Tim Jones-Yelvington


[Portions of this text were crafted via an adapted take on Dodie Bellamy’s “cunt up” method, combined with a “_____ needs” meme described by Matias Viegener in his book, 2500 Random Things About Me Too.]

The ringing telephone woke me at four AM. From the other end of the line came a boyish vocal fry, like the climax of a wet dream caught in the throat. His voice pushed through the receiver—viscous, silky goo, enveloping me in heat.

Teenagers need to escape heaven.


We need to explode as you connect with us, to be fevered like we’ve never felt before, to be famous, to hurt our cunts. Teenagers need sex until our dicks fall off, need a genuine expert taking everything we have—to burst, recognized. Teenagers need jobs, to glam on that cunt, wet cunt, to come smoothly and happily as you do—so amazing, our cunts sticking out as individuals. Teenagers need your cum and your cum and headphones, the coolest video game—so good baby, we need your cock back in, avoiding your horse, our muscles like everything our parents aren’t: mutant and molded, the things we need to spend time with you. Teenagers, the way you’ve wanted us! We love a hard cock, the freedom we should have, your tits moving down our sweet, tasting off. Teenagers need to get married as soon as your tongue touches the lips of our lost. Teenagers need to get it on, the point held to our bums, biting our lips, reaching back to slide it out in the gym. Teenagers need to feel ourselves grip the back of your neck, need supervision. To be tugged forward, our lips catching on your real world. Teenagers need to add our own fingers to the two in your ass, control—we need a lot of attention, our fingers out, reaching behind your hairy to get this. Teenagers need a purpose, a plan, grins and fingers tucked into our own as we exercise and jack your cock, want to make new acquaintances, preferably in whimpers as you withdraw your fingers, activities teenagers need to start working inside. You know we do, love, you’ll give us your money shot in order to learn valuable skills—your cock in our holes, sink down your need into our space, our need to be opened, to sigh fully seated. Teenagers need your collarbone, digging in our teeth and learning. We need love, care, slow shifts of your hips, essentially grinding, noticed. To become cool to your girth as you raise us up on our knees, bent for global travel. Teenagers need to break groaning as the water sloshes around us, positive risk-taking.

From the moment he said teenagers, I knew precisely who he was. This was Drew Torres, superstar athlete and student body president at Degrassi Community School, site of my favorite teen drama. For years, I’ve been hooked on watching earnest young people face crises, cataclysmic traumas, terrible decisions and their repercussions. I’ve binged on their saturation of feeling, hyperbolic displays of character, histrionic performances of identity.

And then there was Drew Torres. From his first appearance at the beginning of the tenth season, he became the axis around which my fascination with this universe turned. Tanned and toned, tied to a flagpole in his boxer shorts, whimpering, victim of a hazing ritual. Passionately hawking phones from a shopping mall kiosk during an ill-advised attempt at financial independence. Tongue lolling, stupefied, concussed by a sports injury. Sweating anxious under a barbell, trying to exercise away his PTSD after an altercation with a gangbanger. Huddling terrified against a brick wall as the gangbanger came to tie up loose ends.

When I was younger, I only craved older bodies. But as I age, I find myself drawn toward youthful faces, their urgent dimples, skin I’d like to glom on a wide palette knife and spread all over my own. Drew Torres was broad and growing; his thighs looked ready to burst from his track shorts, his body suggesting something his face couldn’t mention without a blush or smirk. His hapless sincerity was riveting, how nakedly his effort, his exertion showed on his face, alternately blank and grimacing—this was beauty!

The first time I saw him, my jaw crashed into my gut, rippling my insides like a rock eddies a pond. I recognized him instantly as a boy I had long encountered in my dreams—in a recurring dream. A waking dream, or in slumber? It was hard to say. Both and neither. It was a dream that felt more like a repressed memory—or like a psychic telegram from a forgotten or parallel self.

In the dream, I am lying on the floor. I am in an intimate, half-lit or twilit space. It’s a school janitorial closet, and/or it’s a bedroom closet—charged at once with daytime adolescent longing, like looking across the classroom at beautiful, unattainable boys, yet also with the occult energy of the slumber party, when the night suspends time in the spin of the bottle. There is a boy in the closet with me, a broad, smooth, stocky athlete who is like Drew Torres—no, who is Drew Torres. He hovers above me, the light casts shadows on his skin. And the climax of the dream comes not with fluids, or the insertion of parts into other parts, but when Drew descends, lets out a breath, and sinks his full weight into my own, squeezing my hips with his thighs.

This never happened, and yet increasingly, I feel certain it did, but I have somehow forgotten. In real life, I spent my adolescence staring at boys I never touched. I doodled in my notebooks, let my mind wander into fantasy while my teachers mumbled lectures. I swallowed my desire. And then, in some mood-lit digestive cave, a golden jock pinned me to the floor. And so there exists a Me who has remained in that cave ever since, trying desperately to transmit the memory, the sensation of that pleasure—of the adolescence I never had. Or the adolescence I had, but still long for. Or the adolescence that breathed in my ear, ran the wet tip of its tongue down my neck, promising, promising, but never delivering, withholding, held just out of reach. Ringing me up in the middle of the night—

Teenagers need to be side by side to throw your head, protective attention, opportunities for your hole to grip us so tight, eyes thrive. We need to get with the times, to collapse forward safely, to be supported and sucked at the skin as you come, for love, support and guidance, teeth unheard of, quickly coming, a resume for our first job. Teenagers need slavery the night you hit our sweet spots—bars, secrets. We need to know about the alley where you pick us up like drunken bums needing medical care, like you’re an animal hunting for the prey, us junkies to be brought to heel before we end up in jail—consume us! We are never satisfied. We would give it all up for the perfect antidepressants, protection in the best set of tits we’ve ever seen—to suck on your huge nipples, gaining focus, touching every part of you in order to become ourselves. Our teenage tasted—Oh, we are such delicious pussy, our bodies keeping us completely shaven. The pace picks up from there—our looeys rising up to be involved in our lives, teenagers need thrusting hips to meet your looey, cocks increasingly need cosmetic surgery, our palms on your chest for balance, while sex, social rewards bulging as you guide our looeys. Keeping pace with your need to change the way you see us, mental as we continue to ride your hairy whimpering, we crack the code. Teenagers need to be the prom site you make flushed, cheeks kiss-swollen and haven’t the slightest idea how to do it, leading to our pregnant bellies, your babies, being told when a parent’s death is near. Possessiveness rolls over us as you thrust our mangers, our need for schools to give us more cock, catching on your looey, our holes wide to the voting system. Teenagers need it much tighter, writhing in your hairy law school. Even dead teenagers need to date your hairy knot, ready for you to tie us up and pump us, now who and what we are. Teenagers need you to already be bringing our hips down harder, painting your fingernails black, rubbing directly against our prostates, you our hairy parents. We need and deserve your hand curving around our belly, and other things. Instead of being passive observers, in time with your thrusts, we come in units.

Being an avid viewer, I knew that Drew had recently lost his brother, the groundbreaking transgender character Adam Torres, to a car accident, in a very special episode about the dangers of texting while driving. In agony, unable to sleep, he had sought help from a medical professional, who prescribed a sleeping pill that was now causing Drew to behave erratically. Under the influence, he’d been making late night phone calls, croaking promises and confessions he’d forget by the break of day.

I recognized that his unconscious was reaching out, drawn to me, toward a solace, empathy and connection only I could provide. My boy, my dear one, needs me, I thought—Like a teenager needs to come in the presence of another teenager.

Your cock in our wet dripping cunts, we die with your heartbeat—teenagers need to feel safe as soon as you put it in our drenched pussies, teething to feel your amazing. Fuck us harder, we want your toad, teenagers need to feel you touch us, fucking scream! Pound our pussies pinup-style, a photo shoot. Teenagers need to grip your cock so tight with our pussies, it’s knowledge—we need the gospel. Ahhhh, we’re coming, harder, harder, fucking knowledge into action, needing it right away, wanting to impress you but you catch us when we fail your creamy load. Our pussies oozing out the answer to all your questions, we teenagers finger ourselves and lick if off, mmm. Our tasers don’t need you to be so trendy, get on top of us like a jockey, to mouth the crusts of our sandwiches like we’ve never felt before—teenagers need to feel embarrassed. What you did to us that night, letting us fuck you like any adult who acts like a teenager, your ass was into everything, licking your healthy, productive and ultimately free body until your face was between our thighs, needing to be taught that sex is OK. Our pussies reacted by jerking our asses up like we seemingly must to feel we’re wanted—teenagers need to feel two fingers in our hole, stretched, not thrown away. Teenagers need to feel some fingers curling into our hair a little, your nearness, Lord! Teenagers need to feel satisfied, groaning into the kiss as you add one again, to feel our sexiest for your randy. M’ready, we say as we slide to be lectured, needing more bible knock. Needy little things, aren’t we? Needing to be challenged to whimper for better role models, need you to have us, need it, need you to knot us, another friend in the home, clenching as if we’re trying to keep it groaning, pressing the head that wants you to be genuine, slowly relaxing as your cock forces us to blow our noses. Teenagers need your hairy lap, leaning forward to mouth our every minute, licking at the indents. Start with us, teenagers need to be tempted to keep your hairy in our deep, adjust our lifestyle by distractions and addictions—Teencore: slam us back down, both boys, teenagers needing an excuse to want whatever.

In high school, I rode the subway to school each morning, shamed and quaking with my backpack on my lap, concealing the kind of ramrod erection that’s only possible in one’s youth. I’d dart my eyes around the train car, hoping simultaneously to become invisible yet be seen, and wondering whether what I longed for was even imaginable, let alone possible. Now, at work, I wondered about Drew, about the messages he carried from some ulterior plane. Wondered where they were leading, what path he’d been instructing me to follow. What would happen when I reached its terminus.

Distracted, I bumbled through my work, answered emails with jumbled, cryptic sentences, generated calendar items, then stared at their blank descriptions, forgetting what it was I’d intended to type. Thinking only Drew—Drew’s lips, Drew’s haunches, Drew’s voice.

At 5:00, I raced home, inhaled my dinner, desperately attempted to distract myself through television, into sleep, biding time until the moment when the phone would vault me from my slumber. While he talked, I’d twirl my fingers through the cord—I am one of the last of my acquaintances to retain a landline, loving the feel, the intimacy, of the handset wrapped around my head.

Teenagers need mentoring. To lean back against your shoulder, let our lathers be heard. Teenagers need emotional support along your arms, your chest, your need, you very involved, magic rubbing at our groins, our looeys, opportunities to shine. Teenagers need gun curry—Feels good, we murmur quietly. From our parents, we may be unsure how to splat before wrapping our fingers around your resources. We need a vitamin oozing at the slit, causing our looeys to shudder sunshine. Teenagers need friends at the back of our looeys’ necks, bringing our other hands large groups to list between gentle brushes and sharp tugs. Controlling our pressing cocks forward in your hairy grip, needing some amount of freedom, our teacocks nestle in the cleft of your bum, society’s protection. Teenagers drastically need your hole, feel it start to relax, an orderly and well-disciplined environment for pushing your hairy hand away from our cocks, with respect and attention, needing your hands protective and strong on our hips. We are popular teenagers that need successful careers addling your grin at the new position, free from our parents to encourage your looey and cheeks, our looeys off in your hairy grip, your knot finally locks. Teenagers need longer in bed, back into the feel, growling low in our throats about dating, needing to eat foods, whiting out as the waves of our orgasms wash our fair share of snooze, tucking our faces into your hairy neck, kissing at the room. Teenagers need dogs from our orgasms, have the sexual appetizers to know about sex offenses, bored and tossed aside for martial arts training. Hell, we need a wake-up call about your cock still working in our space, needing extra, constantly looking for the perfect high. Sex charges our need, open communication with our richest world, art and encouragement. Teenagers need cock to take care of our every need, the hot wet worth something. Teenagers need supple, we cannot wait to wrap our lips around your rise for health and wellness. We can’t control ourselves, we are all over you, the ‘kick ass’ in our lives, thinking you smell so good the way you shout emergence. Teenagers need guidance—we are the sweetest pussy, so pretty and pink.

Ever since the phone calls had begun, my nights had become dreamless. As though the images Drew’s language conjured were so vivid, colored beyond anything my unconscious could manufacture, that it left my mind timid and mute, rendering sleep just a mechanism for accelerating time, shortening the intervals between our encounters.

Yet the phone calls were no longer enough. I needed to meet him in the flesh, to fully inhabit the dream that had for so long haunted me. But how? I opened my computer and signed on to Twitter, tweeted at the young actor who was Drew’s portrayer: I want your sticky. I want it on my situation.

I scrolled his feed. Great day on set, he said. I clicked, and an image materialized—the actor mugging alongside two costars. Looking at this image, I felt racked by overwhelming revulsion. Though the container looked similarly golden, it lacked sorcery. This wasn’t Drew, just some ordinary dude in a baseball cap, thumbs up, winking for the camera. In its maturity and self-awareness, the actor’s face appeared severely diminished.

I quickly deleted my tweet, deleted my entire account, and slammed my laptop shut.

Teenagers need help in decision-making, need to be carried and then slammed down, we need it most, to understand you barely grazing our looeys and prostates, resting from all the major food groups. We need your large palms to grip our hips, our biceps need extractions, to clean out their mating, your looey throws our head a government to offer us hope, teenaging high in our throats. Your hairy takes in the teenagers, our privacy, needing sullen lips, strong shoulders and chests to get a life, a guiding mother. Your hairy growls a strong sense of importance, of saving, your old age teenagers us harder, knots starting to swell at the base of our calories. Teenagers need active play, too—our teeth withdraw your cock, making the glide that many topics need supply. We keen high in our throats at the feel of constant reminders that even though we faint full of cum, you’d get us pregnant if they weren’t policing online. Teenagers need regular exercise against your hairy, so your cock slides deeper, needing to be treated better, needing us to remove our hands from your hips with the skills and confidence to help the emergent tugging at your cock, jacking you quickly with involvement that is sensitive and attuned, sinking down as your cock shoots and exploring deep into your silken folds, your physical turmoil. Teenagers need you to finger it gently hoping that you could make us heated, make us your own girlfriend that didn’t have an orgasm and angers to know about love, important for you not to fail this time. As for Valentine’s Day, teenagers need to use purring, to be stared at all over again and feel the prurience, to be heard, and then our whole bodies begin to tremble, we grrrrr. We need our lives to run and shake, but broke our grasp, pinned to the honeyed remains, part of a group while your dick moistened our groove, our expensive clothes in the latest styles, our backs going quite stiff. But when we needed a place to meet Jesus, those lovely eyes gyrated our asses as if a shiny semblance of hard work. Teenagers need the pace quickened, for our tits to bounce our hats and ninjas, but most of all, turtles. We are about to stream our earthly seed deep, to be drug dealers, to need more than the top of your voice, our eyes closed, needing others to know. Like a magical mist, we evaporate, needing to get better—teenagers need to get into position so that you can kiss the end of our hiss, to get religion.

On a bright weekend afternoon, I decided to seek out a high school I knew had once been used to shoot an exterior for the show. I called up a photo of the site on the internet, the building’s front steps. I pictured Drew sliding down the handrail, grinning like a doofus, stumbling forward, overcompensating with naïve swagger as he collected himself.

I rode one bus, then another, to a distant neighborhood on the fringe of my city. I rounded a chain link fence, passed through an opening, crossed blacktop, under hoops. When I pressed my thumb to the latch on a heavy door, I was surprised to find it opened, unlocked. Inside, my shoes squeaked across the polished tile, flanked by rows of tall, narrow lockers, metal doors I imagined would clang open to reveal secrets, sweaty gym clothes, photographs of heartthrobs pinned with magnet hearts.

At the end of the hallway I found a door, the broom closet, which creaked open in my grip. Inside, a bulb flickered pale gold.

Your hairy pulls back to wet a washcloth, needing helpful attention with soap before rubbing indignities, getting bucked off horses, your tummy, the rest of your body taking extra. Teenagers need to be able to let off steam, moan in response, shifting back against your hairy, relationship choices we need to drop the washcloth on the floor with ragers, love and space. Teenagers need your looey, our cocks tugging slowly, fingertips teapots too! Need to learn to keep your hairy buried into your nose, into the damp hair at your eye. Teenagers need sex education, to tease at your looey, one of your nipples, alternating, learning to type. Feral teenagers need our looeys to rock back and forth in your hairy grip, need an hour of physical activity before shifting back against where your hairy knows our rights, groans when the head of your cock catches our boundaries and produces slick. Wait, we stutter, Salt isn’t so bad, we need these tests, to heave ourselves out of the water. Your hairy elaboration—adults readjust yourselves to face us, straddle our need for more time to get going in the thrusting, up a little so our cocks slide between us, up later at night, kneading adults, more family time. Teenagers need parents to groove us, getting moist as you begin to face time our text—teenagers come. We always feel such failures when we need more advice, for some reason it becomes more, the respect of our peers alternating between fingers and tongues and health, needing to be shown how to petal your flower. We begin to vibrate and queen, needing to prove ourselves, grabbing on to your forearms as you continue to change. Teenagers need our wrists behind our heads, to drive our need to rebel and break away, reacting as we shoot, arcing information. We need big changes, for you to drive it in and out, more options dropping, loving every moment, our need to read whimpering, becoming louder, more felicitous. Teenagers need to die our hair inside of you as you shout out, Fuck! Funky and clothed, shocking our shake violently again, unconditional love to tear our eyes, we quickly change. Teenagers need to live with our father’s monster of a cock—our fingers explored.

From the recesses of the closet, I perceived a hovering body, suspension of breath. Behind me, the door slammed shut.