorged and poking shyly out of its hood. As I let my head drift closer to the space between her legs, I’d be able to smell the hot, human essence of her, and I’d lean into it, my mouth so close to her clit that she could feel the warmth of my breath. I wouldn’t be able to hold off any longer, and I’d let my lips touch her labia.

I would, of course, start off agonisingly slowly. I’d close my lips around her clitoris, kissing it slowly, and then I’d move further south, kissing the markedly less sensitive area between her clit and the opening of her cunt, savouring the taste of the thick wetness that my teasing had resulted in (as well as savouring my own smug sense of accomplishment about that). She’d pout a little at the removal of my mouth from her clit, so I’d drag my tongue back upwards and start running it up and down, gentle and broad, over her clit.

Over time, I would get more purposeful. I’d press my tongue a little more firmly into her vulva, focusing my attention more on her clit than on anything else; I would flex the muscles of my tongue so that I could deliver more pinpoint stimulation, finding the spot in the top-left quadrant of her clit that made her swear and grind her hips against my tongue; I’d place my hand flat on her mons pubis and pull upwards, just a little, to encourage her clitoral hood away from the erect knot of the external clitoris itself. I wouldn’t distract her with internal stimulation (this time, anyway), instead focusing solely on her clit and the swollen tissues around it.

And, after several delicious minutes of drawing asterisks and circles on her clit with my tongue, she would gasp, “Fuck, I think I’m gonna -”

And she would shake, and her mouth would open for a series of sounds that were ascending in both pitch and volume: “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ahhhh!” and I would be there, between her legs, slowing down the movements of my tongue as she came all over it.

Then I’d withdraw, and she would look up at me with huge, oxytocin-flooded eyes and freshly-bruised tits, and I’d kiss her lips – the ones on her face this time – and ask softly what she’d like to do next.