Confessions of a Buckchode


confessions of a buckchode -fi

I have stopped talking about morality and offense. Apparently, even I was born of a history that even the creators of it have too many reasons to be ashamed of it. Apparently, I was born out of the carnality-inducing micronutrients of an innocuous fruit found not too much in sunburnt nations.

I, humanity, I, human, have stopped talking of morality. But since born, art has not been unnatural to me. I can’t prove to have set the standards for its ethics and other such corny stuff.

I am proud of this age that prides itself on swearing and gesturing towards the crotch at every fuginck instance, because art and free speech. Why not point at an origin of humanity, that everyone is endowed with, and that– it shall not be long before–we will love to show off, having ripped off our zippers with a new, liberating virtue of sexuality. Some of us will be still too shy, closet superfly-sexuals. For that tasteless, boring variety, we will have pants with our gland-machines painted in the most realist of colours, and sprayed with the most honest of musk scents, because art and free speech. But wait, for those transcending from this stage to the former, we will have pants made from raincoats. Which variety, I leave for you to guess.

But I am talking of this age and not the one that is yet to arrive. What if it doesn’t? I am a buckchode, and hence have every right to prophesize apocalypses for art and free speech. I will keep talking of the present age, and just since it pleases me, will keep making forecasts that could eventually be stalled, irrespective of however much they offend you. The right to be offended is non-existent, and if a group of my friends, stoned beyond consciousness and control, gang-up and hold an orgy in the middle of the night, right in the middle of your colony park, there is nothing, abso-fuginck-lutely nothing, that you can do, my law-abiding and religious friend. We have consent among ourselves and also of a houses thriving on the edges of the boundaries of the park. If you do not want your sterile ears to be fucked by our jagging moans, you can thrust chastity locks of cotton buds inside, and stay shut up. All of us are adults, and don’t need unenlightened followers of prehistoric community construct to tell us what we ought to do. I’ll have all the losers of the colony participate in the historical event and thus, maybe, get some final publicity for them, getting sponsorship and coverage from their counterparts in this colony and that. When you cross the park in the morning, you are absolutely free to not turn and look at troughs and drains of where we have come and gone, the previous night. Because art and free speech.

But I am not threatening you. I am a buckchode, and whether you know what that is or not, I have as much right over locks and keys in the open as you have over them in the darkness. I am not explaining what art has got to do behind my spectacular idea of the orgy. I plan to have painters draw sketches of the positions we get in and maybe contrive something out of it. By the way, buckchode is a cleverly-written version for a word that means cool, free and intellectually liberated.

Because art and free speech.


Prannay Pathak

I write commentaries on society and mundane short stories. Pursuing a masters now. Capricious writer.