Ezy ©2017 MCVT June 10, 2017
Euthanasia with a kink and a wink for the old heads from a writer who loves you. Tale wends from the `50s into the not-to-distant future through the life of a "sexually ambiguous" child.
Mcvt2017@gmail.com
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Adult content; 80% fiction, violence, death, rom, first, last, mast, gender ambiguity, slow.
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- Southern Hospitality
For decades I took in like-minded people who came to town for rallies and gatherings, or were moving about for political reasons - they were people from the sub-cultures and the resistance of the 1960s.
Sleeping bags, languages, used cars, grassroots organizing and work filled my life. Tides of humanity washed through my studio apartment often - home resembled a roadhouse with few rules, and always a back door.
Later, my place became a stop on an underground route for migrants escaping Central American violence.
Canada opened sanctuary for them - refugees couldn't afford plane tickets much less documents to move above ground. My home near the border became a safe house in a string of many along the coast for their northward exodus.
Every day I'd get up and do it again - glad to help.
Though I wouldn't admit it, I too was a refugee of sorts, and certainly parts of me were in hiding.
By day, I was the upstanding, gray-suited professional; by night a devious transportation coordinator.
Sauntering through my workdays, I was a pretender in the establishment. No one needed to know that I was dressed from the consignment shops and lived a starkly impoverished life funding people in transit; underground causes.
I "passed" with excellent skills, winning smile and pale dermis.
The Central American refugees brought first-hand accounts of the torture and death causing their exodus. Offering what I had, I waited for them to leave before sobbing until I vomited - stunned and ashamed knowing the unspoken truth.
Taxes funded torture and death that caused millions of survivors' a lifetime of illnesses and sorrow. Made an annual contribution to the carnage every April fifteenth.
After coffee and a shower, my guests and I packed food and left before sunrise.
I considered it a lucky sign to see a seabird gliding above when I took the bedraggled, grim-faced refugees to their next stop up the coast.
Each life is inextricably bound to others in undefined ways - their words, their faces, their scars were permanently embossed on my psyche.
During the past few years, I saw further militarized invasion of my personal sphere and the splintering of my community with propaganda in overt and ceaseless waves.
From self-imposed isolation, people lost their trusting relationships and the comfort of moving easily through our neighborhood.
Continuing my resistance, I wrote, called, donated and sheltered different kinds of refugees and now younger resisters.
New refugees; resisters escaping abroad - native-born fleeing for their lives. Though I knew they had their reasons, every resister lost weakened our front.
What they told me was similar to the Latino refugees years ago, but it happened openly in our homeland now.
I was hoping it was a lie and I'd lived too long, seen too much.
The strength of peaceful resistance is never measured by body counts or destruction, but by its ingenuity in maintaining valued principles.
Any non-violent triumph strengthens of the life, liberty and realizing fullness of our spirits - ethereal things that can't be summarized on a database or accountant's ledger.
Holding hope for peace was a habit I couldn't give up easily yet I became more alarmed daily.
The folks who couldn't "pass" or refused to secrete their differences were the bellwethers; they were under increasing siege.
Bodies in the woods became bodies in the streets.
By now, the sixth tide of refugees started coming. They retained their personal sovereignty; their dignity. These refugees and resisters were different - they made me question myself in ways I'd never thought about.
Still using my pseudo-institutional look, I joined a group to patrol our neighborhoods at night with the technology of the time - helping dignified and different people dodge the local self-appointed enforcerers.
- Alternatives/Ezy
The nation was blanketed again with deadly street drugs; another form of government-supported death.
On the streets, people no longer spoke, smiled or met another's eyes. Trust was obliterated when survival was at the fore; sense of community evaporated.
In a direct effort to allow people control their natural life events, the resistance responded on several fronts to keep the memory of hope alive until the current regime was changed.
Yes, even evil has a life cycle, and usually ends by cannibalizing itself.
"Alternative" centers opened - family assistance, life reconstruction, housing, medical and traditional spiritual healings, and water purification. Centers ran on volunteers and donations as always.
Safe communities formed around these centers.
Though these services have always been around, they remained hidden for years, but earned a higher profile as government oppression increased. Fortunately, I made my way into a safe community who helped me in a million small ways.
Graying at the temples, the random physical trauma of life was taking center stage in my life.
Government services were viewed suspiciously; names on lists.
Freely available social services were only a memory - ones left were highly suspect.
After assessing the government's new "Aktion T4" health care operation, a resistance crew created "Ease" centers to counter this despicable plan.
The idea for Ease began among the resisters, at first - the old heads wanted a choice. Ease centers operated in direct opposition to "compassion" offered by death panels of the Aktion T4.
The Aktion T4 operation selected a panel of men to quantify a person's worth and allocated medical care according to formulas based on the person's monetary worth.
The secret financial formulas were devised "for your own good," they said.
The death panel decisions were another way to vacuum families of any residual wealth through a lengthy administration of poisons to anyone they deemed worthy of their "medical care."
A decision from the death panel doomed the family of patients to poverty, then the streets before they mourned the passing of their beloved.
If a person with a disability, difference or dignity was impoverished, the panel would send them away.
"Beyond hope."
Either Aktion T4 decision brought a painful, lingering death.
Death panels were the first step in legitimizing genocide as the "ideal citizen" images sprung up on buildings and in the media.
Sure, "authorized" religions billed for their spiritual ministrations throughout the process of dying. Aktion T4 showed the world their "element of compassion."
Clandestine "Ease" centers opened and became very popular for several reasons other than the obvious.
They promoted resistance; death became a loud, clear statement of the need to resist oppression. Every "Ease" brought radical information that transformed into a clear profile of our darkening oppression.
On the streets, people referred to this resistance as "Ezy."
At Ezy, people chose when they wanted to die - a pleasurable choice to starvation, street violence and military executions or poisonings.
They were a certain and less traumatic option to suicide. People with chronic conditions knew when there was no more relief for them, and realized their passing gracefully alongside friends and family with Ezy.
Ezy innovated and offered people death by ease though climax.
Yes, orgasm with a boost.
Virtual sex and a chemical glide.
An Ezy popped up, then later disappeared - never stayed more than several hours. Sometimes a resistor "found" a moving truck or "acquired" a military transport vehicle, jumped-started a school bus or an RV.
Ezy in motion!
Ezy could be found anywhere there was foot traffic. No appointments, no phone, no website - clandestine to the max, and obvious if you knew what to look for.
One day I saw Ezy show up near a bus stop in an old scuffed furniture truck, and the word spread on the streets through whispers only or a small hand signal. Hand flat, turning from palm up to palm down quickly. (Merci, Monsieur LeClerc.)
People came - always watching carefully so that a queue wouldn't form to draw attention.
The resistance started dumpster fires in other parts of town as a distraction - or fake flash-riots were reported.
The attention hogs of the militarized emergency workers and police ran to get their faces on the evening news. A sure sign that an easing had begun elsewhere.
"Eziers," those using Ezy services, brought video recordings about their lives and their work - their final statements but mostly they were lengthy revelations from the old resistors - what they'd done and why, when and how.
They detailed a lifetime of covert activities monitoring the "deciders," their thefts and eavesdropping, their photos and their own "pretending."
Whistle blowing with their last breath.
Hey, what did they have to lose?
Resisters posted these recollections online - they went viral immediately.
The old resisters gave up their deepest secrets, their tricks, their lies, their triumphs and numerous, countless covert acts against and inside the bureaucracy.
The truth was coming out and being pieced together with other's information. The government and the media cringed.
No more "Official History." Now we had the "People's History."
Each bit of information from the old heads added to the chronological mosaic and a fuller, detailed profile of our government and their systematic oppression was forming and it wasn't pretty.
...By the people, for the people, my ass!
There was a satisfaction in their voices on the videos and a serious tone. No swagger, but plenty of tears, thanks and shaking, angry descriptions of carnage.
Some wore clothes from protests years ago that still bore blood splatters and rips. Shocking, but through these videos, horrendous patterns of the concentration of wealth and power formed in a well-defined pattern.
Our history was revised daily.
Age of Aquarius at high noon.
Inside Ezy, only two "Easies" worked with their faces painted with full, detailed masks of outdoor scenes, abstract designs or a starry sky. Most people were doing this now to dodge the cameras - maintain some privacy in their lives.
But at Ezy, it made them less an individual and more like part of the universe, reminding us who and what we will always be - unique parts of an intricate cosmic plan.
Ezy creators recruited sympathetic hackers and some kindhearted programmers to work alongside executives in the illegal drug trade to devise the simple process.
No forms, no bureaucracy or visiting the pawnshop for your co-pay.
Because each donor would eventually need the service, these experts donated their work and ideas freely.
They designed a way for people to chose their "easing."
Easies entered an inflatable sleeve filled with mini-stimulators attached to the computer. A virtual reality headset was placed on the Eaziers along with a small nasal canula and within a few moments the "o and r" happened with chemical enhancement.
Orgasm and release.
Whether a person preferred an illicit or immoral sex act for their passing was irrelevant.
Whether their "o and r" was with an imaginary, historic, non-human, themselves or spiritual figure didn't matter - this was entirely their choice.
Their most desired fantasy virtually fulfilled.
The computer created partners and voices, sensations of touch and sparks of stimulation inducing arousal.
The sleeve also monitored body temperature, heart rate and breaths to administer a heavy, fast overdose through the nasal tubes coinciding with Eazier's endorphin and dopamine rushes.
Then, bodies were stacked at the end of the vehicle until it was full.
Equipment removed, Ezy was moved then blown up or burned.
When authorities found what was left from an Ezy, they bulldozed the debris and dumped it in the closest landfill as quietly as they could.
The ecology resisters forested the burned areas immediately in honor of the eased.
People "disappearing" themselves through easing caused great confusion for the tax office and census patrols.
Another fistful of sand in their regime's sheets from the resistance.
- My Ease
My time came. I had no funds; more importantly, I refused to endure any more degradation from the medical establishment. No more prodding, pain, medications, photographs and humiliation.
I shuddered at the thought that my body or any part would be further mutilated for "future research." My body would be no oddity for anyone's morbid curiosity - I wanted to be remembered for what I did with my life, not for something not of my making.
A few of the local dealers had helped me out before, and I'd stretched the drugs out for over a month before the pain came back like a tsunami. Weak and buckling under burning stings with every movement, I felt as if there were jagged pieces of grit in every joint.
Sleep wouldn't come and my stomach could barely tolerate water.
Time to make my video; to add my history to the rapidly growing changes to societies perspectives and paradigms.
As I created my notes, I recalled the bodies I'd caressed and stroked during their pain; during their final moments. When I remembered the wounded bleeding-out in my arms and the feeling of helplessness that filled me - I had to stop cold as tears blurred my eyes.
All I had to help them was a smile, a kiss, to hold them against me, or a stroke to their cheek...
It was never enough.
Then, I recalled the first years of the Great Epidemic when so many left so quickly and too soon. In the land of constant sunshine, we lived in the shadows of so many suicides. No treatment at that time. The test results required a three-day wait.
Suicides happened too often during the waiting period - not from medical problems, but shame and fear.
I'd bucked up and learned new phrases to offer tenderness as I held their shrunken bodies.
It was never enough.
Remembrances of my resistance triggered twinges from my earliest times in the backwoods of Appalachia where my oppression began; where my resistance took root.
I stood, removed my jeans and underwear and filmed my genital area. I began a description of the surgeries and treatments I'd endured in a rural clinic by a judgmental staff alongside an ignorant parent.
Nature had given me an odd fusion of both genders. Unspoken truths and humiliation petrified my tiny being during those exams.
The doctor assessed my external genitalia and made a decision when I was three years old.
"For your own good." They kept saying.
Surgical alteration of my tiny body; several times through the next few years. Operations were accomplished in his office, changing me a little more with each visit.
To visit a hospital in a large city would raise too many questions a parent couldn't or wouldn't answer. Poverty was as shameful as the lineage of an unusual child was; punishment from a distant god.
My treatment was covert, changes hidden and I was brutally transformed from a freak to a super-mutilated freak.
Previous surgeries couldn't be repaired. Tissue was cut away and discarded as useless. Useless; part of god's own image - useless.
Before I went to fourth grade, I refused any more treatments that were "for my own good."
Urination after surgeries was a screaming fiasco; medications kept me vulnerable and slow.
Infections brought more humiliation, more pain and more medication.
After several over-heated tantrums and being in an impoverished family they left my body alone. That topic went into the family closet and the door was locked and nailed shut.
They left me alone, too.
They didn't who I was.
They didn't want to know me.
I was too different - not enough of boy-child or girl-child.
A two-by-three-inch library card became my passport out of that oppression.
I recorded only an appeal for compassion for any child born with differences - let them grow up - let them be who and what they are.
At seventeen, I was on a bus heading for the coast with my high school diploma and a willingness to do any kind of work.
At that time students worked their ways through college with part-time jobs. I worked and lived in a converted garage, but studied hard and made a few casual friends.
Dorms had shared showers - out of the question.
On campus, in the midst of fertile, gushing uteri and pressured testicles leaking a trail toward parenthood, I stood on the sidelines wishing them well.
Gracefully, I bowed out of the invitations to dances and parties.
No way could I reconcile my curious stigmata with any relationships I'd ever heard of. Homosexual? Heterosexual?
Not much else to choose from at that time and I was sure no right-minded person would want me for anything sexual.
I still winced when I looked in a full-length mirror at my disfigurement.
Gender-apathetic?
Gender-pathetic for sure.
By touching myself in an odd way, I found slight pleasure. Through the years I found ways to please myself more intensely - always alone and always in the dark.
Since I had no context for full orgasm, I was grateful for any rush of excitement, any mote of satisfaction.
Yet my soul ached for a lover; and my revelations could create extreme trauma. Not even half of either gender.
I was not enough.
Pretender.
Such were the times, and I moved forward alone, except for one human who didn't care about gender or sexuality or any of the labels - she cared for me.
My video would not include the most important moments of my life - being with Layla.
A war-zone isn't the best place to work, yet the needs are great. I was asked to lead a brigade into a war zone.
We were a small, international crew and worked construction - assisted with planting and harvesting alongside cooperative members under the watch of a few ragtag soldiers in an emerging democratic front.
All manual labor, but we brought clean water from a spring and built a one-room schoolhouse to the area. Other crews rotated through the area when a larger project needed more hands.
That's where I met Layla.
Tall, with wide-shoulders and a ready smile. Never needed or used make-up - a natural beauty with sparkling dark eyes and clear, smooth skin.
Seemed I always caught a whiff of canela when I was around her. She kept her thick, black hair short, pushed back - chic and very untraditional among the farmers and other workers. Stunning woman among the short, indigenous people and our scrappy group of laborers.
She was a crew leader with a quick mind and a direct manner. I admired the way she handled things - so clear and efficient, moving things forward with humor or a raised eyebrow and tilted chin.
Moxy al maximo!
Layla had a husband and a child in the capital. Respectfully, I kept my distance and watched her from afar yet she noticed me.
Damn! She made a point to speak with me every day she was on site, smiling and sometimes a wink.
After avoiding Layla's advances for months, I weakened. Maybe it was my curiosity, or that deep longing - the brick wall I'd built in front of my hideous pudenda was crumbling.
She never knew how brave I'd been just to hold her hand, then to kiss her cheek lightly.
I'd agonized over those decisions for weeks. But she was a determined, straightforward woman who wanted to be next to me.
Me!
It took several tense, secluded conversations in the jungles before I could admit the cause of my reluctance. Amazingly, Layla didn't seem upset or disturbed at all, and accepted my scar tissue and odd folds of skin much better than I ever had.
"That's only a small part of you..." Layla told me that it was the love in our hearts, not the bodies we had no choice about...
That floored me. I accepted her touches tentatively at first, and then she showed me.
We found pleasure together, in our ways, and I experienced profound spiritual excitement through those times. Our movements synchronized as though we had one mind, so many unspoken expressions warmly passed between us.
Perhaps it my lifetime of avoiding intimacy that made my passion explode into a bonfire between us.
Maybe it was the bursting of the dam holding my secrets back - maybe it was both that kept the memories so warm and so strong.
She made my tattered, shaky soul feel strong and clean when we touched. Lust is an electric, expansive feeling - took me by surprise!
Naked with Layla, there was no pretending. We were lovers - no other classifiers needed.
Together, we were enough for a fulfillment and satisfaction so foreign to me, and so incredible.
Tears flooded my face again and again as I remembered my work abroad, and being with her.
No way to record the intensity of being with Layla...
Through the years, I ached to feel her hands on my skin, to feel her coarse, dark hair and hear her voice, the weight of her on my torso... Her straight, dark eyelashes and the little birthmarks that crossed her face like a sprinkling of tiny red stars.
I needed one more kiss from those sweet, pink lips while her fingers found what was left of the nerves that brought me to partial-climax alongside her full-throated, earnest orgasms.
My face reveled in her wet labia. When she climaxed on my face, it was my bliss as well. In my most ambitious imaginings, I never thought such intimacies would visit my life, and I would be so profoundly shaken.
Remembrances of being naked and laughing at my sexual naiveté flooded back, bringing a deep blush to my cheeks and a soft chuckle.
I'd found new freedoms and incredible bliss alongside Layla. Missing pieces of my psyche grew and brought me into full adulthood; intimacy had a profound impact on the rest of my life as well, and I found comfort inside my own body.
What an incredible gift; I could love and be loved!
The safest place in my entire life had been in Layla's arms in the middle of that war-zone. I was whole and healed with her; filled with every good thing I'd fought for. Filled with things I never knew I needed so desperately.
Peace.
Rich, warm, golden acceptance. An incredible calm doled a few hours at a time through her fingertips.
That peace would cradle me off earth.
Ease.
- Ezy/Ezy
After three hours of debriefing the entire world about my years of resistance, my video was completed. I'd included names and places, counts and amounts. I scanned my hand-drawn maps with the times and dates of my covert counter activities.
Video completed.
Pulling the worn photo of Layla from my wallet, I sighed and tossed everything else.
Then, I stood straight, and with a dignity humans are seldom allowed, and located Ezy.
With only a light coat, jeans and shoes in the cold wind, I hobbled toward the big white truck parked behind the thrift store that night.
I could smell the paint from the taggers who'd just left their bright swathes of names on the side of the battered panels advertising couches.
Standing near the rear tire, I knocked three times, then two, then three more on the side of the truck.
I heard two knocks back, and then I said softly, "I need to get down to the sea somehow..."
Immediately the hydraulic lift buzzed and the platform lowered to the pavement.
Leaning onto the side of the truck, I shuffled along with slow, painful steps.
A young, dark man with a large seagull painted across his face and around his shaved head stood on the platform looking down. He grabbed my hand, helping steady me as I stood beside him.
"I'm called Saladin." He said softly.
"The wind is with me now." I grinned and nodded.
That step was the last time my feet felt earth, and I didn't hesitate to hold this young man against me tightly as we rose to the level of the bed of the truck.
Saladin stroked my hair and held me close as the lift rose to the bed of the truck.
He was so warm; my body relished his tenderness.
Tears?
Yes. Hard to leave the body that was my only home for so many years. After all the problems it had given me, it also taught me restraint, and gave me a keen insight on many truths.
Inspiring thoughts or prayers?
No. No manipulative delusions; imaginings to nurture denial of nature's course. No creatures of light ahead of me with another set of laws and punishments for being born as I was.
Was I scared?
No.
Past the fray now.
Loving people had created Ezy for me, I didn't know all their names, but I'd known so many like them through the years.
I was one of them; Saladin was me.
I handed Saladin an envelope with my bus pass, the last of my funds, and my video.
Last contribution completed.
I touched the icons on the computer screen selecting my virtual preferences - a converted storage room outside El Cua on a humid morning, second floor of an ancient coffee-processing plant came into a small computer screen.
The old building was still standing? Incredible!
"Asi, asi, eres tu..." began playing like my anthem, gently startling me.
I recalled the worn hammock, the sounds of shelling over the hills, mosquito netting and the smell of the summer earth in the sun and found those among the choices.
Birds' songs, the hum of insects, rooster crowing down the hill...
Saladin helped me undress, singing along with the music softly and smiling.
Then he helped me onto the table and secured the inflatable sleeve in place and noticing my scars. He said nothing, but prepared my body gently, his movements efficient and smooth.
"Where do I put these?" Saladin held the tiny stimulators and sensors for my genital area. He looked over my disfigured groin.
This, I hadn't planned for, and I gave him an odd look. "Not sure."
He very lightly ran his fingers across the slick, white scar tissue, and along the irregular, notched folds of skin watching my face closely.
With only a few small nods from me, he had them in place.
I smiled and handed him the photo of Layla, I relaxed inside the inflatable sleeve as the sensors began pressing against my body as it filled with air.
"Beautiful." Saladin commented as scanned the photo into the computer.
"Lost..." Was all I could whisper as my throat almost closed with the memory of finding out what had happened to her - but I would be with her soon.
Soon.
Peace filled me, now as I closed my eyes and breathed deeply gathering my courage to continue.
I sensed reality turning away in front of me, taking all the nuisances and hassles of earthly life; it all vanished.
A few poignant moments with my sisters flew by. They threw kisses to me as they spun away.
For a few astounding seconds I felt a rush - the movement of thousands of kindred souls gathering around me - the dead I'd held and loved during their final moments, the screaming, sobbing people I'd calmed, the people I'd and clothed and fed; the folks I'd transported and hidden...
Legions of spirits gathered around me.
"What is this?" I wondered.
I'd always felt as I'd never done enough for them yet they were all with me now, lifting me into my coming moments of pleasure, and they were smiling along with me as a vision appeared in the headset.
A solid, heavy feeling came into my chest. I felt calmer; ready as Saladin placed the earpieces and the nasal canula.
Soon.
Blurred patches of colors came into focus - the sensations enthralled me - so real.
Then, I was alone in that little room with the hammock, skin moist in the sweet, wet morning air.
There was the faint applause as the clacking of the leaves from the tall corn rustled in the breeze outside the window.
El Cua!
The whiff of toasting masa came from the canula.
A wooden door shut behind me and I turned slowly. My legs were strong and I moved easily as my skin tingled.
Layla's smooth face was smiling in front of me and I felt her arms around me as the sleeve filled and pressed tighter against my body - every part of me was warm, so vibrantly alive, heart fluttering with arousal.
I could hardly breathe - so real!
My heartbeat quickened as my eyes widened, staring at her.
Layla!
I breathed faster through gritted teeth while my eyes filled with tears burned and flooded.
Hot and hard, a profound need rushed upward inside me - sparks flew from between my legs, up my spine.
My skin rushed with sweat, my mouth filled with saliva, my nose began to drip.
Take and be taken.
Surrender; sweet relief.
Soon.
Parts of my body were tense; ready, wet. Other parts quivered in adoration. Yes!
Ready. So ready.
My eyes focused on her lips, and I took a short breath...
"Querida." I choked as I whispered.
"Te amo."
Fin.