Emancipation /əˌmansəˈpāSH(ə)n/ noun.
The fact or process of being set free from legal, social, or political restrictions; liberation.
You sit in bed and watch her get dressed, let yourself stare without shame as she pulls on her tight jeans without any underwear. She always bitches that she doesn't have any of her nice ones left, but forgets that she gives half of them to you anyway, tossing them on your chest after you two are done, insisting you’ll need them later like you can’t even get off without her. You tell her plainly that you had no real intention of it, but that doesn’t give her any less of an impression that you long for her late into the nights.
She’s the only person you know who had more hang ups than you do, and certainly that's saying something when the fatherless, dope dealing flunky is the more stable person in this dysfunctional duo. You know that speaks volumes about her, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
She pulls her jeans over her ass with a little extra wiggle than necessary, and looks over her shoulder where you lay, contemplating.
“You can save that for later, too.” She taps against her left temple with the same two fingers she used to press against the side of your neck, her thumb squeezing the opposing side in unison until the air got caught in your throat and she was sure you needed her permission to take a full breath.
That old saying, run, don’t walk, away applies in every shade of the word, but you just know the same has been said about you. You’ve heard it a million times, in-between the circles of girls who run for student council and preach to the cause of no bullying but still call you a faggot with daddy-issues; it's a blatant hypocrisy that you find it depressing and funny all at the same time. There's no reason to hold back anything when reckless cynicism is her life’s mantra that manifests in a well-rationalized apathy, generally about anything but herself. You know she cares about her weight and her hair and if her tits look good in that shirt, and you always say they do just before you pull her on top of your bed and make her take it off.
She’s the antithesis to Samantha Larusso; one ruined relationship that still drags you down from time to time, until she has the sense to pull you out of it and back on your feet because she’s probably sick of that look in your eyes, and the tarnish of sloppy seconds doesn’t look good on either of you.
There’s a distinct shade of difference that separates her from most people in your life. She doesn't care that your mom’s a neglectful, needy man-chaser or that your father is a deadbeat alcoholic and all the girls you encounter are now paying for his mistakes. Even if the rulings of your mental turmoil affect her too, because she’s as much your trauma sponge as you are hers.
So you let her tie your arms behind your back while she sits in your lap, let her tie those knots so snug that it makes your shoulder pop in it’s socket while she bites her way down your neck, hard enough that you swear her teeth are meeting through the skin. You let her put her fingers in your mouth and pull your hair, threaten to use that stupid spiked bracelet of hers that she made herself, to break your nose all while she’s still busying getting herself off. In turn she’ll let you worship every curve of her body while she pretends to fight you off, and you’ll taunt her and smear the sticky pink lipstick across her mouth that she puts on just for you.
You don’t care when she calls you drunk just to talk about nothing, and it doesn’t bug you that she sings boy-band songs off-key, or broods around your apartment about whatever is bugging her that day, because god knows you’ll be doing the same thing next week when your mom goes off to who knows where, leaving you with no money and a fridge that's not even halfway full.
She always comes over more then, bringing food from the restaurant she spends nine hours a day working at. When she comes in your room she flops down on your bed and praises the springs in your mattress that don't stick in her back. She complains about her perverted manager and you offer to beat him bloody in much of the same way she offers to hurt those girls at school who decorate your locker with all kinds of slur-filled sticky notes. It’s a comfort you’ve both not taken up yet, but it’s there in all those ways that nobody else has ever bothered to be.
There comes a small freedom in her apathy. There's no barrier to put up with the social mask and it feels so good to just say and not ruminate , because she doesn't care that you wanna have sex after your mother brings home more garbage from the bar scene. She knows actions mean more than words ever will, so she kisses you on the mouth just as that building tension finally snaps and it’s exactly how you like it.
All of her kisses hold so much more than anyone’s false lulls of sympathy ever have.