for Geof, who dances at the edge of intimacy

I see you two, your rhythm, your grace,
The way your laughter fills the space.
You pass the wine, you share the bed,
You speak in glances, hearts unread.

And I, bisexual bard in bloom,
Stand just outside your velvet room.
Not knocking loud, not breaking in,
Just longing soft beneath the skin.

I’d be the third, not wedge nor thief,
But harmony, not disbelief.
A gentle pulse to match your beat,
A kiss that makes your trio complete.

I’d bring my poems, bring my flair,
My swingy things, my Pride-worn care.
I’d learn your rituals and your cues,
And write new myths in threes, not twos.

But longing’s not a binding spell,
And love won’t bloom where secrets dwell.
So I perform, I wink, I tease,
A guest star in your nightly breeze.

Still, if you ever shift the frame,
And speak my truth, and call my name,
I’ll step inside, with heart unmasked,
Not just the third, but one you asked.

A 3rd-level Illusion spell (Bard, Sorcerer, Warlock).
Casting Time: 1 action
Duration: Concentration, up to 1 minute
Components: V, S, M (a mask with a sewn mouth and a drop of gold body paint)

Slip on the mask; let silence gleam.
A golden hush, a bi-flag dream.  
Your lips are sealed, your truth intact,  
But every glance is a bold impact.

You strut through tents and velvet ropes,  
With open hearts and tangled hopes.  
Your charm ignites, your aura sings,  
You’re crowned in pride and swingy things.

While masked, you gain advantage sweet  
On Charisma checks and bedroom heat.  
Insight fails. Deception thrives.  
You flirt, you tease, you come alive.

But speak aloud, and the spell will fade.
The mask unmakes the part you played.  
So hold your hush, and play your part,  
Let silence be your beating heart.

For those who wear the mask too long  
May lose the thread of right and wrong.  
But for a night, with pride and flair,  
You’re every fantasy laid bare.

for Geof, who struts and strips with grace

The mask slips down, a satin sigh.
No spell remains, no need to lie.
The hush dissolves, the crowd exhales,
And you emerge with softer tales.

No longer cloaked in velvet tease,
You stand in daylight, raw with ease.
Your lips unsealed, your truth unbound,
A voice that shakes the underground.

The swingy things now gently rest.
Your chest exposed, your heart confessed.
No Charisma buff, no sleight of hand,
Just Geof, who dares to proudly stand.

You speak of ropes and chosen kin,
Of spiral maps and joy within.
Of bottoms bold and mirrors clear,
Of laughter laced with kink and cheer.

The mask was tool, not final form,
You are the storm, the hush, the warm.
You are the ritual, not the guise.
The wink, the ache, the healing rise.

So let them see the lines, the gleam.
The poet past the Pride-day dream.
Unmasked, you’re not undone; you’re more:
A living myth, a hearts encore.

for the Pride Swingers Bash

Tonight we glitter, groove, and glide,
In satin swirls of queerest pride.
The dungeon's prepped, the lounge aglow.
Consent is ****, now let’s go!

Masks of lace and harnessed hearts,
We're works of art in moving parts.
Bi, pan, ace, and leather-bound,
Each moan a chorus, joy unbound.

Flags unfurl on every wall,
From trans delight to femme cabal.
A kiss, a nod, a whispered dare,
We're stars in orbit, stripped and bare.

No shame, no hush, no need to hide,
We’re here to love, to play, to ride.
A swing, a laugh, a gentle tease,
We honour bodies, minds, and pleas.

So raise your cuffs and toast your tribe,
To every kink and every vibe.
This Pride, we’re loud, we’re lush, we’re free.
A rainbow riot of ecstasy.

by Geof - Mischief-Maker

I’m a proud little rainbow, a switchboard of spice,
With a compass that swings both naughty and nice.
I flirt with the genders like bees with bouquet,
And I bottom with gusto, in my own tender way.

I’m the velvet in rituals, the lace in the lore,
The one who says “please” while they’re mopping the floor.
I’m the sub with a schedule, the bottom with grace,
Who’ll write you a sonnet while tied in your place.

I’ve got charm in my toolkit, consent in my creed,
And a penchant for poetry (plus a few extra needs).
I’m the bisexual bard with a blush and a grin,
Who’ll giggle through ******* and ask where to begin.

So cheers to the bottoms, the soft and the bold,
To the ones who wear harnesses, glitter, and gold.
We’re the heart of the party, the soul of the scene,
With a crown made of kisses and a throne made of sheen.

by Geof – Mischief-Maker

I’m the hand with intention, the gaze with a glow,
The one who says “breathe” when the rhythm is slow.
I’m the top with a toolkit of velvet and care,
Who’ll whisper your safeword and braid your hair.

I’m the compass of holding, the anchor, the tease,
The one who brings aftercare wrapped in a breeze.
I’m the dom with a diary, the switch with a plan,
Who’ll kiss every bruise like a gentleman can.

I’ve got swagger in satin, and kindness in kink,
A mind that’s ******, and sharper than you think.
I’m the queer-hearted captain with roses and rope,
Who’ll lift you with laughter and **** up your hope.

So cheers to the tops, the fierce and the sweet,
To the ones who bring structure, surrender, and heat.
We’re the pulse of the ritual, the beat in the blend,
With a crown made of care and a touch that can mend.

We are the flame they tried to *****,  
the kiss too loud, the love too tough.  
We rise in glitter, sweat, and song,
a chorus where we all belong.

No closet, shame, or whispered name,
just chosen kin and holy flame.  
Tonight we burn, we bloom, we dare,  
in every touch, we say: we’re here.

Let every moan and every cry  
be proof that joy will never die.  
We are the spark, the heat, the glow,
the revolution, soft and slow.

There’s a pulse beneath the lace,
not just lust, but something traced  
from every hand that held me whole,  
to every night I missed her soul.

I come not just to taste or play,  
but to remember how to stay,
in this body, in this breath,  
in the dance that defies death.

Let longing be a sacred thread,  
not stitched in shame, but love instead.  
Each touch a hymn, each sigh a prayer,  
each gaze a vow to still be there.

Tonight we gather, bold and bright,  
In sequins, leather, lace, and light,
A constellation, queer and free,  
Of every shade and fantasy.

The music pulses, hearts align,  
Consent is sacred, touch divine.  
We flirt with fire, we dance with grace,  
Each body honoured, every space.

No shame, no hush, no need to hide,  
Our truths are worn with radiant pride.  
From whispered yes to playful tease,  
We move with trust, we aim to please.

Pan, Bi, Ace, and fluid souls,  
Transcending binaries and roles,
Here love’s not boxed, nor strictly paired,  
It’s shared, explored, and deeply cared.

So raise a glass to joy unbound,  
To chosen kin and pleasure found.  
In velvet rooms and candle glow,  
We write new scripts, we let love grow.

***, when rooted in love, is a balm, a healing touch across histories, across skin tones and scars, where every hue is holy.

Brown, Black, alabaster, gold, each body a temple, each kiss a prayer that says: You are worthy. You are whole.

In the rhythm of breath and belonging, we rewrite what was broken, we stitch joy into the seams of what the world tried to tear.

Love does not ask for proof of pigment, it opens, it listens, it holds. And in that holding, we become more than bodies, we become sanctuary.

You are worthy:
not for what you carry,  
but for how you rise  
when the weight is unseen.

You are worthy:
in the quiet moments,  
when no one claps,  
and still you choose kindness.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Not the voice that doubts,  
not the silence that stings,  
not the mirror on a hard day.

You are stitched from stories  
that survived the fire,  
braided from breath and belonging,  
woven with wonder.

You are worthy:
as you are,  
as you were,  
as you will be.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Let the poem remind you.  
Let the earth echo it back.  
Let love say it louder.

for every body that ever needed a place to land

We build it not with bricks,
but with breath.
The hush between heartbeats,
the echo of
“YES”
in a world that once shouted
“NO.”

Here, skin is not a border.
It is a doorway.
And every scar,
a stained-glass window lit from within.

We gather in the soft architecture of touch,
where names are spoken like spells,
and silence is not absence,
but reverence.

No one knocks here.
They enter.
They are held.

Love, unmeasured,
unproofed,
unafraid,
makes sanctuary of us all.

for the ones who dared to arrive as themselves

Come as you are,
glittered, scarred, soft-spoken or loud.
Come with your stories folded in pockets,
your pronouns like petals,
your love like a lighthouse in storm.

This is not a place of proof.
You do not audition for belonging.
You do not shrink to fit the frame.

You are worthy.
You are whole.
And here,
you are held.

Held in the arms of those who remember
what it felt like to be unseen.
Held in the rhythm of chosen family,
in the pulse of music that says:
You made it. You matter.

Let the world outside keep its fences.
We build bridges from breath,
from glitter,
from grief turned into gold.

You are not too much.
You are not too late.
You are the celebration.
You are the sanctuary.

You are worthy.
You are whole.
And here,
you are held.