A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints (2006). Directed by Dito Montiel. With Channing Tatum as Young Antonio and Shia LaBeouf as Young Dito.
There was this guy, always half-naked like he was daring the block to say something. All nerves and sweat and attitude. All fight in him. You could smell the testosterone, I swear—like sweat, cigarettes, and bad decisions mixed together.
You ever hear somebody get called Pistachio Dick? Yeah. Welcome to Queens. Ho yay!
Antonio was like that with Dito—mean to everyone else, but around him? Forget it. Full guard up. Like he was protecting something he didn’t even know how to name. Two guys, both tough, both turning red whenever they got too close. Nobody said anything. Nobody had to.
And here’s the thing that kills me about Channing Tatum—this guy did nothing. Nothing. Just the right sperm hit the right egg and boom, whole fuckin’ world started orbiting him. Not my line. Some guy named Anonymous said it. But yeah. That’s how it went.
Urban adolescent. Prowling the streets. Catching stares. Bringing himself to orgasm and waiting for one that will be.
Colvey is number one and will die before he is properly a man. He is angry and suspicious of everyone. Wary of his enemies and more so of those who say they are friends. (Know what I mean bro?) Some will argue that this streak of uncertainty gives him an advantage, but one day he will meet the person that will plunge a knife into him and then knowing who to trust and who not to will be irrelevant. One thing I do know is that it will be the person he least suspected.
Angry with everyone. Controlling the uncontrollable. Respect from those who have no idea what it means. (Respect bro!)
Until then, Colvey must control this unruly band of boys – tearaways, petty thieves, and miscreants – who cannot muster up a brain between them, and who idolise him because they are afraid of the consequences if they don’t. Look around the city and you will see the tags on shitty walls, doors and metal shutters that protect empty shops in rundown streets. Our territory, our ground, our space.
Grooming. A word that has become part of modern society. A bad word. A careless word. Colvey might be accused of grooming kids to swell his ranks. But it is something he started when he was a small boy who shit his pants in school.
Provincial demon. Misery. Mayhem.
Keep your enemy close to you and let him do your dirty work.
Mason is number two and must wait. Living under a shadow that must surely fade. It is one thing knowing those who will cause you harm, another when that threat comes from within. Catch these hands. Colvey knows this. (You’re my best mate bro). The dance of Caesar and Brutus. Fake and be friend.
I watch. I see. Tattletale, snitch, informant, telltale, squealer. Colvey’s bitch. The one person he says he can trust. The one person who could bring him down if I wanted to. But that ain’t gonna happen because I’ll be a good number two.
Secrets and lies. Scrawny and slim. Wiry. The violent sex. “You want to know something?” Colvey lies next to me. “I ain’t gay bro. I like pussy. This is only bud sex.” ‘I ain’t a batty boy either,” I tell him. Colvey kisses me. “This is sheesh. Don’t tell anyone that I like bussin’ you bro.”
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 