Written @ 9:59 a.m. on 2007-04-13
Peach Head The Fearsome And Terrible
This is B., also known as The Heavy Metal Cowboy, Redneck Willy, or, as I affectionately call him, Peach Head. He's been by my side for the past 9 months. He's a lovely, lovely boy who plays the electric guitar and the bass, draws better than me (he does not! Well, yeah, he does.), mixes a mean gin and tonic, loves conspiracy theories, and can throw me around a wrestling ring like the naughty ragdoll that I am. I'm not kidding, the whole thing where you hold the person over your head and spin around in circles, and then throw them down on the mat? Oh yeah.
B. has made many sacrifices in his life in order to wrestle WWF style. He runs a training center for boys ( and girls, I suppose, although they don't have any right now)to learn how to be um, the next Hulk Hogan/The Rock/China/Stone Cold. To B., this is ballet, it is poetry, it is art. To me, it's delightfully quirky and therefore interesting, although the mullet-nascar-trailer content can run a bit high.
Don't tell ANYONE, but B. is from a very nice, uber-normal, middle class family who live in the suburbs in a split-level and who love their only son VERY much! He's not a redneck OR a cowboy, but don't break his heart and tell him I told you!
In real life, he knows which fork to use, he opens doors and he calls me "Miss Hilly". He kisses my eyes when he tucks me into bed at night, gets up to leave, then comes back and kisses me again before taking off to kick some little boys' butts in the ring.
The most amazing thing about B. is he is that he never criticizes. I mean, EVER. Let me repeat, EVER. His whole family never criticizes. His grandparents never criticized. It's three generations of non-hateful, staying married, not fighting people. It's an anomaly. I told his mom she should write a book, and then she blew me away by saying, "Yeah, I think my husband and I have had maybe five real fights in 25 years." Fascinating.
B. is not a player. B. never says anything unless he truly mean it. This can be annoying. I said I love you as soon as it crossed my mind to say it, and then I waited...and waited. B. took his sweet time about it. Like, months. He felt no pressure. He drove me to his childhood playground of Ocean City, NJ. We walked around all day.
"Is this a romantic walk on the beach?"
"Yep, I guess that's what this would be!"
"Oh, cool!"
He brought me to the end of the Music Pier, and there, in the sweet spray of the Atlantic, he told me that he truly loved me. I may have loved him first, but he loved me much more dramatically. And, pagentry aside, I knew he felt it and was sure. I respect him for that, and have come to trust him because of it.